A Second Sunrise: Taiwan of 2020 Sent Back to 1911

What would be a good name for the rewrite?

  • Children of Heaven

    Votes: 3 30.0%
  • A Hundred Years' Difference

    Votes: 6 60.0%
  • Sun and Stars

    Votes: 1 10.0%
  • The Second Sunrise

    Votes: 3 30.0%
  • (Just call it Second Sunrise but make sure nobody refers to it as "SS")

    Votes: 0 0.0%

  • Total voters
    10
  • Poll closed .
Studies and Observations
Unit Analysis: Studies and Observation Group, Military Intelligence Bureau Division 5, 2 February 1942


Proposed Logo of the Studies and Observation Group

Active: 20 January 1942 - Present
Type: Joint Unconventional Warfare Task Force
Role: Reconnaissance, Covert Action, Logistics, Intelligence Sharing
Size: Brigade (Incl. non-combat personnel)
Headquarters: Sacramento, California, United States of America
Commander: Lieutenant General Lei Feng

The Studies and Observations Group is a covert unit formed to assist the United Front (otherwise known as the "Unionists") during the Second American Civil War. Due to current political implications requiring at least a semblance of neutrality (in the event of a National Emergency Government victory).

To that end, deniable assets are to be used as an alternative means of assisting Unionist forces in terms of supply and operations.

Personnel are to be selected from the Army (Airborne Special Service Company & 101st "First" Recon), Air Force (34th Squadron "Black Bats" & 35th Squadron "Black Cats"), Marines (Force Recon and Patrol "ARP"), and Navy (Special Task Unit), as well as agents of the Military Intelligence Bureau. Logistics and support personnel will come from the Military Intelligence Bureau as well.

Additionally, relevant MIB assets already in-theater will be transferred to the Studies and Observations Group, including any and all intelligence-sharing operations between the MIB and the Unionist Office of Strategic Services (OSS).

Command will fall under the control of Lieutenant General Lei Feng, the former commander of the Airborne Special Service Company, though former General Martin Li will serve as an advisor and a liaison between the Studies and Observations Group and the Office of the President in Nanjing.

The Studies and Observation Group's supplies will be transferred as part of the larger supply operation via proxies, though MIB assets will be used when necessary to facilitate important transfers of equipment.

Operations are already currently underway, with the Special Task Unit assisting the Unionist-aligned 3rd Marine Division in the cleanup and consolidation around the Panama Canal Zone and MIB assets sharing intelligence on a daily basis with the Unionist command.

Chinese Consulate, Sacramento, California, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 4 February 1942

This wasn't the first time Morgan Chen had been to Sacramento. It had, however, been the first time she had visited during an active conflict.

Still, it's better than Panama. Taiwanese humidity may suck, but at least it isn't as bad as Panama.

"So..." Captain Zhang Xueliang told her, before flipping the page in her file. "Year of service in the Marines as a Private First Class, where you qualified as a marksman and completed SERE training..."

Morgan politely nodded to the unit commander. Talkative as she may be, she had mastered the art of "Shutting up when necessary."

"Not to mention your role in retaking the train with former General Li Han," Zhang continued, "Impressive show of initiative there that you carried onto the Panama op."

"Thank you, sir."

"I'll be honest, Chen, normally we wouldn't take on somebody as green as you are, even with your experience. Despite going above and beyond during your year of mandatory service and your recent actions during the hijacking and the Panama op, you would normally go through a selection process that could take weeks."

Honestly, Morgan didn't know what to say to that. Sure, she was inexperienced, but participating in the retaking of a hijacked train and helping the Unionists retake the Panama Canal had to count for something.

Plus, it's not like they'd fly me out here just to tell me no.

"That being said," Zhang continued, "These are not normal times. A good chunk of my unit is over in Russia, and that allows me certain... liberties when it comes to recruitment and selection."

And there it is.

It was kinda obvious, now that she thought about it. With Russia being one, in a civil war, and two, on China's border, it was no surprise that the bulk of the manpower and resources went there. That, and the fact that China wasn't at war with the Nationalists.

Which meant units like the Studies and Observation Group couldn't be too picky when about personnel. Especially when it came to marksmen with combat experience.

"In other words," said the Captain, "Welcome to the SOG."
 
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Chapter 90: Tip of the Spear
Teller, Ede. "The Viability of Weaponizing Modular Nuclear Reactor Fuel and Waste." Central European Journal of Physics, vol. 5, no. 4, January 1942, pp. 41-45.

Abstract


The proliferation of Modular Thorium Molten Salt Reactors across the United States involves the Thorium Fuel Cycle, a process that involves the conversion of Thorium into Uranium 233. This process has allowed the United States to approach a net-zero carbon output at a fraction of the cost of China's full-size reactors, though critics have argued that the Uranium-233 involved in the Thorium Fuel Cycle can be removed and converted into nuclear weapons.

Although these criticisms are mitigated by the tamper-resistant designs of the modular reactors and constant oversight by International Atomic Energy Agency inspectors, a lack of oversight may result in modular molten salt reactors being converted into breeder reactors to produce weapons-grade nuclear material.

The ongoing hostilities in the Second American Civil War create such an environment for this to occur, and it is imperative that the international community apply pressure to all sides of the conflict to allow IAEA inspectors to inspect reactors in the conflict zones. Doing so would mitigate the elevated risk of nuclear weapons development or nuclear-related accidents.

Outskirts of Saint Louis, Missouri, Unionist Territory, United States of America, 4 February 1942

"Stand back!" the Sergeant shouted, and the men came out from behind the newly-loaded howitzer. "Fire!"

All the men covered their ears, and so did their commander Colonel Truman.

This had been their life for the last few weeks: Once the drones had their eyes on a target in-range, and the Missouri National Guard would fire with an accuracy that had only gotten better with two week's worth of combat experience.

"That's a hit," Lieutenant Coles observed, before putting down his tablet with the drone footage. "Counter-battery fire is successful. Enemy battery eliminated."

"Good to know, Lieutenant," Truman breathed, before looking back to his men, "Pack it up, boys! I want us out of here in two, before the Nats locate our position!"

As if on cue, the various artillerymen of the 2nd Missouri Field Artillery Regiment loaded up their equipment, un-anchored the M101 Howitzers, attached them to the trucks, and jumped in the back.

All in under ninety seconds.

"They're getting faster," Coles observed. "Not bad for a bunch of weekend warriors, eh, Colonel?"

"Indeed," said Truman. "As long as we have enough ammunition, we'll be able to keep them at bay. Doesn't matter if it's vehicles, infantry, or other artillery guns."

Of course, it went without saying that they could only keep the Nats at bay as long as they actually had ammunition. And spare barrels, of course, but Truman would rather have the barrels wear out than run out of ordnance.

"It's a good thing we have the St. Louis Arsenal, then, Colonel. We're sitting on a damn mountain of bullets, shells, and spare parts. No wonder the Nats tried to seize it from us on day one. Damn near pulled it off, if it weren't for the Guard, Militia, and Loyalists leaking the info."

Colonel Truman simply nodded.

He knew that if it weren't for a fellow Freemason, one Forrest C. Donnell, leaking the details of Bilbo's nationalization order to him (and by extension Governor Thomas C. Hennings), the National Guard wouldn't have been there to put up any resistance when Bilbo's Regulars showed up.

What should have been a simple seizure and nationalization of the Saint Louis Armory quickly spiraled into a standoff and a gunfight he'd unfortunately been caught right in the middle of, to the point he'd caught a stray round or two in his plates in the crossfire.

He would consider himself one of the lucky ones, though. With a hundred dead and two-and-a-half times wounded on all sides, he was kicked upstairs and placed in charge of the defense of Saint Louis against the inevitable retaliation from the Nationalists.

Even if the most-recent-wave of said retaliation was a dozen or so smoldering wrecks a few kilometers away.

There would be more, though.

Once a trigger-happy soldier had fired off the shot that started the whole firefight at the armory, Truman knew there would be no turning back, even if he didn't know if it was a Regular or a Guardman that'd fired the first shot, or even if he was still alive.

It didn't matter, though. Once Governor Hennings had made his decision, Missouri had cast the die and thrown their lot in with the Unionists.

Bridge of the MV Libertador, International Waters, Gulf of Mexico, 5 February 1942

"What in God's name is going on?!" shouted a groggy Captain Jose Reyes to the equally-tired morning crew. "Jaime, this better be important!"

"We're being hailed over the radio, Boss," his number two yawned, before sipping some of his coffee. "Broadcasting over a whole bunch of frequencies asking us who we are and where we're headed."

"What's it to them? Who do they think they are, the US Navy?"

"...Actually-"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Reyes groaned, before picking up the headset and switching to English. "This is the captain of the MV Libertador. To whom am I speaking to?"

"Libertador, this is the USS Charleston enforcing the blockade of the Panama Canal, as per the Emergency Naval Interdiction Act. Please state your port of origin and destination."

"Emergency Naval Interdiction Act?" Reyes asked aloud, before turning to Jaime. "What the Hell is that?"

Jaime just shrugged.

Shit.

"Repeat," said the American ship, "Libertador, please state your port of origin and intended destination."

"We sailed out of Georgetown, Guyana, and are sailing towards San Francisco to deliver a shipment of Bauxite."

"... Standby, Libertador."

Now Reyes truly didn't know what was going on.

"Libertador," the US ship continued, "As per the Emergency Naval Interdiction Act, we are authorized to board and seize any and all ships headed towards foreign ports. Please prepare to be boarded."

"Now hold on a second!" Captain Reyes shouted, "I am not about to surrender my ship to the United States Navy! This is a violation of international maritime l-"

"The Emergency Naval Interdiction Act permits the seizure of any and all ships headed to a rebel port. Please prepare to be boarded. Any and all attempts to resist will be met with proportionate force."

Ministry of Trade, Tokyo, Japan, 10 February 1942

"For the last time, Mr. Fukuyama," the Minister of Trade sighed, "We are already in discussions with the Bilbo government to release your ship that was impounded in Guantanamo Bay. While we are sure of an amicable resolution, I implore you to be patient."

"This isn't just about them," the shipping executive groaned, and leaned forward in his chair. "The Libertador was just the first of my ships to be interdicted by the Nationalists! The MV Hiroshima and the MV Brasilia were intercepted just two days ago and forced to sail to a "Neutral Port" in Kingstown instead of Llanitos Mexico!"

"We are very much aware of that-"

"Do you know how much this is interfering with shipping, Jyunichi?! I've had to re-route a dozen ships around Tierra del Fuego because I don't want to get them boarded by the Nationalists and sent back if I'm lucky!"

"I'm aware of that, Jun!" the minister snapped, only to sigh. "My apologies, but I've been working around the clock to deal with this with Nanjing, Seoul, Manila, Jakarta, Delhi, and Canberra. I want you to know that we're working on it, but these things take time. You aren't the only one who's being impacted by the Nationalist blockade of the Caribbean side of the Canal."

"I know, Jyunichi," Fukuyama relented, then sighed. "But I'm running a business here, and we both know that this will affect international shipping as a whole. Something needs to be done, and we both know it."

"Hug the shore."

"Come again?"

"It's not much, but as long as your ships are not in international waters, Washington will think twice about intercepting them until they get to the canal. Bilbo may be a bully, but he's stretched thin and won't pick a fight with Gran Colombia or Brazil."

"Here's hoping you're right, Jyunichi," Fukuyama sighed again. "But we both know this'll only work for so long."

Port of Rio De Janeiro, Rio De Janeiro, Rio De Janeiro State, Brazil, 11 February 1942

"So this is a strike, Papai?" Joao da Silva asked his father, "You just stand around and do nothing?"

"And you don't get paid," his father Henrique added. "But this isn't exactly a strike. It's more of a... work stoppage. Let's call it that."

"What's the difference?"

"During a strike, everyone at the port would stop all work, instead of just for Nationalist American ships."

"Wait, why them? Is this because of those sailors who were abducted?"

"Yes. It turns out that seizing ships headed to San Diego and then interning their crews in Guantanamo Bay is a bad thing. Who'd have thought?"

"So your men in the Union don't load their ships... because they captured other ships?" His father nodded. "
Doesn't that mean you would lose money?"

"Yes, but that's what strike funds are for, son. One of the reasons I pay money to the union every month is for times like these, so we don't walk away with nothing."

That, and it's not as if we're stopping work. We just don't load or unload the ships from the Nationalists, who make up about one in twenty of all ships.

"But you're still not getting paid."

"And they're not making money or getting the shipments they need. It's a war of attrition, Joao."

