A Second Sunrise: Taiwan of 2020 Sent Back to 1911

[ChrisProvidence]

National Taiwan University, Taipei, Taiwan, Republic of China, 10 May 1942

Teaching was a calling, and Dr. Chen Akira (or "Aki" to her friends and family) had answered the call. That was why she was still here, despite countless offers to study abroad.

"Now," she asked her students, "It is clear that the fall of the Katsura Government after the Chinese Revolution led to the rise of Ozaki Yukio, but what were other results of the fall of the Katsura Government?"

Several students raised their hands, and she pointed to an exchange student from Chita.

"Yes, Sofia?"

"Would the creation of the Republic of Korea and the annexation of Kuye Island count?"

"It would," Aki agreed. "But let's focus a bit more on the societal aspects, instead of the geopolitical ones. Could anyone explain the societal impact of the fall of the Katsura Government?"

"There's the rise of Feminism," Jose Antonio Tsu, one of her Filipino students offered, "The first Ozaki cabinet undid the ban on women attending political meetings. And they also allowed for universal suffrage."

"Indeed," she recalled. Though it was a bit unfair when she had quite literally met with Ozaki's wife and interviewed her for a book. "Can anyone think of any other examples?"

"A general acceptance of Modernist ideas and theories," Kazama Joryu offered, "The Post-Uprising Era is associated with the adoption of Modernist ideals in an effort to avoid the mistakes of the Lost History and the failures of the Katsura Era."

"That it did," said his professor, "Could you name a few examples?"

"The rejection of Blood Type Personality Theory is a pretty big one," her student offered, "Furukawa Takeji's theories did not gain the same type of traction as they did in the Lost History, which led to a lack of a foundation that prevented BTPT from entering the mainstream."

Huh. Not the first example I would have thought of, but he is right.

"Could you elaborate on that for the rest of the class?"

"Of course," Joryu said. Aki could hear a bit of excitement in his voice. "Blood Type Personality Theory, or 'BTPT' for short, is a pseudoscientific theory that originated in Germany, but gained traction in the Lost History's Japan during the 1920s. Basically, it argued that a person's personality, behavior, and social skills were determined by their blood type."

"And why did it not gain as much traction in our time?" Dr. Higa asked him.

"Because the Modernist Movement in Japan saw it as a mistake of the Lost History, alongside imperialism, militarism, and the Lost History's work culture. It was seen as a 'Mistake to be Avoided,' that would, at best, hold Japan back."

"And do you know how it affected the Japanese Scientific Community?" Joryu nodded. "How?"

"One of the first large-scale social experiments tested this theory to see if it was true. Subjects were given Personality and Psychological Evaluations in which their blood type was kept hidden from the evaluators. Afterwards, analysts found no link between one's blood type and their personality."

"And how did this affect Japanese society?"

"Do you mean besides how guys like Furukawa are primarily followed by weirdos?" That got a few laughs from his classmates. Even a smile from his teacher. "Well, the theory was discredited before Furukawa could ever publish it, so it never really got traction."

"That it would," Aki agreed, before turning to the rest of her class. Joryu was a good student, but she didn't want him to do all the thinking. "Can anyone think of an example of how this has affected Japanese society?"

Another Japanese transfer student raised her hand.

"Yes, Rin?"

"I'm alive right now. My mother is Type A, and my father is type O, yet they are in a happy relationship," said the young Okinawan, "My parents might not have married if those prejudices were more-common."

"By extension," Rin continued, "I might not have been born if those prejudices were more-common."

Aki could only smile and nod at Rin's story. If her parents (or at least their parents) believed that one's blood type affected their compatibility, there was a chance that they would have never gotten together.

Which would mean Rin wouldn't exist.

The realization that her student might only be alive because this island in a sea of time found its way back here hit Aki with a sense of pride and happiness in equal measure.

Sure, it was not as massive as her friend Rachel Fong's family not starving to death in a North Chinese famine, but the reality was that like the Fong family, Rin was alive because this world learned from the mistakes of her husband's time.

And like Rachel's family, Aki knew that the world was a better place with people like Rin.

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Department of Defense, Washington, District of Columbia, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 11 May 1942

"We're outnumbered," General Douglas MacArthur observed to his subordinates. Somebody had to say it, so he might as well be the one. "The traitors have four carriers, to our three."

"If we include the Pacific Fleet," Fleet Admiral William Halsey pointed out, "However, the Panama Canal is keeping the Enterprise and the Yorktown in the Pacific. The Langley is patrolling the Gulf of Mexico, Saratoga is covering the Southeast, and Ticonderoga is patrolling the greywater in between us and the traitors."

"Which leaves the Hornet and the Yorktown as the only ones we need to deal with," MacArthur surmised. Halsey nodded. "Do we know where they are right now?"

"About as much as they know where we are," Halsey figured, "Our sources on the inside tell us that the Yorktown is still holding the line in the greywater around Delaware, while the Hornet keeps launching probing attacks against us."

"Anything important?"

"It's a pain in the ass," Halsey admitted, "But there's only so much they can do with planes. Doesn't stop them from launching raids on Norfolk and Charleston, though."

"Losses?"

"Minimal. They mostly seem to be trying to keep us busy, but it's enough to keep us on our guard if they try to commit."

"Enough to keep Saratoga on her toes, but we could sortie a few wings out to deal with the Hornet."

"Keep holding back for now," MacArthur advised, "If they commit, we'll need Saratoga's planes to keep them occupied long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

"Got it."

"Alright then," the four-star general breathed, "Patton, I want to know the status of the front."