"Because you want them to give up before your side does."

"Exactly." It was times like this that Henrique was the proudest of his son being a quick learner. "Sure, we lose money, but it's not as if we're not working at all - just not on Nationalist ships. Meanwhile, the Nationalists need all the imports they can when most of Europe and West Africa don't want anything to do with them."

"So they need you all more than you need them?" Joao asked, and his father nodded. "And that's how a strike-"

"Work stoppage."

"-Work stoppage... works. There's just one problem: What about everyone else? It's not like you can get everyone to refuse to load and unload Nationalist ships."

"You'd be surprised, son. It turns out a lot of people don't like their sailors being illegally transported in Guantanamo Bay."

Accord News Tonight, Magadan, Kamchatka Oblast, Loyalist Territory, Russian Empire, 14 February 1942

ANDRIY SAMIYLOVICH MALYSHKO: "Thank you, Vasily Semyonovich. I am reporting live from the city of Magadan, where Loyalist forces have recently-captured the city from Ultranationalist forces after a week-long battle. As you can see behind me, Loyalists are moving in with infantry and vehicles to what was once one of the last Loyalist strongholds in the region."

VASILY SEMYONOVICH GROSSMAN: "I see. Can you report on the status of the Ultranationalist forces that retreated from the area?"

MALYSHKO: "According to statements released by the Loyalists, the Ultranationalist forces were largely-annihilated by a combination of airstrikes and armored vehicle attacks. Locals have also claimed that some survivors that did not surrender fled to the surrounding area."

GROSSMAN: "Could you tell us about that?"

MALYSHKO: "Of course. For our viewers who don't know, Magadan is one of the northernmost cities in the Far East. Aside from a few villages and towns in the surrounding area, there isn't much left for the Loyalists to take in the immediate area, while the nearest large settlement is over four hundred kilometers north."

GROSSMAN: "So there is nowhere else for them to go?"

MALYSHKO: "It's possible that they could hide out in the villages or rural areas, but local loyalist officers don't expect them to get too far."

GROSSMAN: "Of course. Far Eastern winters have always been brutal, and it is still winter over there. Now, can you tell us about what the Loyalist command's next moves will be?"

MALYSHKO: "You and I both know that's classified, but my guess would be that with only small towns like Omsukchan left, Magadan was possibly the last stronghold in the region for the Ultranationalists in the Far East."

GROSSMAN: "I'm sure that our viewers both at home and abroad will be glad to hear that. Stay safe out there, Andriy Samiylovich."

MALYSHKO: "And to you as well, Vasily, Semyonovich."

Ministry of Defense, Nanjing, National Capital Region, Republic of China, 16 February 1942

"Increasing production shouldn't be too hard to do," Chief of the General Staff Sun Li-jen said to his former commander. "Even with your operation with MIB using our stockpiles and us supplying the Russian Loyalists, we're still able to stay above our minimum inventory threshold."

"And how long can we maintain that?" asked former General Michael Chen. "Assuming MOD maintains our current rate of procurement."

"I can't tell you, Chen."

"You and I both know I have the clearance, Sun. I can call up MIB or Soong herself if you want proof."

"It's not that, Chen. I can't tell you how long because I don't know. We're burning through stockpiles as we speak for bombing the Ultranationalists to Hell and back, and that is before we talk about the Shell Game you're playing to supply the Unionists. We could be looking at anything from three months to a year, depending on how much we send out every month."

"That quickly?"

"Chen, we've been at peace for the better part of a decade, and that's assuming we count the years fighting Rhodesians and other Holdouts in Africa as wartime. Sure, we have stockpiles, but those are supposed to hold us over until we can spin up production again."

"And we are spinning up production again?" It was a rhetorical question, but Chen needed to make sure. "Right?"

"Of course we are. I gave the order to the armories and manufacturers the minute we agreed on intervening on Russia."

"That's good to hear," Chen said with a bit of pride for his subordinate. After all, Sun was doing a job that Chen never wanted. "How's that coming along?"

"It's not as if I can just snap my fingers, but we're working quickly. Production has increased by about 34% overall compared to last month, and we could be looking at an exponential growth in arms production by summer."

"Christ, you guys work fast." From the way he sounded, Chen seemed genuinely impressed. Then again, the man fought in the Revolution, so he had a certain reverence for logistics. "It's almost as if we are at war."

"We are at war, Chen. For all intents and purposes, anyways."

"Yeah, I know."

Rathdrum Mountain Park, Rathdrum, Idaho, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 17 February 1942

Morgan Chen could see everything with this night-vision scope. Didn't matter if it was people, trees, wildlife, or Nats. She could see in the dark, and odds were that they couldn't see her.

Was it unfair? Probably.

Did she care? No.

"You're seeing what I'm seeing, Dole?" she muttered through the radio. "Patriot launcher, two kilometers north."

"I see it," her American counterpart observed through his night-vision scope. "What's the plan?"

"Command wants us to confirm and laze the targets for Scrapper drone strikes while we hold back and provide recon on the ground."

"That works for me. Got it?"

"Affirmative," she said, before pulling out the laser designator and marking the target. "Command, this is Tiger 0-2. Have lazed the target and transmitted coordinates. Please confirm transmission."

"Coordinates received, 0-2," the female voice on the other end answered. "We'll proceed to Phase Two once the other coordinates are delivered. Standby."

"Affirmative, Command," Morgan agreed, before letting off the radio. Now came the hard part.

Waiting wasn't too hard. She, Dole, and their spotters were all ghillied up with night vision, while the Nats had neither. There was always the chance of an infrared drone picking them up, but both of them doubted that the Nats would run recon drones over a forest in the middle of the night.

Even then, there's a good chance the Infrared Reflective Layer of the suit does its job. I mean, it's not perfect, but it should fool a drone at 100m.

Needless to say, she liked their odds in this phase.

An explosion sounded off in the sky. One became two became four became two dozen or so, and then an even louder one. Morgan turned her scope to see what had happened, and a bright explosion where the launcher was told her everything she needed to know.

"Tiger 0-2 to Command: Good effect on target. Confirmed Patriot battery destruction. Awaiting new orders."

"Copy, 0-2. Maintain position and provide overwatch as Operation: STRYCHNINE commences."

South of Coeur d'Alene, Contested Territory, Idaho, United States of America, 17 February 1942

"You ready, Jono?" Gunnery Sergeant Reynolds shouted to the Lance Corporal, "ETA 2 minutes!"

"Ready as I'll ever be, Gunny!" Lance Corporal Jon Doherty shouted over the whirring rotors and the jets flying overhead. "Still don't like fighting our own, though!"

"No shit!" Reynolds told him, "But they made their choice, and we made ours. You ready?"

"Get off the Chinook, take the town of Canyon, cut off the Nats, and hold out until the tanks take Coeur?"

"That's right, kid," Reynolds told him, before shouting to the rest of the soldiers in the Chinook. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Frozen Angels, this is your steward speaking! We're approaching our target in about ninety seconds!"

"Now our brothers and sisters in the 10th Mountain did us a huge favor by knocking out the enemy AA last night. And at this rate, we're going to owe them big time! How does that sound?"

"Fuck no!" shouted one of the recently-transferred National Guardsmen.

Reynolds chuckled. "Damn right! So I'm going to do them a huge favor and take the town of Canyon cut the traitors off from the east. Anyone want to come along?!"

"Hooah!" the men and women shouted, and so did Jono.

"Yeah, I thought so."
 
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Chapter 91: Flipside
Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 19 February 1942

The sight before Morgan Chen was definitely something: Destroyed buildings, POWs being moved, and the ever-present smell of gasoline permeating the air around her.

If this was what "Victory" smelled like, then she figured she might as well get used to it.

"Lieutenant Brower's back from the recon mission," Dole told her, walking up to the bombed-out cafe. "No sign of the enemy for miles."

"Makes sense," Morgan figured, before putting down the magazine she'd reloaded. "Airborne cut them off from the East, which means the Nats will try to regroup and fortify Missoula, next."

"Then what are we doing here, Chen?" Dole motioned to the east. "Missoula's two hundred-sixty kilometers that way."

"Yeah, through a crapton of mountains and forests," the Chinese agent figured. Truth be told, she wasn't too familiar with the terrain, but that was what the map said. "It's not like the East Coast, where everything's close together."

"So what do we do now? Wait for them to fortify Missoula?"

"Eh, probably," Morgan figured, moving south on her map. "Every man they send there is one they can't send south to Boise."

"I'll take your word for it," Dole relented, before leaning back into his patio chair. "Any news from the East?"

Skies Above Baltimore, Union-Controlled Territory, Maryland, United States of America, 19 February 1942

"How many of them are there?" one of the allied pilots shouted over the radio.

"Half the damn Nat airforce has to be up here!" shouted another.

"The Hell are our reinforcements?" a third screamed.

"Looks like we came in time," Lieutenant Robin Olds told his squadron, "This is Devil 1 to all Unionist aircraft. We are entering the AO. Requesting permission to link up with any friendly AWACS."

"Devil 1, this is AWACS Sherman. You're talking to the only friendly AWACS in the AO. Beginning handshake procedures."

Only friendly AWACS? What happened to the rest?!

Fine. We'll work with what we have.


"Copy, Sherman. Anywhere we need to go?"

"Let's see... Finback Squadron, was last seen over the Port of Baltimore dogfighting with a Nat squardron. Recommend you provide support over there."

"Copy, Sherman. You heard the lady," Olds told his squadron, "Let's get to work, Devils."

Christ, how many planes are up here? Are the Nats throwing everything they have at us?

Olds had to shelve that thought, though. Right now, he and his squadron had to go help Finback.

"I've got a lock," Olds spoke over the radar, "Fox two."

A jolt from the wing of his F-16 was all he felt as the missile flew into the darkness towards his target.

"Splash one," Sherman informed him. "Good shooting, Devil 1."

"The Hell was that?" an unknown voice asked over the radio, "Was that you, George?"

"Negative. Reinforcements?"

"Cavalry's arrived," Olds announced to the Navy airmen. "Devil 1 to Finback Squadron: Sherman sent us over to assist. Any of you still alive?"

"Affirmative," said the same voice. "Our flight lead ejected, which means Finback 3's in charge now."

"Alright then." Olds could barely hear over the tone blaring in his ear. "Fox two."

Another jolt, followed by a streak through the sky towards the Nat plane.

Come on...

Sure enough, that fighter also exploded into a fireball before fading into the darkness.

"Splash two," Sherman announced. "That makes four for Devil Squadron."

Huh. Guess the other guys must've gotten a few shots in, too.

"Devil 1 to Finback 3: What's your ammo situation?"

"Almost out of Sparrows, but our guns are still full."

"Alright then," Olds decided for the two pilots they'd rescued, "As long as you have something, then you can fall in with us. How copy?"

Not like they have an option. The Nats are throwing everything they have at Baltimore, so we need every plane in the fight.

"Finback 3 copies," the de-facto squadron lead agreed. "We'll follow your lead, Devil 1."

Department of Defense, Washington, District of Columbia, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, 19 February 1942

Lieutenant General George Smith Patton could feel tension in the room. A tension that came with launching their first offensive against the traitors to the north in Philadelphia.

And as one of the newly-promoted members of the General Staff, he knew he had to prove himself to General MacArthur.

"According to our reports," Colonel Curtis LeMay began, "It seems that the rebels have been rotating the locations of their air defenses for the past month. However, our intelligence came mere hours before the strikes. Either we're just unlucky, or the traitors received a last-second warning to move their air defenses and planes from where we thought they'd be."

"Either is possible," General MacArthur sighed, before swiping on his tablet. "So we may have a leak?"

"It's definitely possible," said the airman. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have so many damned traitor planes in the sky and traitor air defenses on the ground. That, or they just got lucky."

"Nobody is that lucky," MacArthur pointed out. "Which means we are going to have to deal with leaks, sooner or later. Roscoe?"

"Yes, General?" MacArthur just nodded at Rear Admiral Hillenkoetter. "I'll get to looking at that right away, sir."

Now, Hillenkoetter was no Wild Bill Donovan, and everyone in the room knew it. In all likelihood, he would admit it as well.

Then again, Hillenkoetter was somethinghat Donovan wasn't. The obvious fact was that unlike Donovan, Hillenkoetter hadn't literally burned down the CIA before defecting to the traitors with General Marshall.

"Good. Now LeMay, how does the air situation look right now?"

"We still have the advantage in aircraft, but we've sustained heavier-than-expected losses due to a combination of traitor air defense and unexpected enemy air reinforcements from the Lexington and the Concord. While we can escalate further and throw in more fighters as well as another barrage of missiles, we run the risk of over-committing and leaving ourselves vulnerable to a counter-attack."

"In other words, LeMay?"

"It would be a pyrrhic victory at best, sir."

"I see. And for the traitors?"

"They'd also likely lose much of their air force, sir. And while we have an outright advantage in aircraft, the traitors have a relative numerical advantage on the Atlantic Front."

From the looks of him, MacArthur wasn't too happy. He'd been banking on a coordinated combined arms offensive to wipe out the enemy air defense and airfields to quickly gain air superiority.

"I'll take that into account, LeMay. Be sure to relay that information to General Spaatz, ASAP." LeMay nodded. "Patton, what is the status of the Northeastern Army?"

"To be frank, General," Patton admitted, "The traitors have had a month to fortify Baltimore, and that includes supplies from France and other... sources."

Patton knew whom he was talking about, and so did everyone else in the room.

China.

They could never outright call them out on it. No, the Chinese were smart enough to have at least plausible deniability and likely worked through intermediaries to launder their weapons to the traitors.

Even Hillenkoetter, as lacking as he was, could tell that the Chinese were up to something. If intelligence was a game, then that game had no true allies, only interests.

As for Patton himself, he figured the Chinese were just sending guns to the French and having them do the dirty work. After all, the French made no compunctions about how they thought men like him were "fascists," or "reactionaries," or whatever it was they were called these days.

"While I do believe we can take the city, we may be seeing something similar to the ongoing Battle of Saint Louis."

That was enough to turn the room silent. Saint Louis (and by extension, the Missouri National Guard) had been a thorn in their side for the past month for turning what should have been a bloodless takeover into a grueling battle.

While yes, they had managed to nearly-pin the traitors against the Missouri River, they had suffered horrendous losses from a combination of Javelins, drones, and the literal mountain of shells of the Saint Louis Arsenal.

And this was against an enemy that had little more than a few hours to prepare. Marshall's traitors have had an entire month to dig in along the Patuxent River.

"Are you saying we should cancel the offensive, George?"

"I'm saying that we should not launch a ground offensive until we have secured air superiority, General. That, and we still need to consolidate our position against those who've taken up arms in support of treason in the area we do control."

"That goes without saying, George," MacArthur decided. "LeMay, I want you to tell General Spaatz to conserve our airpower and degrade the traitors'."

"Of course, sir."

"That said, we do have a shortage of capable men right now," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs acknowledged. It went without saying that much of that had to do with Marshall's defection. "To that end, I am promoting you to Major General and placing you in charge of Missile Command. The failures of others in the intelligence community should not detract from your performance these last few days."

LeMay stood up and saluted. "Thank you, sir."

"Don't let me down, LeMay. I'm expecting great things from you."

Butte, Montana, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 21 February 1942

Communal life took some getting used to, but they'd managed to come along pretty well here.

What had started as a motley crew of libertarians, Mormons, libertarian Mormons, outcasts, and free spirits had grown into a relatively self-sustaining commune that could handle everything from crops to water to livestock (though they did need to get their solar panels shipped in from China a few years ago).

Sure, it was nothing like the integrated communal networks in Europe that could handle entire supply chains and yes, they still needed to purchase medication and computers and gasoline. If the Makhno's example was to be followed, more-complicated goods would require greater coordination between the other communes in the region, and that would be at least a decade down the line at best.

But at the same time, they saw themselves as the first step towards creating a viable alternative to modern society that was freer, more-fulfilling, and more-egalitarian. Especially when they were comparing themselves to the racist bastards who supported Bilbo's regime.

The Mormons and Catholics didn't like him because he discriminated against them. The socialists and libertarians didn't like him for his politics. And everyone who wasn't white disliked him because they didn't like being treated like second-class citizens.

Which is how they ended up in this stalemate at the front gate, with both sides heavily armed to the teeth.

"Like I said before," Justin Greene groaned for the umpteenth time, "Fuck off. Come back with a warrant if you want to search the premises, alright?"

"I'd say it's reasonable to search the farmland of a bunch of armed men and women who seem to harbor sympathies for the traitors over in Philadelphia."

"For Christ's sake, we ain't siding with 'em, either!" This wasn't the first time Justin had to tell them that, either. "We mostly just want to be left the fuck alone, alright?"

"Still, y'all are armed to the teeth."

"Oh for the love of- We live in Montana. In the ass-end of nowhere! Everyone and their grandmother's armed to the damn teeth here, and I don't see you going around the Rhodies next door, and they've been out here as long as we have!"

"You mean the Smiths?" The Sheriff shook his head. "Yeah, well they aren't the ones telling us to fuck off every time we show off."

Pussies.

"Well no shit they're not going to tell you to fuck off. I mean, how else do you boys get those boots shining so bright?"

"Heh, fair enough, J," the soldier chuckled, before turning around. "Pack it in, guys. We need to get back into town for a warrant, then we can search the place. There, you happy, asshole?"

"Very," Greene answered, "Now fuck off."

And sure enough, the Nats did just that.

"You hear all of that?" he called into his radio. "Juno?"

"I hear you," a female voice sighed. From the sound of here, she was about as annoyed as he was. "What's the plan?"

"Plan Alpha: Hide the guns and make sure everyone's all segregated, or whatever those racist assholes want to call it."

"Do we have to?" his partner groaned, "Can't we just shoot them?"

"We all have to make sacrifices, Jun," Justin chuckled, "Now c'mon. They'll be back in a few hours."

Army of the Rockies Headquarters, Edmonton, Alberta, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 24 February 1942

General George Van Horn Moseley shouldn't be here, cut off and commanding an entire front. General Marshall had sent him out here to oversee the enforcement of Martial Law and ensure that any mutinies were suppressed.

Then again, that had assumed that Marshall wouldn't have turned traitor with the former President and the rest of those Judeo-Socialist allies.

But as the saying went, no plan survived contact with the enemy, and that included the best-laid plans. That went double, when it turned out the 10th Mountain and the 11th Airborne turned traitor and seized Coeur d'Alene.

"Reinforcements have already arrived in Missoula, General," the staff officer informed him, "They have begun digging in and laying mines, as ordered."

"And the push on Denver?"

"Fort Collins has surrendered, but our forces will need time to reorganize after a drawn-out battle, sir."

"Of course," Moseley sighed, before looking at his missives. "And Salt Lake City?"

"Slowly making progress. Forces are preparing to push on from Ogden as we speak. However, they have been slowed by irregular forces and artillery strikes."

"Go on..."

"Anti-tank missiles, mostly, sir. Rebels are firing them from the ruins of Layton. We've had to devote the last week to rooting every bit of them out with infantry, but they often blend back into the general population."

"Fucking Mormons. Break off a detachment of infantry and have them do an ammo sweep of the area."

"Understood, General," the soldier quickly answered, before rushing out of the room.

"General!" another staff officer shouted as he took the man's place, "General, it's an emergency!"

"What is it this time, Westmoreland?"

"The traitors are attacking Boise, sir! Division strength, at the minimum!"

Which means Coeur d'Alene was a feint. Damn it!

"Tell me," Moseley continued, trying to compose himself, "What do we have in the area?"

"Militia and remnants of the Idaho National Guard, sir."

"Then they'll have to hold until reinforcements can arrive."

The only question was from where. Right now, the Army of the Rockies was engaged in offensive actions against Salt Lake City and Denver. Hell, they were at the cities' outskirts at this point.

Factor in the reinforcements that were sent to Missoula, and the otherwise-massive Army of the Rockies was spread thin.

Outskirts of Boise, Idaho, Contested Territory, United States of America, 25 February 1942

"Target, five hundred meters!" Sergeant Lafayette "Padre" Pool shouted, "Fire, Groundhog!"

"Firing!" shouted the Corporal, before the tank shook around them. "That's a hit, Padre."

"Good shooting, Groundhog. Keep us moving, Red."

"On it, Padre," the driver agreed, and the Leopard-2 lurched forward.

The brass called it a "Thunder Run," based on some Lost History concept. But Pool and the rest of his men didn't need to go to West Point to understand the basics of beating the ever-living shit out of your enemy before he could react.

"Loaded!"

"Target, ten o'clock, four hundred meters!"

"Firing!" The tank rumbled again. "Hit!"

"Loaded!"

"We have a runner. Enemy truck, twelve o'clock! Six hundred meters!"

"Firing!" Another rumble shook the tank, "Did we get them?"

Pool looked through his sight to see a flaming wreck in the distance. A few figures seemed to crawl out the back, only to writhe and collapse to the ground.

"Yeah, we got them."

FOB Alpha, Boise, Idaho, Contested Territory, United States of America, 25 February 1942

"Tanks are making good progress" Lieutenant Young-Oak Kim told his men at the rendezvous point, "Our job is to clear out the city. Move up, check your corners, and you'll make it out just fine. Got it?"

The various men of the 542nd Regimental Combat Team nodded.

Corporal Samuel Kimura, for his part, did the same, before leading his fireteam out to the first building.

"Inouye," he instructed, "Take point."

"Copy," the Hawaiian-born soldier agreed, before peeking around the corner.

One burst of fire was enough to send him back out the door.

"Shit! Inouye's hit!"

"Medic!" Kimura shouted, "Get up here!"

"What's the plan, Sam?" Private Shinoda asked him. "They're watching the front."

"Go around the back, Daigo," Kimura whispered, before turning to the other men and motioning to the back door. "Nakano, Gabaldon, you stay here with Inouye. How bad's he hit?"

"I think the plate got it?" Inouye breathed, only to pull it out of his carrier. Sure enough, the dented ceramic armor had held. "Yeah, it did."

"Lucky bastard," Kimura sighed, before he moved up to the window in-between the two. Now, he didn't know what was on the other side, but it looked like it had line-of-sight on the back door. "On my go."

Kimura slammed the butt of his rifle into the window. The glass shattered, followed by a hail of bullets that would've shredded him to pieces if he wasn't crouching, before the gunman inside stopped to reload.

And in that moment, he pulled the pin on a flashbang and tossed the grenade through the window.

"Breaching!" Shinoda roared, before firing off a few shots. "Room clear!"

"Front clear!" Nakano shouted from the front.

Now, it was just sweeping up, with the occasional gunshot.

"Office clear!" Gabaldon yelled, "Bathroom clear!"

Now came the basement, and Kimura had his men stack up at the door.

"I'll take point," he decided, before kicking in the door.

He scanned the room and saw nothing.

Heard nothing.

And saw something horrifying.

Before him were piles of bodies, with black hair, pale skin, and their blood puddled on the ground.

The men looked on in silent horror at the sight before them.

"Fuck..." Shinoda breathed, before looking around. "What the Hell did they do to these people?"

"Keep your guard up, Daigo," Kimura muttered, "Clear, then gawk."

"Right. Got it, Sam."

"Got a live one!" Nakano shouted, only to be drowned out by shrieks of terror. "Hey, it's alright! I'm not going to hurt you!"

"Let's get 'em out of here," Kimura ordered, before heading back out. "Gabaldon, get the medic downstairs."

"What about the prisoner?"

"Prisoner?" Kimura looked behind the sole Latino on his team to see an enemy soldier with his hands duct-taped. "Surrendered?"

"Knocked out by the flashbang. What do we do with 'em?"

"He probably knows about what happened in the basement."

"Basement?"

"You don't want to know, Guy." Kimura grumbled "But we do have somebody who does know."

Kimura turned to their prisoner. He couldn't see the man's eyes with the duct tape covering them, but he imagined at least some sense of terror.

Maybe the prisoner thought he was going to be tortured? It was possible.

After all, a lot of Nats seemed to thing that everyone was as big a piece of shit as they were.

"Don't you, you son of a bitch?"
 
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Chapter XX-2: Here We Go Again...
Chen Residence, Taipei, Taiwan, Republic of China, 1 April, 1950

The wars had been over for a while, now. At this point, Morgan Chen stopped counting the years she'd fought with the Unionists, or the missions she'd gone on against the remnants of the Russian Ultranationalists.

Those days were behind her, and now she wanted to look forwards to better things.

The only question was just what she had to look forward to, while everyone else seemed to know what to do with their lives.

Her brother had it easy. All he had to do was play baseball, and he even managed to talk Jon and Adrian into following him back to China to play in the CPBL. Between that and starting a family with his wife, he seemed to have his whole life planned out.

In contrast was, well, her life. Sure, she was a damned good agent with years of field experience, but a life as a Tier One Operator for the Military Intelligence Bureau wasn't exactly the most-stable. Constantly going on missions that you couldn't talk about was, unsurprisingly, not conducive
to a stable romantic life.