"Moseley's men have dug in east of Helena along the Missouri with what they have left, but he's managed to grind the traitors down and force them to abandon Saint Louis, while fighting's going on Boulder and Colorado Springs."

"At least we have that working for us," MacArthur agreed. "Taking Saint Louis and Denver are still Priority One, so I want every available asset committed to that front."

"Of course, sir," Patton agreed. "And the East?"

"Hold for now. The Mid-Atlantic is a stalemate, and we need to take this time to consolidate our efforts against all the terrorists behind our own lines."

"Militia should be able to help with the Libertarians and the locals. But as long as we have time on our side, we should be able to consolidate enough and reach parity with production before our stockpiles run out."

"That's more of an inevitability," Secretary of Commerce Henry Ford announced as he re-entered the room. "I may have had my disagreements with Teddy Roosevelt, but I'm glad he invested heavily in Southern industry."

"Of course," the Chairman breathed. "It's... good to have you back, Henry."

Truth be told, he didn't like Ford too much. He didn't like having civilians interfering with the military, but he had a finite amount of equipment stockpiles.

Sooner or later, he'd have to start producing new equipment to make up for the losses, and in numbers that rivaled that of the Steel Belt.

Henry Ford was the means to that end.

United States Space Agency Headquarters, Santa Barbara, California, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 20 May, 1942

They shouldn't be here. That was the first thing that Lieutenant Benjamin Davis knew.

Then again, they weren't actually here. Officially speaking, anyways.

The only people who knew he and the rest of his team were actually here were the bare minimum. Even the team was kept in the dark on this one.

And that was before he got to the part where they would be disguised as a satellite launch to fool... Well, everyone, honestly.

That didn't change the fact that he, Colonel Doolittle, Lieutenant Chappie James, and Professor Willa Brown had all volunteered for what could be a suicide mission into space.

"Nervous, kid?" Doolittle asked him. Davis nodded. "Yeah, me too. Didn't think this'd be how I'd get back into space."

"Any advice for a new astronaut?"

"Stick to your training and you'll make it through. Plus, it's not like the Nats are going to let us get up there, so we have to work with what we've got."

USS Hornet, International Waters, 22 May 1942

"It just doesn't feel right," Ensign York told his commander, "We've been lobbing missiles at Charleston and Norfolk for three damn weeks at this point!"

"There's a reason we're doing it like this," Lieutenant Bush told his wingman, "You heard it at today's briefing, Grady."

"Yeah, I know. Why didn't they tell us this when we set sail?"

"In case we were shot down, captured, and tortured for information," Bush bluntly answered. Still, he did feel like crap - wasn't like they could get shot down when they were firing at maximum range. "For what it's worth, I didn't know until last week. Came down from the top."

"So we're going for Canaveral, huh?" Bush nodded. "Makes sense. Not like the Chinese can keep the doors locked on the ISS forever."

"Yeah."

"Just one question, though," Grady asked him. "What's with all the drones below deck?"

"Insurance."

East of Helena, Montana, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 31 May 1942

Four Nats dead. No response. Situation clear

Morgan was getting good at wetwork, even if it was with a .22 instead of her sniper rifle.

Too good for her liking, if she was being honest.

Killing people was a necessity, sure, but she didn't need to justify herself as much these days.

"Good shooting" she told the shadowed figure behind her, "Leave the bodies, Sam."

"Works for me," her partner whispered as he fell in behind her. "I'll follow your lead."

It wasn't like he had much of a choice. Morgan was the one with SERE training, and he wasn't about to volunteer any of his guys for something he wouldn't do.

"Lookouts. Two of them. Got eyes on them?"

"I see them," Sam told her. Sure enough, he could see two guys through his NVGs. "Which one do you want?"

"Dibs on left," Morgan told him, and she aimed her pistol. "Got a shot."

Sam aimed his .22 at the unsuspecting soldier. "Got a bead on them. Ready on your go."

"Firing." One puff sent the man on the left down. Another knocked down his partner. "They're down."

And Sam let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "How many more-"

"Two more, moving up!" Morgan hissed, "Same plan."

"Got it. Ready on your mark."

"Fucking night shift," they could hear the sentries groan, "Why is it we're always the ones on the night shift?"

"3... 2..." Morgan could see the unaware soldiers moving closer, oblivious to the fate of their friends.

"Quit your bitching, Tom. Let's just get these rounds over and get back inside, alright?"

"1... Mark."

Two more puffs, and these two were dead.

"They came from that way," Sam told her, motioning to the light at the end of the trench. "Probably where their barracks are."

"Meaning they aren't expecting them back for a while. Get the drone out and start tagging targets. I'll cover you."

"Way ahead of you," Sam told her, and he already had the case opened. "Tag everything?"

"Yup. Artillery, bunkers, minefields, radios, you name it. We'll get the kamikazes to blow them up in the morning."

"On it," he agreed.

Never in his life did he think that his misspent youth racing drones would come in handy, but it sure was helpful now.

If only Mom and Dad could see this. Actually... probably better if they don't.

Their drone darted through the sky, dropping little infrared beacons wherever he found something important for a drone to hit.

"We still good?" he asked Morgan while he continued staring at the screen. "Think I'm running out of tags."

"Then it's a good thing we aren't the only team tonight," Morgan whispered back. "You're still clear. Done yet?"

"Almost..." Sam dropped the last IR beacon. "Yeah, done. Just need to get back, and... here."

The little drone landed back in its box, almost perfectly.

"Nice. Let's get out of here, Sam. I wanna get some sleep before daybreak."

"Same. Right behind you, Morgan."

"Wait, why do I have to crawl through the minefield first?"