Still, she'd made the best of it. Even if she stayed single for the rest of her life, she'd always be her nieces and nephews' favorite aunt.

Well, their only aunt, anyways, but Lin's kids thought she was cool, and that was enough for Morgan.

Morgan's phone rang, breaking her focus. She looked at it to see the words "Aunt Rachel" on the screen.

"Business or Family?" Morgan said on reflex. Because her aunt (for lack of a better term) may be the head of the Military Intelligence Bureau, but she was still Morgan's aunt.

"Get to the airport. There's a plane that'll fly you to Nanjing, ASAP."

"What's going on? I know there's an earthquake warning, but-"

A bright light flashed outside her window, and the lights blacked out.

"You still there, Morgan?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Thank goodness," the aging Director of the MIB breathed, "Everything must have come along, this time."

"Shenshen, what the fuck was that?"

"A second Great Journey, Morgan," the older woman said ominously. "And all the more reason for you to get to Nanjing. Now."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Morgan promised, before getting up.

Not like I was doing anything, anyways.

Bridge of the Kobayashi Maru, Fukuoka Harbor, Area 11, Holy Britannian Empire, 4 August 2017 a.t.b.

"Kobayashi Maru, please prepare to be boarded," the American-accented voice instructed, "Do not resist, or we will be forced to open fire."

"What are we supposed to do, Captain?" the adjutant said to Captain Fukuyama Goro, "We're not a navy vessel."

"We'll cooperate for now," Captain Fukuyama instructed, "Even if these people keep calling us 'Elevens' and getting angry at us for calling ourselves Japanese. Send out an SOS back to Busan. Got it?"

"Got it," the adjutant agreed, before turning to the men. "And the rest?"

"Have the security team on high alert and request they send over a delegation. Under no circumstances are we to get off this ship, am I clear?"

"More than clear, sir. Where are we, anyways?"

"Fukuoka, I think?" Fukuyama said, before looking out at the futuristic city. "At least that's what they're saying, anyways."

Military Intelligence Bureau Headquarters, Nanjing, National Capital Region, 2 April 1950

"A second Great Journey," Lei Anying repeated to the entire room. "With all due respect, Shen- er, Director, I find this hard to believe."

"It is fairly similar to the one from the Lost History," Morgan recalled, "Same readings as well. The only question is where we teleported and who came with us."

"I can answer the latter fairly easily," Director Fong announced. "As of now, we continue to have contact with Seoul, Delhi, Bangkok, Rangoon, Singapore, Manila, Kabul, and Jakarta, which means they all seem to have come back in time with us. Additionally, we have maintained contact with most of our naval assets, though a few are currently MIA."

"And where exactly are we, Director?" Lei asked. From the sound of him, Morgan figured he'd just accepted the reality of their new situation.

"We recently received a distress signal from the Kobayashi Maru, a Japanese-flagged vessel that was sailing from Busan to Fukuoka. According to them, our Japan didn't go back in time with us, unfortunately."

"Must have been a shock," one of the newer members muttered from the back. Morgan looked back to see Agent Hannah Zhu sink back into her chair. "Apologies."

"Indeed," Director Fong agreed. "In this world, Japan doesn't exist. In its place is an entity known as 'Area Eleven,' a colony of the Holy Britannian Empire."

"Britannia, Ma'am?" asked Zhu. "Is the British Empire still around in this world?"

"Not exactly," said the Director. "The British Empire doesn't exist."

"Yet they call themselves 'Britannians.' How does that work out?"

"Do you remember how in the Lost History, the island of Taiwan was effectively a government in exile?" the Director asked the team. Morgan and the other members nodded. Morgan most of all, since her mother literally wrote the book on the Lost History. "Well, the Holy Britannian Empire is similar. Just as the Nationalists were exiled to Taiwan, the British Empire was exiled to the Americas."

"You mean, America, right? asked Morgan. "As in, the United States?"

"No, I specifically said the Americas, Morgan," her aunt yawned, before downing the rest of her coffee. "As in, the entirety of the Western Hemisphere."

Tokyo Settlement, Area 11, Holy Britannian Empire, 4 August 2017 a.t.b.

"Well then, why don't you challenge the Elevens?" the blue-haired schoolboy asked his friend, "They're nothing like us Britannians!"

"As of now, contact with the Chinese Federation outside of the Turkestan Provinces has been cut off after last night's geomagnetic event," the newscaster said over the speakers. "We apologize for the delay. Now, his Royal Highness, Prince Clovis, Third Prince of Britannia, will address the nation."

Almaty, Province of Kazakhstan, Chinese Federation, 4 August 2017 a.t.b.

"In short," General Ma Bufang said to the High Eunuch and Governor, "The Federation no longer exists outside of the Central European provinces. We are cut off and alone."

"Then what should we do?" the High Eunuch asked in his typical high-pitched effeminate tone. "Surely Euro-Britannia will come for us, next!"

"Which is why we need to send a delegation out to whatever took the Federation's place. Whoever they may be, at least they will be fellow Chinese."

"Of course. But we cannot simply be at their mercy. Surely we can offer them something, right? Right?"

"Technology," the General offered, "There is no sense hoarding what we can barely produce ourselves, Governor. Perhaps we have a chance, this way."

"Of course!" the high-pitched man (if the General could even call him that) agreed. "Send a delegation to them, right away!"

Tokyo Settlement, Area 11, Holy Britannian Empire, 4 August 2017 a.t.b.

"Say," said the black-haired boy to the Royal Guardsmen, "How should a Britannian who detests his own country live his life?"

The commander aimed his pistol right at eye level.

"Are you some kind of radical? Huh?"

"What's wrong? Why not shoot? Your opponent is just a schoolboy. Or have you realized: The only ones who should kill are those prepared to be killed."

An eerie red glow shone out of his eyes into the Royal Guardsmen's souls."

"I, Lelouch vi Britannia command you! Now all of you: Die!"

"Happily, Your Highness!" the commander shouted, before the Royal Guardsmen pointed their guns to their heads in unison. "Fire!"

Presidential Palace, Nanjing, National Capital Region, 6 August 2017 a.t.b.

"Oh shit," Dr. Martin Li said for the whole room of experts. "This is not good."

"You mean the fact that we somehow ended up in a Rift that sent us into an anime world, Marty," his brother-in-all-but-name and fellow academic asked, "Or the fact that our agriculture is going to be screwed because we basically went four months ahead in time?"

"Mike," the former MIB Director nearly-shouted, "If this world is what I think it is, we're going up against people with fucking superpowers. I'm talking things like mind control, precognition, and possession. And that's before we get to the fact that they're probably outgunned."

"Yeah, the offer of selling us mechs is kinda a dead giveaway," former General Michael Chen agreed. "I wouldn't have believed it if Morgan hadn't shown us live footage of them, either."

"Which is why we requested your help with developing a strategy to counter them," said President Zhou Enlai. "Apologies for roping you into something yet again, Mr. Chen."

"I'm used to it at this point," Chen sighed, "From the looks of it, our main advantage against the Britannians will be range. Our weapons at least out-range them, and the Federation's delegation has informed us that we can exploit the Britannian preference for close-range combat."

"Good," said President Zhou, "Now, on to the issue of food. From what data we have, our reserves should be more-than adequate to feed the entirety of the Accord for the following year. Additionally, I am open to trade negotiations with this, 'Europia United' if they are willing to trade. We will be playing catch-up, but I want us going to full war economy, ASAP. Is that clear?"

The various advisors and experts nodded.

"And Li."

"Yes, Mr. President?" asked the former MIB Director. "If this is about how to counter the Britannians' 'Geass,' then I have a strategy written out. For your eyes only, of course."

"Anything the rest of us need to know, Marty?" Chen ribbed his old friend. "I'd hate to accidentally get mind-controlled, y'know?"

"Wear sunglasses. Make sure the delegation wears them at all times."

"And why's that?"

"Eye contact. Applied powers mainly work through direct eye contact, so a medium might be able to intercept it."

"And reality warping?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Right now, just be happy it isn't too hard for us to build nukes."

Nanjing Accord Embassy (Formerly Narita Airport), Tokyo Settlement, Area 11, Holy Britannian Empire, 9 August 2017 a.t.b.

Chinese logistical strength was its secret weapon. Well, its secret weapon outside of a massive amount of manpower and production capacity. This was how they managed to annihilate the European Alliance and then arm two continent-spanning armies over a decade later.

And it was that same logistical strength that allowed them to quickly build up an embassy in what was once an abandoned airport. It wasn't much right now, but it served as a strong-enough army base that could hold off an attack from any of those Knightmares.

At least Morgan Chen hoped so, anyways, but the network of CIWS guns and literal mountain of ammunition could probably tear those mechs to shreds.

Probably.

Hopefully.

Sure, they could have set up shop in the old Chinese Federation Embassy over in the Tokyo Settlement, but the delegation knew better than to trust their hosts. They'd never admit it, but the Nanjing Accord wasn't about to trust a society that outright had its own version of the Illuminati.

No, "Security Concerns" would be their primary reason, and they stuck with it.

Even if it seemed like most Japanese (or "Elevens") as the Brits called them, were more-interested in getting the Hell out of there, if the massive line outside the Embassy was anything to go by.

"Clear the way!" the speakers shouted in Japanese, Mandarin, and English to the crowd of refugee applicants, "Official business, coming through!"

"You know," Lei Anying told Morgan, "There's a decent chance it's a trap. Plus, the Britannians will probably be tailing us once we get into the city."

"Which is why we're under the guise of refugee work," Alice Zhu chimed in, "The Britannians don't like going into the ghettoes if they don't have to, so we can lose them in there."

At least that's what this "Zero" guy is telling us, anyways. Still can't believe we got Journeyed into an anime, of all things.

The rest of the ride was peaceful enough, though the sight of still-ruined buildings definitely put a damper on the mood.

"This is our stop," Morgan told her team, before they dismounted. "Remember: Once the crowd grows, we'll lose any tails and follow the prescribed route from Zero."

"You trust him that much?" Lei asked Morgan, "Did we get an alternate version of you, too?"

"Very funny," Morgan chuckled as they walked into the access tunnel. As if on cue, she switched out her sunglasses for her NVGs. "And we need all the help we can get. Britannia has the world's Sakuradite and freaking mechs. We need every advantage and ally we can get our hands on, and that includes literal terrorists."

If she was being honest, she felt a little naked without her Exo Suit on, but it would have made them stick out like a sore thumb.

"Is that so?" an American-sounding voice greeted her over the speakers. "So you must be the delegation."

Morgan held her hand up, and the MIB fireteams knelt down behind cover.

"You expected an ambush," the voice dryly, yet impassionately observed. "And yet you came."

"That we did," Morgan agreed. "So, are you going to show yourself, Zero, or am I going to have to shoot my way to you?"

She peered around the abandoned subway car to see several young men and women with weapons trained on them.

"I'm sure you would, Commander. But as a sign of your good faith, allow me to introduce myself."

The tunnel's lights flashed on, blinding nightvision. Morgan and her team instinctively ducked down and removed them, replacing them with their sunglasses.

In front of them was a skinny figure in a purple suit, a black helmet, and a matching black and red cape.

"That's the leader, alright," Lei muttered. "I've got a clear shot on him."

"Hold fire," Morgan instructed. "Headshots might not work, but drop 'em if they try anything."

"Copy."

"So you're the one they called 'Zero,' Morgan shouted over to him in Japanese. It was one of the reasons she was leading this op, after all. "You caused quite a stir at that execution, you know. Announcing to the world that you killed Clovis, not Kururugi. And your friend turns himself in."

"He was foolish to do so," the helmeted figure answered, "And he is not a friend."

"Really? I thought you two knew each other growing up. Guess I was wrong."

"You... are." Morgan could hear the faint pause in his normally-confident cadence. What she also noticed was a small slit open in his helmet, followed by a faint red glow. "Now, as your host, I request that you obey my every command until I say otherwise."

Morgan could see the light approach her through her sunglasses. It was almost slow-motion, as if she was in combat once more. Only this time, it was with a red light, rather than bullets.

And then nothing.

The light hit her, then it faded away.

"Now," Zero commanded, "Order your forces to lay down your weapons."

'Nah, I'll pass." It didn't show under her bandana, but she had a massive smile on her face. "Neat Geass, though. Want me to guess how it works?"

"H-how do you-"Zero stammered. Morgan could see his soldiers look back at him. "We should meet in the train car."

"Of course," Morgan agreed. "One-on-one."

"If you insist," the masked leader begrudgingly agreed. "As per our deal."

"Of course," Morgan agreed, and the two of them entered the train car with the doors shut behind them. Both sat down at opposite ends. "So, is it you in there, or a green-haired woman?"

"How do you-" Zero was taken aback. "How do you know about her?"

"I know everything, Lelouch vi Britannia," Morgan plainly told him. "Your name, your survival, your sister, and your ambitions."

"To destroy Britannia. Know that I would rather die than let that happen."

"I'm sure you would," Morgan observed, though she wouldn't tell him how true that really was. "But I am not here to stop you. Far from it."

"Then what do you want, Chen?"

"Cooperation. Maybe a partnership or an alliance down the road, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there."

"And what do the Black Knights get out of this?"

"Information. An ally. And a safe haven when your little rebellion eventually peters out."

"It will not. I will make sure of that."

"And what happens then? What about the reinforcements from Britannia? Do you keep fighting them off until Japan is nothing but ash and your sister is in your father's clutches?"

"That-"

"What about your friends? What about the sister you're doing this for? How do you know that they too, won't get caught in the crossfire?"

"So what do you want?" he reiterated, his voice seething with a rage Morgan had never heard before. "Enough with the abstractions."

"Cooperation, but without any of the shenanigans. No Geass shenanigans or any other fuckery. Do we havew a deal?"

Morgan stared into the man's mask, and the man stared back into the sunglasses that shielded her eyes from his Geass.

"It is... agreeable," the schoolboy-turned-revolutionary finally spoke. "Assistance for assistance."

"Alright. So, for starters, I'm going to need a working Knightmare Frame and as many blueprints as you can get your hands on. I'm sure you have a few leftovers."

"That is doable," Zero agreed. "And in exchange?"

"Information about that green-haired woman. Tell me, kid, do you really think you're the only person she's ever given that power to?"

The masked figure just stared at her.

"What, did it never cross your mind?" Morgan asked him, "It didn't, but it makes enough sense, doesn't it?"

"It does."

Military Intelligence Bureau Blacksite, Location Unknown, Republic of China, 16 August 2017

Normally, Chen Lin would be upset about the season being cancelled. He'd already missed out on a couple seasons because of the Civil War, and he'd be missing out on a third.

This was time that could have been spent hitting home runs and going for Babe Ruth's record.

These were not normal times. And that meant something for somebody who was descended from a time traveler, of all people.

The fact that there was now a couple giant mech suits in front of him definitely helped with that.

"Morgan," his wife Selena asked over the secured video call. "One question."

"What's up?" his sister asked in her usual chipper tone. "It's about the robots, isn't it?"

"Mech suits," Lin corrected. "And because I have the same question, I'll ask for the two of us-"

"Shoot."

"Where. The fuck. Did you get your hands on Britannian Knightmare frames?"

"Trade secret," Morgan said with the biggest shit-eating grin he'd ever seen. "Would have to murder you if I told you."

"Fair enough," he sighed, "So, you want me to take a look at these and what, reverse-engineer it?"

"Pretty much. Think you and the other engineers can do it?"

"In like a month? No. Six months and a near-unlimited budget with local assistance? Eh, probably."

Chamber of the Council of Forty, Paris, France, United Republic of Europia, RY 212

"It is a problem solving itself," one of the Councilors agreed, "Very well, General Smilas. We'll allow the Japanese refugees to resettle in the Nanjing Accord."

"And my other proposal?"

"Major Breislau's unit will be transferred under the guise of refugees and military training exercises."

"Very well," the General agreed. "Now, is there is nothing else for me to assist with, I will take my leave."

"Of course, General."

"Britannia Nightly News", Britannia News Network, 20 August 2017 a.t.b.

JOYCE: Good evening fellow Britannians and welcome to Britannia Nightly News. I am your host, William Joyce, and we begin with an update on the Clovisland shooting in Area 11. Viceroy Cornelia li Britannia has announced that the situation has been resolved without any losses of Britannian life.

CORNELIA: It is through the efforts of my men that the situation was resolved, and as such they deserve the credit for the situation. I am pleased to inform the general public that the terrorist has been killed by a sniper without any civilian or military losses. While my brother's amusement park will remain closed for the forseeable future, I promise that my late brother's park will be open as soon as possible.

JOYCE: While details are still being released, we are able to identify the suspect as "Mao," an albino Chinese Federation man who had been in Area 11 for the past few months. While we don't know his motive, the citizens of Britannia can rest easy knowing that this Mao will no longer pose a threat to their safety.

Black Knights Hideout, Area Unknown, Tokyo Settlement, Area 11, 20 August 2017 a.t.b.

"I never thought you'd want to give your sister the credit," the lime-haired woman dryly him. "It is so unlike you."

"It's not as if I could take credit for using you as bait and having Morgan Chen shoot Mao in the head with a sniper rifle."

"All thanks to those Chinese friends of yours," C.C. coldly observed. "I wish there was another way."

"That would take a miracle," Lelouch calmly observed. And my willingness to let a loose end live.

Military Intelligence Bureau Blacksite, Location Unknown, Republic of China, 24 August 2017

"I swear, is every single important person in this world a friggin' teenager?"
Chen Lin still couldn't believe it. "I mean, don't get me wrong, Lena. I'm happy that we have people to help us reverse-engineer all this stuff, but still."

"Anime, Lin," his red-haired wife simply observed. "That pretty much explains it."

"Yeah, I'm just going to roll with it and stop asking questions when I get roped into things," he thought aloud. Only for it to hit him. "Lena?"

"What's up?"

"This must be how my Dad feels whenever he gets roped into all kinds of weird shit, isn't it?"

"Probably," she figured, before looking at that Japanese kid talking with Major Malcal. "There's just one catch."

"What?"

"They're still teenagers. Maybe this time they'll get to actually be teenagers."

Pendragon Imperial Palace, Pendragon, Holy Britannian Empire, 8 September 2017 a.t.b.

"The Special Administrative Zone seems to have been a success," Prime Minister Schneizel el Britannia observed to the Emperor. "Euphie- er, Princess Euphemia's approach has been met with cooperation from the residents, and she has already forwarded proposals despite the Black Knights' continued presence."

"They seem to be more-content with attacking industrial centers, anyways," said the Emperor. "Let them continue. Euphemia can keep her little settlement as it is, while the Black Knights can play vigilante. If anything, they are probably less-corrupt than the Knight Police."

"They will need to be dealt with, sooner or later," Schneizel pointed out. "They are the ones responsible for Clovis' death, and we cannot let that go unpunished. Not to mention the attacks on manufacturing and resource extraction throughout Area 11."

"Of course. However, I refuse to reallocate resources from the Kamine Island project."

Let Lelouch play rebel all he wants. Clovis told me everything I need to know about who this Zero truly is.

Black Knights Headquarters, Tokyo Harbor, Tokyo Settlement, Area 11, 10 October 2017 a.t.b.

"Huh." Morgan Chen looked around the underwater headquarters. "Pretty much everybody important here is a teenager, after all."

"Is that a problem, Chen?" the red-haired half-Britannian asked her, "We may be young, but we've proven ourselves again and again."

"It's an observation about your age, not your ability, kid," Morgan coolly responded. "So, is Zero really pursuing non-interference with the Special Administrative Zone?"

"It seems so," Kozuki answered. "He would rather attack our true enemy, rather than a distraction."

If only you knew, Kallen. If only you knew.

He's not attacking the SAZ because his beloved sister is there, and he refuses to make the same mistake again.

That, and he sees her as a means to an end. Somebody has to rule Britannia when Chuck is dead, and Euphemia is as good a choice as any.

And we are all playing into his plans. You, the Black Knights, Euphemia, Suzaku, Cornelia.

Even me, if I'm being honest. I'm well aware that he's using us to gain the upper hand on Britannia.

Then again, I'm using him to buy time to modernize against Britannia. We wouldn't be where we are today if it weren't for all the blueprints and technology samples you guys have given us.

Well, you guys and the Europeans, anyways.

I guess this is how the game is played. And unlike my brother, I have the patience for it.
Now, how will you deal with your father, Lelouch? It's only a matter of time until you will have to cross that bridge.


Special Administrative Zone, Area 11, Holy Britannian Empire, 11 November 2017 a.t.b.
Suzaku Kururugi had to be one of the luckiest men alive.

In the span of a couple months, he'd gone from a lowly Private to the Knight of the Sub-Viceroy of Area 11.

And so much more, but it had to be quiet, else Cornelia and Lelouch both kill him, literally and figuratively, respectively.

But here they were, welcoming the newest expansion of the Special Administrative Zone to rapturous applause and no objections from the Black Knights.

Truth be told, they'd been quiet.

Too quiet, if he was being completely honest.

There were attacks, but they tended to be against targets only tangentially-related to Euphy's rule. Corrupt businessmen, nobles, and political rivals would all be annihilated by the Black Knights, but even those were declining over the last few weeks.

He didn't know what to make of it. There was always the possibility that Zero was just that effective, but Suzaku had his doubts.

Idealist he may be, even he had to admit that Britannia was rotten to the core.

So where are you, Zero?

And what are you doing?


Secret Intelligence Service Office, Duchy of Hawaii, Holy Britannian Empire, 17 November 2017 a.t.b.

In the legends of Alexander the Great, it is said that he was able to untie the Gordian Knot by cutting it with his sword.

This wasn't exactly the perfect analogy, but Lelouch saw this as an equivalent path of least resistance.

All the subterfuge in the world couldn't stop him if he Geassed his way up the chain until even the Director of Intelligence was his slave in all but name.

So as the SIS agent looked at him in horror, he knew that he would have yet another pawn on his side of the board.

"Obey my every command," he said rather nonchalantly, as if he had done this a thousand times before. And like the other thousand times before, the subject complied. "Tell me your name and anything important about yourself."

"My name is Rolo Halliburton, Your Majesty," the young agent answered, "I am an SIS agent with a Geass that allows me to freeze people's perception of time."

"I see," Lelouch mused. This one would be much more useful to him than the dozen officers he'd off-handedly controlled into absolute obedience. "Tell me more about the Geass Order."

And so he did. Rolo told him everything, from the location to the leadership to the garrison and defenses.

"Now Rolo," the bemused prince in disguise added, "I have another task for you."

"Yes, Your Majesty?"

"When I give you the signal, you will kill Charles zi Britannia."

"Nanjing Accord Announces First Knightmare Design - Entering Production in 2018," Popular Science, October 2017

The world has been been taken aback by the announcement of the first Chinese mech suit (colloquially referred to as "Knightmares" by the Birtannians).

Dubbed the "Accord Model," the mech suit shares several similarities with the Britannian Sitherlands and Gloucesters, though there are some similarities with the Federation Gun-Ru models.

"The development of such a weapon is a testament to the merits of the Nanjing Accord and our commitment to moving forward, together," said Chinese spokesman Chen Lin, who unveiled the project in late November. "And it is through this spirit that we will begin mass-production in early 2017."

In response, the European Union congratulated the Nanjing Accord, while a Britannian spokesman said that it was "A stolen valor derived from Britannian genius."

Production is expected to begin in early 2018, now that the trade agreements at the Lake Kawaguchi Conference were ratified.

Given the emergency economic footing over the last year, this is just another in China's rapid growth as it incorporates modern technologies into their manufacturing.

Pendragon Imperial Palace, Pendragon, Holy Britannian Empire, 15 March 2018 a.t.b.

It hit him, all of a sudden.

In the front, the back, and the sides, all at once.

A hundred piercing spikes seemed to stab into his body, and the blood flew from each and every one of them.

He looked up to see one of his assailants towering over him despite the young man's height.

"Rolo…"

It all made sense now.

The royal bastard, one of Victor's failed creations, had paused time long enough for the red-eyed generals and ministers to stab him over and over again.

"It is done, Your Majesty. Lelouch will have his revenge for what you have done."

All sorts of thoughts ran through Charles' head. He wanted to say something, anything, just so he would have the dignity of the last word.

Part of him wanted to say how Marianne's death was Victor's doing. Not his.

Another wanted to scream and curse at the traitors who murdered him, having literally stabbed him in the back.

And yet another part wanted to lament the grand plan that could die with him and pray that Marianne could continue their dream.

"Well played, Lelouch," Charles wheezed, "I should have killed you for your insolence when I had the chance."

And with that, Charles zi Britannia's reign ended just as it began:

Through treachery and blood.