"Because you know where the mines are. Duh."

"...I fucking hate you sometimes, Sam."

"Aw, you do like me."

Skies Above Montana, Contested Airspace, United States of America, 1 June 1942

"Hey, Gunny!" Corporal Jonathan Doherty shouted over the rotors, "Isn't Bozeman, y'know, back there? Think we passed it!"

"Bozeman?" Reynolds just laughed, "Jono, we're heading for Billings!"

"Isn't that, y'know, a hundred miles behind enemy lines?"

"Yeah, but this is Sky Country. You can drive 500 miles and still end up in the ass end of nowhere!"

"Basically," Private Allan Washington figured, "We're going to drop all down the road and secure everything ahead of the armor and infantry: Bridges, Towns, and most-importantly, Billings."

"Yeah, I get that," Jono shouted, "But what happens if they don't make it, Wash?!"

"Air support!" his friend laughed, "542nd did us a solid and tagged their AA last night, so we've got a clean shot all the way through!"

"And if the armor doesn't make it?"

"Helicopters'll fly us back out!" Reynolds shouted again, "Same way we flew in! Air Force'll cover us!"

"And if that doesn't work?"

"What'd he say?" Reynolds asked Wash. "I didn't get that, Jono!"

"He's asking what 'Plan C' is, Gunny!"

"You remember doing SERE training?" Reynolds asked them. Jono and Wash nodded. "Yeah, well... let's hope it doesn't come to that!"

Saint Louis Arsenal, Saint Louis, Missouri, Contested Territory, United States of America, 2 June 1942

"Fall back!" the voice shouted over Colonel Harry S. Truman's radio, "Get the civvies out of here and fall back!"

"Five months," Captain Coles told him, "Not bad for a bunch of guardsmen, militia, and stragglers."

"Of course," said the Colonel, "Still wish we could have held out longer, Dean."

"Don't we all, Harry?" the Captain sighed, looking over the still-lit arsenal shining in the night. "We got out everything we could. Burned or rigged everything else to blow."

"Then there's just one thing left to do," Truman sighed, before picking up the detonator. "Part of me wishes we could blow this place while the Nats were inside. Would be one Hell of a trap."

"And risk their EOD teams undoing the charges? No thanks."

"Yeah, I thought so."

All that was left to do was press the plunger and watch their home ignite.

"So," Coles asked him, "What do we do now?"

"Now?" Truman shook his head, "Now we make the bastards bleed for every inch of this city."

United Front Headquarters, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 3 June 1942

"The fact remains," said Senator Butler, "That both we and our enemies are reliant on the US military satellite array for weapons and communications. Take that out, and we stop the offensive in its tracks."

"We'd also be shooting ourselves in the foot," said Governor La Follette, "This war could turn into a stalemate."

"They're at the gates of Denver, Bob!" the old Pennsylvanian shouted, "And they're fighting in Saint Louis as we speak! Drastic circumstances require drastic actions, and you know it."

"...I do."

"Alright then," said former President Franklin Roosevelt, "Unlike our enemies occupying Washington, we are not a dictatorship. This will be set up to a vote for the Council. All in favor of Operation Blank Slate?"

The men in the room raised their hands. Some were more-reluctant than others, with La Follette being the last of them.

"Then it's settled," Roosevelt decided. "Bill?"

"Yes?" asked Director Donovan.

"It's time," his old superior told him. "Give the order."

Donovan nodded solemnly, and the rest of the men in the room knew what they had just agreed to.

But out of all of them, only a select few knew how it would be accomplished.

USSA GPS Satellite Array Echo, 20000 Kilometers Above Earth, 4 June 1942

"Well that's one way to do it," Colonel James Doolittle chuckled over the radio, "How's it looking, professor?"

"Just as planned," Dr. Willa Brown answered back, before fixing her own gear, "Cape Canaveral'll be hard-locked from the array when we're done."

Which was technically true. And a fancy way to describe manually rigging the satellites so they'd plummet twenty thousand kilometers into the atmosphere.

"Think it'll work?" asked Davis. "I mean, sure, it'll knock out their equipment and comms, but it'll knock out ours, too."

That was the one caveat in all of this.

With the United States caught in a civil war, neither side was capable of blocking the other's access to the satellite networks, especially when General Marshall defected with the Joint Chiefs.

Of course, the Nationalists still controlled the bulk of the actual infrastructure, which meant they usually had the upper hand.

Not to mention the one place that actually can actually reach the satellites.

"That's out of our control, kid," Doolittle sighed, before placing the finishing touches. "We have our job, and the guys down there have theirs."

Transcript: Integrated Air Defense Communications Network, 4 June 1942

CAPE CANAVERAL (CENTRAL COMMAND): November Victor, be advised: We have detected four dozen bogeys in your AO. Do you require additional reinforcements?

NAVAL STATION NORFOLK: Negative, Central. Those were decoy drones. Similar RCS to a fighter, but we shot them all down.

CAPE CANAVERAL: Say again, November Victor?

NAVAL STATION NORFOLK: Thought it was another probing attack from the Hornet. Turned out to be decoy drones.

CAPE CANAVERAL: Understood, November Victor.

CAPE CANAVERAL: Charlie Sierra, we have reports of a few dozen bogeys entering your airspace. Do you require additional assistance?

NAVAL STATION CHARLESTON: ...Negative, Central. We scrambled fighters and downed the traitors' drones. Thought they were going to launch a full raid, but it was just drones and decoys.

CAPE CANAVERAL: Solid copy, Charlie Sierra. Central out.

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): The Hell's going on today? Traitors usually don't

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): No idea, Colonel. Might be trying to divert forces from Colorado, Saint Louis?