Second Emblem of Blood

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

(Redirected from Britannian Civil War)

The Second Emblem of Blood (also known as the Second Britannian Civil War) was a civil war between the various factions of the Holy Britannian Empire in the wake of the assassinations for Emperor Charles zi Britannia, Prime Minister Schneizel el Britannia, and Crown Prince Odysseus eu Britannia.

The subsequent war would see several cliques and factions war with one another, as well as the return of Prince Lelouch vi Britannia, who gave his support to the li Britannia faction under control of Cornelia li Britannia.

The conflict would rage for the following five years and result in the ascension of Empress Euphemia li Britannia to the throne, her marriage to Emperor-Consort Suzaku Kururugi, and the ushering in of an era of reform and the gradual thawing of relations between Britannia, Europe, and Asia's Nanjing Accord.

Nevertheless, rumors and conspiracy theories continue to exist regarding the Emblem of Blood, including claims that the assassinations of the Emperor, Crown Prince, and Prime Minister were a Chinese plot to weaken Britannia.

Aries Villa, Pendragon, Holy Britannian Empire, 1 April 2025 a.t.b.
"I never thought you were the kind of guy to play second fiddle," Morgan Chen said to the Prince in his palace. "Yet here you are, protecting your sister from the shadows."

"It is important to adapt to new events," the Prince politely countered, "Whether that be my sister, teleporting continents, or a different perspective."

"I'll take your word for it, Prince I-Will-Destroy-Britannia-For-My-Little-Sister. Honestly, you burning Britannia down is probably the reason the Nanjing Accord was able to catch up with Britannia in the first place."

"And the world is better off for it," the Prince said politely. "Besides, I only swore to destroy Britannia. I never said anything about building a better one in its place."
 
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Enhanced Interrogation Techniques
Boise Junior College, Boise, Idaho, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 28 1942

Sergeant Samuel Kimura should be a happy man. He'd gotten a promotion for rounding up the POWs, and Captain Kim had personally vouched for him.

Of course, many of the promotions were due to simply needing competent-enough men in the ranks, but men like Sam knew they'd earned their place.

Promotion came with perks, as well. That was why he was here, talking with a Chinese volunteer soldier who spoke surprisingly-good English about the POW they captured.

"So," he said, trying to make smalltalk, "Did he talk?"

"They always talk," the Chinese soldier named "Chen," according to her nametag, told him. "Bastard told us everything from his time in the Golden Circle to joining the militia."

That second thing was the least surprising to Sam. If anything, he would've been more surprised if the racist terrorist group didn't side with the racist terrorist sympathizer occupying the Oval Office.

But the first part? That sent shivers down his spine.

"I'd hate to be that guy," Sam breathed. "Even if he probably deserved it."

"Like Hell he did," Chen seemingly laughed in annoyance, "He deserved worse than what we did to him."

"Christ. Remind me not to get on your guys' bad side, then."

"That goes without saying," Chen quietly laughed, only to turn to him. "Wait."

"What?"

"Do you think I tortured him or something?"

"…Yes?"

Honestly, Sam didn't really know what else to say.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Sergeant," Chen groaned, "I didn't torture him, if that's what you're asking!"

"Well, that's good to know-"

"No, I drugged him with Diazepam."

"Wait, what?!"

"Yeah, I just mixed it in with his food. It's no truth serum, but it gets them talking."
 
Rebuild of Everything
Somewhere Along the Trans-Siberian Railway, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 15 March 1942

"You know what I hate?" Denys Sevchenko asked his friend from Moscow, "Go on, Vasya, take a guess."

"Waiting around?" Vasily Vladmirovich Kim figured, "Freezing our asses off? Fighting against a fascist coup that will fight to the last man even though we annihilated their air force and are closing in on Krasnoyarsk?"

"Well, yes, but I meant besides that."

"The… fact that this entire conflict could have been avoided?"

"Okay, that too, but I was talking about the blown-up bridge behind me."

"Ah." They both turned to the half-standing remains of a railway bridge over the river. "Yeah, that sucks. Well, for the Ultras, anyways. Can't retreat across the river if they can't cross the river."

"I understand that. I also understand that's why our Air Force keeps blowing them up, but just makes it worse."

"And how does knowing why we do something make it worse?"

"Because you and I are engineers."

"Hey, the Accord Council already agreed on covering th-"

"I don't think you understand, Vasya," Denys interrupted. "We are going to have to rebuild all of these blown-up bridges. As in you and me."

"Ah…" Now it seemed to sink on for his Korean-Russian friend. "Shit."

"Indeed. At least we have three decades' worth of technology on our side. Could you imagine how hard it would be to rebuild bridges without exosuits, cranes, and power tools?"

"A lot slower, I imagine?" Denys nodded. "Hey, didn't your father rebuild bridges when he was our age? You know, back when China and Russia were at war in 1911."

"Something like that," Denys figured. It'd been a few weeks since they'd last met during the liberation of Irkutsk, and Dmytro Sevchenko was just happy to know his son was alive to tell any stories. "It was a different time back then."

"Marshal Diterikhs' psychotic dictatorship?"

"Okay, besides that," Denys admitted. Though in fairness, the psychotic dictatorship went without saying. "I mean how back then, China only had to blow up a few bridges and the ferries across Lake Baikal."

"How's that different than now? The bridges are all blown up, and so are the ferries across Lake Baikal."

"Yeah, but this time we're the ones blowing up our own bridges."
 
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Chapter 92: Force Meets Counter-Force
Ministry of Defense, Saint Petersburg, Saint Petersburg Governorate, Russian Empire, 18 March 1942

War sucked.

That was how Michael Chen could describe it at the end of the day.

Sure, one could talk about the death, the violence, the bloodshed, the suffering, and all the other shit that he'd seen in thirty years on this Earth, but there were thousands who've written about that.

Hell, he was one of them. Even if it was only because his history professor of a wife asked, and who was he to say no to her?

Sure, there were upsides. There was a sense of purpose, of feeling that he was doing the right thing and making the world a better place.

And yes, Michael thought that he, Marty, Rachel, Shannon, and all the others had made the world a better place in the grand scheme of things.

The Qing, Imperial Japanese, and the Tsar were keeping China in the past, and the Revolution brought it into the future. The Sick Man of Asia was now the first among equals alongside their former enemies.

The same could be said of the European monarchies in Africa and Europe, which both seemed to be doing better than his own time. Though in fairness, "Society equipped to handle the transition from colonialism," and, "Not ruled by Soviets or the Nazis" were pretty low bars.

And the insurrection in Africa… Well, it went without saying. When your opponents are a dozen different flavors of "Racist Apartheid-Liking Colonist," you're pretty obviously the good guy.

But that was all about the long-term, grand scheme of things after the war was over. They were important, yes, but they didn't disprove his point.

Actually fighting a war fucking sucked in more ways than he could list. It was more of a general feeling that the retired General couldn't describe, but he knew it when he saw it.

"…Regarding the Ultranationalist Air Force," a voice in Russian-accented English spoke through the screen, "Our combined forces continue to inflict heavy losses on the traitors."

Chen looked up to see the Russian Chief of the General Staff Zhukov on-screen, along with his staff, speaking to his counterpart, one General Sun Li-Jen.

"And we have noticed an increase in combat-effectiveness between our air units, despite the language barrier," General Sun observed. "Now, our analysts have looked over the data, and they predict that a good chunk of the Ultranationalist Air Force has been rendered combat-ineffective."

That was an understatement.

Now, former General Chen didn't know the exact numbers, but the amount of Ultranationalist planes, helicopters, air defenses, and drones destroyed could be described with two words: "A lot."

I guess that's what happens when you spend the last two months annihilating everything that could even remotely shoot down a plane with modern stealth fighters.

Was it fair? Fuck no.

But Chen's entire career could be boiled down to, "Use overwhelming firepower and technological advantages to annihilate your enemy while suffering minimal losses." Fighting fair would've gotten him killed in his tank over thirty years ago.

"And with the Raputitsa going away," General Zhukov continued, "We should be able to expand our operations to go on the offense against the traitors all along the Volga."

As Sun and Zhukov spoke about future operations, Chen could feel a sense of nostalgia for the time when he was in Sun's position and Sun was a one of his junior staff officers. It wasn't necessarily happiness, but there was a certain fondness for those times.

After all, war may suck as a whole, but that didn't mean everything about it was awful.

Just a lot of those things.

Diary The Long Retreat
by Dimitry Timofeyevich Yazov, Self-Published (1971)

Chapter 7: Krasnoyarsk


The "Loyalists" are coming from three sides in SIberia.

From the South, the Loyalists pushed through Central Asia with the support of the Iranians, Indians, Afghanis, and Chinese.

From the East, they charged through our lines from Chita to Ulan-Ude to Irkutsk and now they're at the outskirts of Krasnoyarsk.

And from the skies they rain death on us, day in and day out. Bombs have been dropping on us for over two months at this point, shooting down everything of ours in the sky and destroying everything else we had worth a damn on the ground.

It started with the Air Force, during the Uprising. General Sakharov had managed to convince about half of the Air Force to defect at first, and they'd managed to hold their own at first against the "Loyalists" as they were pushed to the edge of defeat in Saint Petersburg and Moscow.

And then they held out long enough for the Accord to step in and save them. I still think we would have won if it weren't for those damned Asiatic hordess stepping in and saving their Russian lapdogs.

The next weeks were filled with non-stop airstrikes as they shot down our aircraft in the sky in dogfights, grounded the bulk of them on the ground in airstrikes, and bombed the air defenses until they were scrap with impunity.

Rumor has it that the Chinese were using their new "Stealth Fighters" instead of missiles, but it didn't matter when the bombing campaign began in February. And what little is left of our planes that haven't fallen back to Krasnoyarsk aren't enough to support what air defenses we have against the Asiatic-equipped hordes of "Loyalists" who've whored themselves out to Delhi, Nanjing, Tokyo, and Seoul.

As I write this in my trench, I take a cold comfort in the reality that we're still able to shoot down some of those bastards and make them pay for thinking they could attack us with impunity. But their pilots' deaths are a small consolation for the suffering they've inflicted on us.

And now? Now, all we can do is wait for the horde to come to us so we can make them bleed for every inch.

Rumor has it that Sakharov's recruiting and training new divisions as we speak, and there are even some volunteers braving the journey from Scandinavia over the Arctic to come here. Couple that with increase in arms production in Novosibirsk, Omsk, Yekaterinburg, Tyumen, and Zlatoust, and we have a war machine of our own.

It's not much, but it helps our odds of winning.

And I'll take any odds that are better than zero. The Accord can count on that.

Skies Above Krasnoyarsk, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 28 March 1942

"AWACS Metal to all forces," Dominykas Zaitsev announced in English over the radio. It was his only choice, when half the pilots spoke Russian, a third spoke Chinese, and the rest spoke something else that he couldn't. "Our friends with the stealth fighters have been running SEAD ops for the last week. Special Forces have been tagging targets even longer and pissing off the locals."

He waited a moment for the translation to kick in. And another second for dramatic effect.

"Now it's our turn! You have your targets, and you have your tasks. Crimson, take point and lead us in."

"Copy, Metal," Crimson 1 said in Chinese-accented English. "Crimson, let's get to work."

"Onyx Squadron, engaging." Colonel Raskova forcefully stated.

"Granite, engaging!" shouted Major Kirill Yevstigneyev.

"Saffron, engaging!"shouted a Japanese voice.

"Pewter, engaging," Captain Ivan Kozhedub chimed in.

There had to be at least another dozen squadrons calling in.

Pyrite, Copper, Silver, Lapis, Tungsten, Agate, Silver, Electrum, Obsidian, Tungsten, and Zircon squadrons all called in after them. Familiar voices filled his ears as the pilots he'd commanded during the chaos of the coup called in.

It was reassuring, to say the least.

Then there were all the Accord squadrons joining them.

Of course, there were Saffron and of course Crimson, who had been wreaking havoc on the traitors with their stealth fighters for the last week. Truth be told, Dominyk was honestly surprised that they were still awake after last night's bombing run, but they were both cleared.

Then there were all the other squadrons armed with last-generation aircraft, like his fellow Russians. That being said, Celadon, Fucshia, Cobalt, Amber, Jade, and Indigo Squadrons had all proved themselves over the last two months of working with him.

The only problem was managing that many squadrons all at once.

"AWACS Pallett to AWACS Metal," a wry, Chinese-accented voice greeted him, "Need a hand?"

"About time you showed up, Kuo," Zaitsev chuckled. "Split it 50-50, and you get everyone who isn't Russian?"

"Affirmative," Pallett agreed, before addressing their half. "AWACS Pallett to all Expedition Forces: I'll be taking over command while Metal handles the Russian half. Switch over to my frequency."

"Fox 3, Fox 3!" Oxyx 2 shouted over the radio before firing their first missiles at the target. "Metal, confirm impact."

One of the crew forwarded a live feed of the target... or what was left of it.

"Good effect on target, Onyx 2."

Zaitsev took a deep breath as reality set in.

In theory, this should be like any other operation, and that meant keeping those pilots alive while they did their jobs.

In practice, this would be their biggest operation yet, which would make his team's job even harder. More targets may have meant more firepower to bring down on the traitors, but more firepower meant more pilots to keep alive.

So he took another breath and turned back to his console.

These pilots were damned good at their jobs, but somebody had to coordinate them and keep them alive.

And that was where he and his team came in.

Just like any other operation. No pressure, right?

Accord News Tonight, Saint Petersburg, Saint Petersburg Governorate, Russian Empire, 2 April 1942
[The camera pans in to Grossman in the Saint Petersburg newsroom]
VASILY SEMYONOVICH GROSSMAN: I am Vasily Semyonovich Grossman, and welcome to Accord News Tonight. Our top story is the beginning of the Loyalist counter-offensive across the Volga RIver against the Ultranationalists. Reporting on this live is our very own Andriy Samylovich Malyshko.

[The camera splits to show Grossman in Saint Petersburg on the left and Malyshko in Moscow on the right]

ANDRIY SAMIYLOVICH MALYSHKO: Thank you, Vasily Semyonovich. While Accord High Command has been tight-lipped about the nature of the long-anticipated counter-offensive and its preparations, there is no doubt that their planned counter-attack across the Volga River has begun.

GROSSMAN: Indeed. Now, I should take the time to point out that we here at Accord News Tonight will be relying on open-source information that is available to the public, so as to not leak troop locations and endanger the lives of Accord forces. That said, what do we know about the counter-offensive so far?

MALYSHKO: Given what we now know, it is clear that the airstrikes all across the Volga Front were a preparation for the counter-attack to convince the Ultranationalists that the Loyalists could attack anywhere, at any time, and force them to spread their forces thin across the entire front and hold much of their forces in reserve.

GROSSMAN: And now that the counter-offensive has finally begun, can you tell us where the Loyalist forces finally decided to attack?

MALYSHKO: Everywhere, Vasily Samyonovich. While experts have predicted offensive actions could take place in Samara, Kazan, Stavropol, Simbirsk, Tsaritsyn, Astrakhan, or Nizhny Novgorod, it seems that Accord Command has decided to attack all of these cities, all at once.

GROSSMAN: THat is a bold strategy by the Loyalist High Command. Could you elaborate on that?

MALYSHKO: Of course. While this may be speculation on my part, it is likely that the Loyalists want to tie up the Ultranationalist forces all across the front and prevent them from committing their reserves to one single spot. In doing so, the Loyalists will be able to chose where they want the next battle to be and commit the bulk of their forces.

GROSSMAN: That is an interesting analysis, Vasily Semyonovich. I suppose only time will tell if it is true.

MALYSHKO: Of course.

[The camera cuts back to Grossman in the Saint Petersburg newsroom]

GROSSMAN: That was Andriy Samiylovich Malyshko in Moscow. We now turn to our second story on the continued disappearances of Accord citizens across Ultranationalist-controlled territory. We now turn to Ozami Hotsumi for this continuing story.

OZAMI HOTSUMI: As the Russian Civil War continues across Siberia, tens of thousands of civilians from across the Nanjing Accord are still in the dark about the status of their friends and loved ones.

OZAMI: These people come from nations as far as Iran and Korea, Japan and India. They are travelers, workers, tourists, diplomats, and student, all taking advantage of the Nanjing Accord's guaranteed Freedom of Movement.

OZAMI: There is only one question on the minds of their friends, families, and strangers all across the Accord.

OZAMI: Where are these people, and what has happened to them?

Krasnoyarsk, Yeniseysk Governorate, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 21 April 1942

"Add another un-salvageable bridge to the pile," Denys Sevchenko sighed, before turning from the gaping chasm where the middle of the railroad bridge used to be. "How many does that make this, Vasya?"

"All of them," the Korean-Russian civil engineer sighed, before turning back to his clipboard. "At this point, I'm dividing them based on who blew them up."

"Then add one to the traitors, then," Denys told his friend. "Fucking Hell. At least we have the pontoon bridges, but it's not as if we can run a train over them."

"Yeah, I know, Denys. But what can we do? The Ultras blew up bridges to keep us on the other side, while we blow up bridges to trap them on the same side as us. And logistics."

"And we're the ones stuck having to replace them as fast as they destroy them, or else we'll have every supply officer from here to Chita bitching to us about logistics. I swear, at this point, we might as well start building them by bulk and flying them out in advance!"

"You know... It wouldn't be too hard. I think my cousin over in Busan did something when they built all that infrastructure in Africa."

"What, build them all before and fly them out to the middle of nowhere in Alaska?"

"...Yes."

"Huh." Denys honestly didn't know what to say to that. "But that was, what, ten years ago?"

"Fifteen, give or take. The factory is still open, too, so they should be able to ramp up production pretty quickly."

"That would be nice," Denys sighed again, and kicked a rock off the edge of the destroyed bridge. "And it'd make our jobs easier."

"Yup. All we'd need to do is pull up the old survey data, tear down the old bridge, and build a new one."

"And just in time for Summer, Vasya, so we won't be freezing our asses off in the middle of Siberia." Denys liked the sound of that. "Easiest. Job. Ever. Of all time."

"You do realize that all the mosquitoes come out during the Summer here, right?"

"Fuck."

Samara, Samara Governorate, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 27 April 1942

"Christ."

That was all Colonel Dmitry Medvedev could say once the city was captured.

"Cut them down."

"Sir?"

"Cut them down, Corporal!" the Spetsnaz commander shouted, and they quickly found a ladder. "How many does this make it?"

"More than I can count off the top of my head," Captain Kuznetsov muttered as the men cut down the bodies from the lightposts. "Never seen the Ultras do this before. Black Hundreds?"

"Probably."

"Damn it. Would have thought they'd have been integrated into the Ultras' ranks by now."

"Apparently not, Captain." Though that went without saying. The Black Hundreds may have embodied the worst of Russia, but the manpower losses on all fronts meant the Ultranationalists were beggars, not choosers. "We'll have to report this up the chain. Nanjing, Tokyo, and Delhi will need to know about this."

"Of course." From the sound of him, Kuznetsov wasn't happy, and neither was Medvedev. "What do we tell them?"

"Tell them we know what happened to those missing civilians."

"The Case for Eurasianism, Not Russian Chauvinism," by Pyotr Mikhailovich Krasnov, University of Moscow, 1 May 1942

For the second time in half a century, Russia is beset by existential threats. Like Diterikhs and Denikin during the 1910s, the Sakharovs seek to turn Russia into a Russian-dominated state that would gladly suppress and, if possible, annihilate any culture or religion that is neither Russian nor Eastern Orthodox.

It is this arrogance, this cultural posturing, that rejects the peace, progress, and prosperity of the last thirty years for the false sense of accomplishment that is this so-called cultural superiority.

These people, whether it be the Sakharovs or their followers, believe that the Russian culture inherently makes them superior to their fellow countrymen. Whether it's the history of the Kievan Rus, the triumphs of Peter the Great, or a sense of rugged ingenuity and determination, these men and women (though usually men) believe that that it makes them better than anyone else.

To this, I ask a few simple questions: Where were they during the Kievan Rus? Where were they during Peter the Great's victories?

Surely they can talk about their participation in these great accomplishments if they want to talk about it.

Yet they cannot. Peter the Great's accomplishments are Peter the Great's and his men. The glories of the Kievan Rus are those of Rurik and his contemporaries who fought for them. To claim otherwise is akin to stolen valor, and to many of these Russian Chauvanists seem to be thieves.

But, some would argue, there is still the sense of rugged ingenuity and determination that defines the Russian character. Surely that can justify their superiority!

And yes, Russian culture is one of determination and ingenuity. I should know myself, having grown up in the aftermath of Diterikhs' reign of terror.

Yet I could say the same of the Poles, Jews, Finns, Belarusians, Ukrainians, and countless others I've met as we built new lives for ourselves. They are no less capable of brilliance and perseverence than you or I.

And still, that is what Russian Chauvinism is.

It is a false claim to greatness from the accomplishments of better men and women, a deceit that we alone are the only ones capable of the brilliance we share with our fellow men and women.

It is this poisonous thinking that has plunged our society into pogroms, backwardness, and now civil war that is destroying all of our accomplishments, all we have built, over the last three decades in the name of a Russian identity.

It is a thinking that sacrifices the present and the future for the sake of past glories while the world moves on.

And it is for this reason that we need to look to a different present and the future.

In the present, we must defeat this sense of Russian Chauvanism once and for all. Both on the battlefield, and it the world of rhetoric.

In the future, we must forge a new identity for ourselves. One that is all-encompassing, rather than only for Russians.

One that appreciates our past triumphs and learns from them as we move forward. One that fosters and celebrates the spirit of determination and rugged ingenuity, rather than the using as a cudgel to beat people down.

In doing so, we can look to the past without living in past glories.

Instead, we can look to the present and use our perseverence, rather than simply posturing about it.

And maybe, just maybe, we can finally look forward into the future, instead of trying to murder our way back to past glory.
 
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In Defense of Libertarianism and/or Anarchism (l'Humanite, 1 May 1942)
"In Defense of Libertarianism and/or Anarchism," by Elise Brodeur, l'Humanite, 1 May 1942

There is a saying by some on the Left about the Loyalists in Russia and the Unionists in the America: "It's a shame both sides cannot lose." The people who argue this, such as Benito Mussolini, are in-effect arguing that both sides are just as bad as one another and that Leftists should not take a side or even outright fight both of them.

There are those who beg to differ. Chief among them being the Libertarian leftists who actually live in America and Russia.

As I write this for this year's May Day Special Edition, there are Libertarians (or as some would call them, "Anarchists") fighting in the Russian Civil War and the Second American Civil War on the Loyalist and Unionist sides as partisans and irregular forces.

The Libertarian Commune, which has once served as a means of creating a viable alternative to capitalist society through a combination of self-sufficiency and coordination between different communities, has evolved into a self-sufficient refuge in a sea of reactionary control and the first line of offense against those same forces' terror and stay-behind units.

The Communes, of course, have their weaknesses. A decentralized command structure makes coordination and consensus between different Communes difficult, at best. While they aren't exactly hostile to one another (or hostile in any sense), each Commune sees themselves as equals to their fellow Communes, which requires an extra level of politicking that isn't seen in more-centralized chains of command.

Another weakness of the Communes is the lack of heavy equipment. While there are hilarious videos of Libertarians towing away Nationalist and Ultranationalist tanks with their tractors, the average Commune is armed with a variety of small guns and equipped with logistics vehicles. Airplanes, helicopters, and armored vehicles are more the exception, rather than the rule for the Communes.

This is a fancy way of saying that there will likely be no "Black Army" anytime soon. The Communes may be armed to the teeth, but they lack the centralized command structure (or an equivalent) and the heavy equipment necessary to form such a structure.

This has led to several critics, such as Mussolini and Mosley, arguing that the Libertarian movement should not be taken seriously due to the lack of revolutionary capacity. I have no doubts that as I write this, either of them are on Twitch right now, scoffing at the "Anarchists" (as they describe them) from the comfort of their million-euro homes.

And these would be valid criticisms of the validity of the Libertarian movement if their purpose was to form a revolutionary army and overthrow the capitalist system, rather than their current strategy that plays to their strengths as decentralized organizations.

This is a fancy way to say that Libertarians aren't good at building a revolutionary army because they aren't trying to build a revolutionary army.

Their objectives are to fight off immediate threats to their movement so they aren't wiped out by the Nationalists in America or the Ultranationalists in Russia. And once that's done, they can go back to building Parallel Systems to create a viable alternative to capitalism.

That is why the Libertarians excel at partisan warfare and counter-insurgency tactics. They're a movement of idealistic, heavily-armed, and self-sufficient communities of men and women who know the terrain.

Guerrilla warfare is their bread and butter!

It is this strength that allows them to operate as some of the most-effective partisan and militia units in both Russia and the United States despite the odds stacked against them.

And while men like Mussolini and Mosley can complain about how they "Aren't actually doing anything revolutionary," it is pretty clear that the Libertarians, or Anarchists, or whatever-you-want-to-call-them, are doing more for the Leftist cause than they ever will.
 