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): [Sound of fighter jets flying overhead]

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Fuck's sake. Thought we told the Air Force to stop buzzing HQ.

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): We did. They didn't listen.

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): [Sound of explosion in the distance]

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): The fuck was that?!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Launch pads are hit! Both 1A and 1B have suffered several hits from laser-guided munitions!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): What? Air defense should've shot them down!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Yeah... they should have! Sabotage?!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): No idea!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Tampa Squadron reports several casualties. We have multiple pilots ejecting over the water!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Damn it! I want every plane we have in the sky now!

CAPE CANAVERAL: This is Central Command broadcasting on an open channel! I have about five dozen bogeys engaging our planes and our air defenses are offline! Requesting immediate reinforcement from any nearby squadrons!

MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE: Central, this is Tango Foxtrot! Say again?

CAPE CANAVERAL: We're under attack from enemy aircraft! Requesting reinforcements!

MACDILL AIR FORCE BASE: Say ag... Central? Signal is-

CAPE CANAVERAL: Tango Foxtrot?

CAPE CANAVERAL: Tango Foxtrot, do you copy?!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): Comms are gone, Colonel!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): The traitors brought electronic warfare planes?

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): No, sir! The comms aren't down. They're gone.

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): What do you mean they're gone?!

CAPE CANAVERAL (Off mic): I've got something on radio from Houston! Sending it through now!

ELLINGTON FIELD: This is Echo Tango broadcasting on an open channel to all loyalist units!

ELLINGTON FIELD: Be advised: All Satellite Arrays are offline! All GPS and Communications satellites are offline!

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Ruins of Sorgel City, Former Reichkommissariat Mittelmeer, Mediterranean Wasteland, 14 August 1999 (Local Date)

"The theory is that, well," the scientist from Japan told the assembled team in English, "Is that every single Rift leads to a universe that is similar enough to ours in terms of physics, yet different in history."

"I get that, Hiro," Zhou Min told her second-in-command, "But that doesn't explain why we're here, of all places. It's the middle of the Sahara Desert, of all places. You'd think they'd try to send us, y'know, somewhere more hospitable?"

"Just be happy we didn't run into any locals like O'Neil's team did when they went through their own Rift," Aleksandr Pavlichenko muttered, before looking at his gear. Sure enough, there were no signs of any civilization remaining, "No people is the perfect amount of people, and Rift Command will want to hear the good news. Especially when there's nothing but desert for miles."

"If that's what they want, then so be it," Hiro sighed, only to taste the salty air again. "Ugh. People or no people, I don't want to be here any longer than I need to."

"I bet the locals thought the same thing," Aleks figured, before looking at the ruined city in the desert. Buildings were fairly minimalistic, but they still had a certain Classical influence he couldn't put his finger on. "Two weeks in, and we barely know who these people were, or what happened to them."

"Context clues say Nazi Germany, or something similar to them," Min figured, before closing the window to the abandoned building they'd been resting in. She, like most post-journey children, still remembered the atrocities of the Lost History, since her Uptimer parents had drilled it into her head when she was little. "As to where... my guess is the middle of what used to be the Mediterranean Sea."

"Used to?" Hiro couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Okay, Nazis I get, what with all the giant swastikas all over the place, but how could this 'used to' be the Mediterranean? What, did they drain it of all the water?"

"...Yes." Aleks didn't really know how else to say it. "'Mittelmeer' is German for the Mediterranean."

"Okay, that makes sense," Hiro relented, paying no attention to the fact that they had used a particle collider to traverse time and space to an alternate world, "But what I don't get is why the Nazis would want to drain it."

"Wouldn't be the first time a megalomaniacal dictator had insane, grand, plans," Aleks figured, "Plus, the Nazis weren't exactly known for their practicality... or sanity."

"Fair enough. I guess that explains the desert. But what about the traces of radiation?"

"Nuclear war?"

"Maybe."

"It's possible, Aleks," Min figured, before looking out at the ruined city in the man-made desert. "The only question is why Command would want to find a place like this when most worlds aren't, y'know... nuked to Hell and back?"

Chinese Particle Collider, Beijing, Zhili Province, Republic of China, 1 February 1942

"Rift 17-B is the perfect candidate," Director Fong said to her predecessor, "Trace amounts of radiation from nuclear war, large tracts of inhospitable land surrounding the Rift Entrance, and possibly no trace of human life make it the perfect fit."

"Plus, y'know... the entire world being dominated by the Nazis," former Director Li added. "I don't think anybody would object to using a world that was dominated by genocidal fascists who all died in nuclear hellfire as a testing ground. Assuming that's what this is all about, anyways, and that we aren't building a trans-dimensional Gulag to toss people into."

"Marty, you know me well enough that I wouldn't abuse the very scientific knowledge that sent our island back into the past to build a blacksite."

"Well, that's a relief."

"Of course. Plus, we have plenty of those, already. Here. On Earth."

"Fair enough. So nukes, huh?"

"Yes. With the Nationalists and their militias running around, the risk of nuclear proliferation is at an all-time high. While I don't think the Nationalists would build nukes, we have sources in DC saying that they've at least considered it, and they could develop such a weapon in as little as two years."

"And we can't be caught flat-footed."

"Of course not. And while there are environmental, political, and social complications developing and testing nuclear weapons in our own timeline..."

"...Those problems don't exist if we test it in another timeline. Preferably one that doesn't have any people who'd be impacted from testing nuclear weapons in another one."

"And such a site would mitigate the risk of interfering with any alternate timeline of revealing what we know to them."