Homecoming Queen
"Commander Amelia Earhart Returns to America Via China," Popular Science, May 1942

As one of the first people to set foot on the moon and the United States Space Administration's first Mission Commander on their maiden flight to the International Space Station, Commander Amelia Earhart was left with two options in early January.

First, she could return to Cape Canaveral, as per the mission plan. She would make landfall off the Florida coast and be welcomed by the President of the United States.

Of course, President was a different person from when she went up to the ISS, but the point still stood. As the Commander of Enterprise-1, as the USSA called the first flight, she is one of the most-prominent aviators in the nation.

There was just the small issue of him not exactly having the most legitimacy.

Even if one doesn't believe the rumors that Theodore Bilbo was cooperating with the perpetrators of the Capitol Bombing, the fact remains that his rise to the Presidency is questionable, at best.

And that was before the Second American Civil War began.

This left her with only one other option: Return with the Chinese.

As the main backers of the International Space Station Initiative, the Chinese footed much of the bill on the ISS and constructed much of the equipment.

This included the additional Capsules sent up with the ISS to serve as a de-facto "Lifeboat" for the space station.

Though the Bilbo-led Nationalist government had issued formal protests to Chinese Ambassador Jiang Jieshi and Japanese Ambassador Nishi Takeichi, the Nanjing Accord countered that as an international space, no Nanjing Accord nation had formal jurisdiction over the International Space Station.

This was legalese for saying that the Accord couldn't detain Earhart and drag her back to Washington even if they wanted to.

Not that wanted to, but the point still stood.

And on April 19, Commander Amelia Earhart made history once more by performing the first emergency evacuation of the International Space Station.

The Bilbo Administration launched further protests to the Chinese and Japanese ambassadors on the following days, arguing that the Accord were facilitating the desertion of an active-duty government employee.

Chairman of the Nanjing Accord and former Chinese President Wang Zhaoming countered by arguing that the only crimes Commander Earhart was guilty of were the improper requisition of Nanjing Accord Space Agency equipment and unregistered entry into the Republic of China once her escape capsule landed in Manchuria.

It should be noted that President Soong quickly pardoned Earhart for these crimes upon her re-entry.

As per the Nanjing Accord's declared neutrality in the American Civil War, Commander Earhart was allowed the options of remaining in China as a Temporarily-Displaced Refugee, transfer to Nationalist Territory, and transfer to Unionist Territory.

After a few stops in Tokyo, Nanjing, Seoul, Hanoi, and Delhi, Commander Earhart announced her decision to return to Unionist-held territory.

Said decision was met with polarized responses.

"Commander Earhart is a member of yhe United States Air Force," said Nationalist Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Douglas MacArthur, "And I promise that she, like all others who have decided to derelict their duties, will face the appropriate consequences."

In contrast, former First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt welcomed Commander Earhart upon her arrival in Boston.

"Amelia is a pioneer for progress," said the former First Lady to a crowd in Downtown Boston, "And I am proud to see her continue the fight for progress in America!"

When asked about her decision, Earhart quipped, "With DC being as it is right now, my only options were taking the long way home through China or staying in space… and I was starting to miss the gravity."
 
Nobody Never Dies
Liberty Commune, Butte, Montana, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 7 May 1942

As far as assignments went, this had to be one of the easier ones.

Then again, it wasn't like there was much left of the Nationalist forces after the last battle.

No, they pretty much drove right into the city and set up shop. Locals were wary enough, but the local Libertarian commune was welcoming at least.

Not too much of a surprise, honestly. These guys probably hate the Nats more than we do.

"Honestly, I thought there'd be more shooting," Sergeant Samuel Kimura yawned aloud, before turning back to the campfire. "Seems like these days, it's a whole lot of nothing."

"Dude." That was all Justin Greene could say to that. "You a fucking psycho or something? Because last I checked, I didn't open the gates for a bunch of psychos."

"No, you opened the gate for the person who's been counter-sniping Rhodesians for the last three days," Morgan Chen chimed in. "Who'd you say these guys were, again?"

"Smith family," Justin answered, before shaking his head. "Showed up when I was a kid after the war. Said America would be a 'Second Chance' for them, when they came by. That was, what? Twenty years ago?"

"Fifteen," his partner Alex corrected. "Came here after the Great War, remember?"

"Eh, close enough. We had a lot of those types move in here after the war from all over Africa. Rhodesia, Congo, Namibia, South Africa... Heck, even had a family from Madagascar and Kenya."

"And all of them came from Africa?" Sam asked. Justin nodded. "That explains a lot, then."

"Yup. Sure, they were nice and all, but they seemed awfully hostile towards anyone who wasn't like... them, you know? Always kept to themselves, but that wasn't the giveaway."

"What was it, then?"

"It's not like they said, 'Hey, we're a bunch of racist white supremacists,'" Alex chimed in. "It comes out in conversations. Social media. Support for the Golden Circle types."

"Yeah, makes sense," Morgan added, before an explosion sounded off.

Samuel looked off in the distance to see one of the sheds on fire, with a trail of smoke coming from the top.

Justin pulled up his rifle and got to the ground. "The fuck was that? Mortars?!"

"No idea!" Morgan shouted back, before getting to what cover she could find. "Command, this is Spectre 2-1. We're taking unknown explosives fire. Requesting immediate recon scans over our area! How copy?"

"Solid copy, 2-1. Standby," the voice said on the other end, "Negative on any mortar or artillery weapons in the area. Standby for updates."

"Anything?" Sam shouted over the sound of chaos and screaming. "We're sitting ducks out here!"

"Drone strike?" Alex offered, "Nats have those, right?"

"Would've shown up on radar if they were using 'em!" Morgan shouted back, before looking down her scope. "Anything?"

"Nothing!" Alex shouted back, before another building caught fire. "Might be a smaller one?"

"Maybe?" Morgan put down her goggles. At this point, they were sitting ducks, anyways, so she had the time.

Sure enough, she could make out a few shapes in the sky flying towards them.

"Yeah, I see them!" she shouted, and turned to Kimura. "Get your NVGs on, Kim!"

"Works for me," the sergeant sighed. Sure enough, he could see the shapes, too. "NVGs on and Open fire!"

The sound of gunfire in the night echoed through the sky with the bullets, only interrupted with the occasional explosion in the sky.

"Got another!" Morgan shouted over the gunfire. "How're we looking?"

"No more drones dropping on us, at least," Kimura figured, only to see a few of their men hobble towards them. "That you, Inouye?"

"Affirmative," his fellow Japanese-American answered, "We've got wounded and KIA, Kim."

"How bad?"

"Three KIA, twice as many wounded. Dole's in critical condition."

"How bad?"

"Arm's blown off, but we got a tourniquet on him."

"Fuck," Samuel swore under his breath. "Shinoda, Gabaldon, Nakano: Follow Inouye back and help stabilize the wounded. The rest of you, prep for the next wave of drones!"

"Where do you want me?" Morgan asked, before a new burst of gunfire sounded off in the distance. "One sec."

"Spectre 2-1," her radio began speaking, "We have an unidentified convoy of about a dozen vehicles headed straight for you. Look like technicals. I'm mobilizing a Quick Response Force to reinforce, but it'll take a few minutes. How copy?"

"Copy, Command," Morgan exhaled, only to fire another burst at a now-exploded drone, "ETA?"

"ETA of thirty minutes, Chen," the voice on the other end told her, almost-apologetically. "We're moving as fast as possible. I"ll see if I can divert a drone your way, but no promises."

"I'll work with what we have," Morgan figured, before turning to Kimura. "Bad news, Kim. We have technicals moving in."

"Shit. This is not what I need right now." The young man quickly took a second to breathe. "Get the .50 to the house and provide cover fire."

"Works for me," Morgan figured, before turning to their hosts. "Either of you know how to spot?"

One volunteer spotter and a climb up to the barn roof later, and they were as high as they'd ever get.

"I see them," Justin confirmed. His eyes remained focused through his sight. "Eight hundred meters and closing. Minimal wind."

"I hope you're not asking me to snipe them," Morgan muttered, with her eyes focused on the convoy moving in a V-formation. Calculations streamed through her head and meshed with instinct. "Tracking. Permission to fire?"

"You do know who you're talking to, right?" asked the homesteader. "I'm not your boss."

"Oh, right. Firing."

Her first shot tore through the night sky and landed right-center in the engine block.

Then the second.

Then the third.

The fourth, sixth, eighth, and tenth missed, but she re-adjusted and made up for it with the rest. It wasn't much, but she could count on those to make it work.

"That's half of them," Justin informed her, before Morgan reloaded the next magazine. "The rest are moving in."

"How far out?"

"Thousand meters and closing."

"Copy. Firing."

Another round killed another engine.

"Truck's stopped."

"Firing."

The same happened to the next one.

"That's dead, too."

"Firing."

And the third.

"Shit, I think you shot their driver. Yeah, that one's down. Three left."

"Firing."

But not the fourth.

"...Jammed."

"What?"

"Fucking rifle's jammed," Morgan spat, before looking down to the masked men piling into the remaining trucks. "Kim, this is Chen. Rifle's jammed. Unable to provide cover fire."

"We'll do what we can down here. What's the ETA on the QRF?"

An explosion off in the distance was their answer.

"Was that us?"

"Probably?" Honestly, Morgan had no idea at this point, but she doubted the Nats armed their insurrectionists with Hellfire Missiles.

Instead, she just looked over to see the burning wreckage of the remaining three trucks.

"Yup, that was us. All enemy technicals are down. Repeat: All enemy technicals are down."

"You'll want to get by the Smiths' place in the morning," Justin figured. "God knows what they had over there."

New Salisbury Ranch, Butte, Montana, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 8 May 1942

The drive up to the ranch was about ten minutes on a good day, but it took three times that when you had to watch out for snipers that never showed up.

Didn't stop the partisans from the Commune from keeping a rifle trained on every door, though.

"How's the kid, Sam?" Morgan asked, finally breaking the silence while they crouched behind the Humvee. "Is he going to be alright?"

"MEDEVAC was able to stabilize him last night, but they had to saw his arm off above the elbow. Couldn't save it."

"Shit. If only I caught on-"

"Don't. Just don't, Morgan"

"Yeah, I know." That said, she made a mental note to see if she could at least hook him up with a good prosthetic over in China. "Any movement on the inside?"

"Nothing," Sam told her, before turning on his radio. "Daigo, status report."

"You're going to want to see this, Sam," his friend told him. "Might want to bring along Chen, too."

"Chen here," Morgan spoke over the radio. "More dead civs?"

"Something like that," Shinoda answered. "Look, just get in here, ASAP. You two'll need to see it to believe it."

One glance between the two was enough to get them to agree.

What they saw, though, wasn't what they expected.

"You smell blood too, right?" Sam asked her. Morgan nodded. "Not the dead Nats, Morgan. Smells too fresh to be that."

"Yeah, I do," she grimly agreed. As they walked, various men and women nodded to her while they milled around the house. "Which way?"

"Basement," Sam instructed, and she followed him down the stairs. "How bad are we looking at, Daigo?"

But his friend just shook his head and motioned them inside.

To Morgan's disgust and his horror, there were about two dozen women and children laying lifeless on sleeping bags, beds, and couches.

They looked almost peaceful, if it weren't for the fact they were corpses.

"What the fuck..." Morgan spoke, though she could barely make out the words. "What happened here?"

Daigo just shook his head. "Carbon monoxide poisoning. Looks like somebody jury-rigged a gas generator to fill the room with the stuff."

"Suicide?" Sam asked, but Daigo shook his head. "What, did they die of an accident, or something?"

"Yeah, that doesn't explain the smell of blood," Morgan agreed.

"I thought so, too," the medic figured, before bringing them over to another hallway painted by the brains of the a corpse next to a mobile phone. "And then we found this guy. Greene ID'd him as one Ian Douglas Smith. Born in Selukwe, Rhodesia, he and his family immigrated to Montana in the wake of the Great War and began homesteading here alongside several other Rhodesian expatriates."

"Which explains why our hosts were wondering where he went..." Morgan mused out loud. "So what, did he gas his own family and neighbors and then blow his brains out?"

"Pretty much," the Corporal confirmed. "Guy wanted to be a martyr."

"What, did you read his diary?" Sam grimly joked, "I mean, I know you're smart, D, but that's pushing it."

"Nah. Found it on his phone before he shot himself-"

"Ah."

"Wouldn't be the first armed lunatic writing a manifesto," Morgan agreed.

"...And after it was published on the internet," Daigo finished.

"Fuck."
 
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