"That it would," Li agreed. It made enough sense when he thought about it: If you were going to develop nuclear weapons, the best place to do it would be in the ass-end of nowhere of a timeline seemingly devoid of human life. Even moreso, if said human life were Nazis. "Still sounds insane, though."

"It probably is," Fong admitted, "But would you rather develop and test nuclear weapons in our timeline, or in a timeline that doesn't have to worry about it anymore."

"Personally, I'd rather not develop nuclear weapons in the first place, but if we are... this is probably our best bet."

 

[ChrisProvidence]

"Reunion," Ken Burns' The Second Civil War, PBS Studios, 1990

KIMURA: It was pretty much smooth sailing until Williston, over in North Dakota, where we met up with the 33rd and 2nd Cav. After that, well, I was just relieved.

KIMURA: If we were here and they were here, then that meant we'd cut off what was left of the Nats that were still stuck in Wyoming, Colorado, and Utah.

KIMURA: Sure, they got a whole lot of their guys out of there, but it's easy to move them and everything on their back.

KIMURA: But tanks, guns, and all the other stuff? That's a hell of a lot harder when you're running for your life and getting peppered by Scrapper drones.

KIMURA: Didn't help that the Nats in the West weren't exactly swimming in manpower before, so I see what they were doing.

KIMURA: Not that I cared, though. We were too busy celebrating with the guys from the East. They even managed to get a whole food truck all the way out here, and I remember Mo was happy to eat In-N-Out again.

KIMURA: The next day, though… That was something else.

KIMURA: On that day, we would come across our first Internment Camp.

Outskirts of Fortuna, North Dakota, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 12 July 1945

"All I'm saying," Daigo Shinoda said to his best friend riding shotgun and the Chinese woman in the back, "Is that it's really fucking funny that Teddy Roosevelt was so racist that when he met your Dad, Mo, he came to the conclusion that he should treat Chinese people with respect because they 'Embraced American civilization,' as he put it."

"I wouldn't go that far," Morgan laughed, "Yeah, Baba met President Roosevelt before I was born, but my mother always told me that it wasn't him. Just that in his eyes, people like Baba and Mama are 'civilized.'"

"Because he thought people like your Dad are Americanized," Sam chimed in. "Wait, isn't he from Irvine?"

"Hong Kong, actually. Immigrated after the Communists took over in 1997."

"The Hell's a communist?" asked Daigo, before the truck screeched to a halt. "Ah fuck, not again!"

"What's up?" Morgan asked, before getting back up. "IED?"

"Don't sound like an IED," Sam muttered. Not that it stopped him from clutching his rifle. "Spectre 1-1 to lead vehicle: What's the holdup?"

"Enemy base, boss," Nakano answered back, "Looks abandoned. Think we should check for survivors?"

"I'll call it in," Sam sighed. He wasn't about to get his hopes up, but he still called it in. "Odin, this is Spectre 1-1. Have eyes on a possible abandoned enemy base. Requesting permission to search for intel and survivors. How copy?"

"Copy, 1-1," the voice crackled on the other end, "Stay alert for traps. Odin out."

"Kim gave us the green light," Sam said, before dismounting. Morgan, get overwatch. D, get your medkit for any survivors."

"Never leave home without it."

"Got it."

The trek inside was… quiet.

Too quiet.

They approached slowly, only moving ahead when Morgan confirmed the watchtowers were clear.

"Must've left in a hurry," Daigo said over the smell of burning paper. "Burnt everything they couldn't take."

"Looks like it," Sam sighed. "Let's keep moving. Nats might've rigged the place, so keep your eyes sharp."

"Figured they'd have shown up on drones, though. We've been flying them out here for the last week."

"It's a POW camp," Morgan chimed in, "Not like we could really do anything. For all we know, they could've been carrying POWs with them."

"Fair enough." Daigo shut up after that, only to see the prisoner barracks. "Damn thing is padlocked."

"Anyone know how to pick a lock?"

Morgan raised her hand. "That depends. Got a shotgun?"

"Only if you want to walk back to the truck," Sam told her. "What's the difference?"

"About a minute, tops," she answered, before taking a crack at it. "…Or like ten seconds."

"Impressive," Sam complimented.

Morgan shrugged. "Nah, just a Master Lock. So, whose turn is it to go first?"

Daigo looked at Sam. Sam looked at Daigo.

"You owe me," Sam said, before nervously opening the door. "Breaching- Ugh, what the Hell is that smell?"

What could only be described as a mix of urine, feces, and rotting corpses filled their nostrils as they swept the room with their flashlights on.

But that? That wasn't the worst of it.

No, that would be the emaciated bodies in the beds.

They were different, in a way.

Some were tall. Others short. Mostly shorter.

Some were men. Others were women.

Some old, but mostly young.

Some were alive. Most were dead.

Some were dark-skinned, while others were lighter.

But in this room, they had two things in common:

One, that they all were adults and emaciated to some extent or another.

And the other was that they all had brown eyes and black or brown hair, and a similar general complexion.

"Water…" a voice croaked. "Please… water…"

Sam looked down to see a frail woman who looked double his age with how gaunt she was.

Quickly, he handed his canteen to her, with Daigo and Morgan doing the same for others.

"Spectre 1-1 to Odin," Sam spoke into his radio, "We have civilian casualties. Requesting immediate medical assistance at the following coordinates…"

"Interview with Former Governor Hosato Takei," Off-Stage: The Xero Podcast, 2003.

SHINODA: For a lot of us who grew up Asian-American, we heard the stories about the camps. But there is a difference when you were alive at the time. Could you tell me about your experiences when you heard the news?

TAKEI: Now, I grew up in Los Angeles, so my family was lucky enough to avoid the reprisals. But I remember a mix of emotions from my mother. It was… a mix of fury, sadness, and confusion.

SHINODA: Could you go into detail about that?

TAKEI: Sure. There was a sadness at what we'd learned happened. A fury that Americans would do this to their fellow Americans. And confusion - wondering why they locked all these people in camps.

TAKEI: And when we learned that it was because they thought we might betray America as a sort of "Fifth Column," there was even more confusion.

SHINODA: I know you don't believe the conspiracy theories, and I want you to know that I don't either, but a lot of people who justify the camps by arguing that some of the Chinese volunteers were MIB agents.

TAKEI: (Laughs hollowly) To tell you the truth, Mike, it still brings my blood to a boil, even after all these years. But I would argue that wether or not somebody is an agent, that doesn't justify illegally imprisoning and abusing your neighbors in violation of the Constitution.

SHINODA: It does indeed. And is it true that the camps were what got you into politics?

TAKEI: I've always believed in being an active citizen, but wanting to avoid the same mistakes definitely played a part.

SHINODA: That, and verbally eviscerating somebody who was against a monument in front of the LA City Council on live TV.

TAKEI: Well, you have to start somewhere.

SHINODA: Sure, but most of us wouldn't have to tell somebody, "Your argument is made of stupidity" in a public forum.

TAKEI: Most of us don't have to deal with people denying war crimes.

SHINODA: And we're better for it.

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Chiang Kai-Shek Park, Taipei, Taiwan, Republic of China, 4 July 1945

The moon was fairly beautiful that night.

Sure, there was the whole issue of the power getting cut after an earthquake and a bright flash of light, but Morgan Chen's time in the Second American Civil War had taught her to appreciate the silver linings in things.

"You know," she said to her Uncle Martin, "When you said the MIB had plans for everything, I didn't think you meant literally everything."

"Well, you weren't during the Journey," her surrogate uncle and mentor told her, "Back then, we were making things up as we went. And we all know how that went when your father landed at Ishigaki."

"...you mean how he met Mama, she helped him administrate the island, and then they got married and had me and Lin?"

"Okay, bad example," the former spymaster-turned-academic admitted. The Battle of Ishigaki was, for all of its haphazard planning, an absolute success. "The Revolution, then. Sure, we knew how to invade the mainland, but administering it was a pain in the ass. Roads were shit or non-existent, railways were still owned by the colonialists, and comms were basically telegraphs at best. Not to mention that we didn't even have the manpower to actually administrate the country we'd just taken over."

"So you were making it up as you went?"

Her uncle shrugged. "Pretty much. And your father and I both learned a few lessons by the end of it. Your father, for example, learned that he's a better administrator than a commander."

His niece-in-all-but-name gave him a dirty look, as if he'd practically insulted her and her entire family.

Which, now that he thought about it, he kinda did.

"Don't get me wrong," Li quickly clarified, "I mean, he's good at both, but Mike's always been a damn savant when it comes to logistics."

"Baba literally helps make the trains run on time," said niece admitted. It didn't come out too much, but Marty had noticed Morgan and Lin were quick to defend their parents. "And what'd you learn?"

"That we need to have a plan for everything. Or, if that's not enough, have a plan to have a plan for whatever does happen."

"So which one is it for this, then?" she said, motioning to the helicopters in the sky and the lights flickering back on. "Find a plan, or make one?"

"Get to HQ and figure out what the fuck just happened," her uncle sighed, "We need to find out where we are and what got sent back with us."

"Isn't that how most of these "Mass-Teleportation Event Contingencies" work out?"

"...Yes. I shout know. I wrote the first few of them."

Military Intelligence Bureau Headquarters, Nanjing, National Capital Region, Republic of China, 5 July 1945 (Downtime Calendar)

Samuel Kimura thought he'd been everywhere.

Hell, he'd practically driven across America a few years ago against the Nats and spent just as much of that time training in Europe and Asia to fight against the Holdouts.

But as far as places went, "Alternate Timelines" were a step too far.

It would be inconceivable, too, if it hadn't happened before.

"So... alternate timeline?" the American OSS agent finally begged the question to the MIB's Director, former Director, and a bunch of his fellow OSS agents.

"Yeah, alternate timeline," Morgan told him. For some reason, she sounded much more calm about it. "For what it's worth, the science checks out."

"You get used to it, kid," Morgan's uncle told him. "Goes double for the promotion. Same thing happened to me, when I was around your age."

"You're telling me that the MIB ceased to effectively exist when you got sent back in time?"

"Nah. I mean, we lost a bunch of agents who were in mainland China at the time, but we were that strapped for manpower that I got kicked up the chain." From the way he spoke, former Director Li seemed too calm for Sam's likes. Then again, he and his generation had been sent back before during the Great Journey. "Same with the Director over there."

"Now," Director Fong spoke as if she took her cue, "Let's begin this. What exactly do we know happened?"

"A Great Journey-level event occurred, via a Rift, Sh- er, Director," Morgan answered. "Similar events to what happened over three decades ago occurred last night, sending the nations of China and Korea back in time with all of its people."

"That much is clear, Agent Chen," the Director spoke professionally, "Which brings us to our next question: Where exactly are we?"

Caesar Alexander I High School, Manhattan, Washington Capital District, Washington, Continental States of America, 6 July 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

Summer school fucking sucked. There was no way around it, and James "Jimmy" Simmons knew it.

Was he a perfect student? No.

Did he know all the crap they were having him write out in this test? Yes.

Everyone and their mother knew that George Washington was the first Caesar, just as well as they knew that he spent five terms fighting the Shaysites, or that Benedict Arnold and Richard Montgomery were the Liberators of Canada.

Come on, they named two states after them for nothing. Same reason they renamed Mexico City after General Zachary Taylor.

Modern history was even easier, since it was a chronology of America's conquests. All he had to do is remember dates, and he could do that in his sleep:

• Mexican-American War of 1846 to 1848
• 1849 annexation of Hispaniola after the Bonapartes fell the previous year
• Annexation of Central America in the 1850s through William Walker's Filibuster Wars
• Final Conquest of the Caribbean (1871-1875)
• Declaration of the Continental States of America in 1876
• Japanese-American Alliance of 1901
• Great East Asian War (1905-1910)
• 1935 Assassination of Caesar George II Washington

The Great War was his specialty, though. His history teacher didn't like teaching wars because it was, in the man's words, "Reading off dates in chronological order."

So it was no surprise that Jimmy loved the subject.

Everything he needed to know was a date, from the 1937 European attack on the US fleet at Sapporo and the invasions of the Caribbean and Alaska, to the 1940 counterattack and the fall of Bermuda, to the conquest of Shaysite South America during the Rainforest War of 1941 to 1948, and the Treaty of Washington in '49 that annexed all of South America.

His teachers would say that history was more than dates. To them, it was the story of how a nation grew from thirteen colonies to an empire across America.

But they weren't the ones who wrote the test he was taking, and all he needed to know were the dates.

Just how he liked it.

"United States of Europe Recognizes Chinese Government as Legitimate Successor State, Sign Trade Deals," Europe News Today, 1 August 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

In light of the recent Mass Teleportation Event, the newly-appeared Republic of China has announced that it has recognized the United States of Europe today in a ceremony in Macau. Despite the distance between the two and Europe's rivalry with the Empire of Japan, European President Herbert Frahm has expressed an interest in continued cooperation with regard to geopolitics and technological exchanges.

For their part, Japan continues to claim the Island of Taiwan and the Korean Peninsula as their rightful territory, which has been backed up by their allies in the Continental States and the members of the Minority Rule-led African Defense League.

Continental States Sends Mercenaries to Assist Japanese with Anti-Kirihara Uprisings, Accord News Network, 8 October 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

Revolts against the Kirihara Zaibatsu continue throughout the Japanese sphere of influence, with the security group taking several casualties by newly-armed worker militias. With their forces stretched thin, the Kirihara Group has entered into a contract with the American Continental Armed Security Services for the latter to send multiple detachments throughout East Asia and Southeast Asia.

The Japanese Government is currently undergoing an economic crisis after the loss of their Korean and Taiwanese holdings during the Mass Teleportation Event, which also led to the mass-disappearance of the bulk of their troops who had been stationed in Korea and Taiwan.

Continental Armed Security Services (or CASS for short) is the world's largest security contractor. Based in the Continental States of America, it was formed by Caesar John Washington in the wake of the mass unemployment among returning veterans and the need for occupational forces in South America after the wake of the Twelve Year War.

CASS has served as the main occupational and integrational force in the Americas, and the current Caesar Justin Washington has expanded their scope to the Integrated Territories of North and Central America to assist the Ministry of Internal Control with handling civilian unrest.

Critics both inside and outside the Continental States have argued that it is a conflict of interest for the leader of the nation to have a paramilitary force that is ultimately answerable to himself, though Caesar Justin Washington has brushed this off as "More Cultural Shaysite talk that got my brother, your First Princeps, assassinated years ago."

Office of Strategic Actions, Staten Island, Washington Capital District, Washington, Continental States of America, 6 September 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

"You know something?" Director William Lawrence asked his teenaged daughter before pouring himself a drink, "Having somebody trained from birth to be in charge only works if that person is actually competent. If you stop... What's the phrase you kids say nowadays?"

"Rolling twenties?" his adopted Zenobia asked him.

"That's the one!" the spymaster confirmed, only to start glaring when she pulled the bottle away. "I was using that."

"And you've had enough to drink... Even if you are doing it to keep up appearances."

She knew that was a lie. So did he.

The man used his drinking to hide his competence the same way he used his status as a war hero to protect himself from ever getting fired.

Well, that, and decades worth of blackmail, but the whole point of that was not going around rubbing it in people's faces so they didn't just shoot you.

But Zenobia (or "Zen" as her adopted father called her) knew full well that at least part of him drank after all the shit he saw during the Twelve Year War.

"So," she finally decided for the two of them. "What did Tom's idiot little brother do to make you regret helping having to fake Tom's death instead of protecting him this time?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

Zen sighed, "Is this about the 'America for the Americans' plan he's bringing up?"

"'Course it is, Zen. The little shit's going around saying that up to forty percent of the damn population isn't 'Real Americans.' Do you know how much it costs to go after every non-Protestant and non-English speaker to make them speak English and pray to Protestant Jesus?"

"I'd assume the answer is 'a lot.'"

"You're damn right it is," the spymaster groaned, "And the little shit's doing that, instead of working to actually do right by the people he's responsible of. Kid's a ruler, not a leader, and he's got CASS overstretched going after randos instead of actual security threats. It's just- Fuck!"

"I suppose you didn't bring me here to vent, Dad?"

The old man formed a tired smile. "Course not, Zen. But we don't have the resources to do what needs to be done. Even if we had Tom show up again and say that he is the rightful Caesar of the CSA, it'd be us against basically everyone else and I do not like those odds."

"You have a plan?"

"'Course I do. I'll send out some feelers, but I think we can use this whole 'Mass Teleportation Event' crap to our advantage."

"Sounds like a job for me?" Her father nodded. "Give me a time and place."

"I'll have it for you in an hour," he called after her, "Can I at least have my drink back?!"

"Nope!"

Roazhon, Republic of Brittany, United States of Europe, 30 September 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

"This has to be the first time you've called us here for a social call, Pete," Sam Kimura told the Breton smuggler, "Gun shipments not supposed to get sent to East Asia for another few weeks."

Pierre Delaporte almost looked disappointed. Almost.

"What, a guy can't invite his friends over for dinner?"

"Making friends in this line of work's not really our thing," Morgan chimed in, "No offense, but you know how it is, right?"

"Fair," the Breton smuggler admitted, "Then consider this a business meeting between esteemed business partners. We're at least that, right?"

Sam looked at Morgan.

Morgan looked at Sam.

"Sure, let's go with that," she figured. "It's pretty much the truth."

"The best kind of truth," Delaporte chuckled, before bringing them over to a table with another man and woman. "Morgan, Sam, I'd like you to meet Zen and Tom. Tom and Zen, meet Morgan and Sam."

"Pleased to meet you," Morgan greeted, while Sam just nodded. "So, you two are Americans?"

"Yeah... you could say that," the man named Tom answered for the two on his side. "So, you're Pete's business partners from China?"

"We're the middlemen," Sam explained, "We get the goods from China, sell them to Pete, and he sells them to Europe. Pretty good deal all around, once you figure it's cheaper than buying from Kirihara."

"They must hate you," Tom laughed, "Kirihara - Well, I guess Japan as a whole, but Kirihara practically owns the country at this point - hasn't dealt with anyone who can actually fight back for decades. They're the dominant power in asia, and the most they've had to fight were rebels with zip guns."

"Then out of nowhere," Tom continued, "Comes an entire superpower that is better-armed that can out-produce them. Next thing they know, they're fighting rebels with assault rifles, RPGs, and missile launchers and getting undercut by their next-door neighbors. Who, I should add, also got rid of their two biggest colonies in Taiwan and Korea through a literal act of God."

"Well, I can neither confirm nor deny that first one," Sam chuckled, "So, why'd Pete bring us out here to meet you guys, anyways?"

"Let's put it this way," Tom spoke for his side. Morgan noticed that he did most of the talking, while Zen just looked on. Morgan coudln't just ask her, but she had a suspicion that the woman (and in all likelihood the man with her) were some kinds of agents. "You don't like Japan's government or the zaibatsus controlling it."

"Japan's government and the zaibatsues allied with the American dictatorship."

"We don't like the American dictatorship, and they're allied with the zaibatsus and the the Japanese government."

"So our goals align," Morgan figured, and the younger man nodded. "So what are you guys, anyways? Rebels?"

"I could ask the same of you," Zen spoke up, seemingly for the first time. "It's not every day we meet two Asians who speak English with perfect Californian accents."

Sam shrugged. "Blame all this Mass Teleportation crap. So as far as we're concerned, what should we call you?"

"Concerned Citizens," Tom answered.

Skies over January River (Formerly Rio de Janeiro), Saint Paul, Continental States of America, 2 November 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

"Fifth one this week," Keegan Harper muttered to his co-pilot over the radio. "Where the fuck did the rebs get RPGs from?"

"Fifty-fifty it's the Euros or those slant-eyed bastards over in China," Adam, his co-pilot, shouted back, "My money's on number two!"

"I'll take that bet," Keegan muttered, "Christ. I do not get paid enough to deal with this shit. You heard what happened with Jerry's chopper?"

"Shot down at the LZ," Adam sighed. "Can't say I liked the guy, but that's a shitty way to go. You know what's the worst part?"

"What?"

"It's all preventable. If he wasn't flying in a straight line, the idiot'd still be alive, and we wouldn't have to be the ones ferrying the fireteams out here. No offense, of course."

"None taken!" the team leader shouted over the rotors. He was a bit too cheerful for Keegan's liking, but it wasn't like they had to do anything more than drop him off and provide air support while they searched for the rebels. "ETA?"

"Five mikes," Keegan answered, before beginning his descent and seeing a familiar streak in the sky. "Gladio 1-1 to all choppers: We have confirmed RPG fire in the sky. Take immediate evasive action if you don't want to get shot down."

"Copy, 1-1," the pilot of 1-2 answered over the mic. "Evading."

Now, a rocket propelled grenade was a death sentence if it hit your helicopter, but that was just it. If it hit your helicopter.

Like most projectiles, rockets had a predictable trajectory. Get out of the trajectory, and it wouldn't hit your helicopter.

So when the rocket turned to follow Gladio 1-2, Keegan could only look in horror as the helicopter flew right into the missile it'd moved to evade.

Shit.

Not only had half their manpower been shot down, but the enemy missile had locked onto 1-2 despite its evasive maneuvers.

"Command, this is Gladio 1-1. Gladio 1-2 has been shot down by what appears to be a tracking missile. Please advise."

"Gladio 1-1," the replying voice greeted, "You are cleared to return to base at your discretion. Please be advised that you and your attached fireteam will be forfeiting any hazard pay if you do not complete your mission, but it's ultimately your call."

"Copy, Command. Standby for response," Keegan answered, before turning to the fireteam in his chopper. "So, you guys good with heading back to base?"

The other mercs just looked at him blankly, before the team leader shrugged. "Eh, live to fight another day."

"Works for me," Keegan decided, before turning his mic back on. "Command, we've decided to RTB and forfeit the mission pay."

"Copy, 1-1. We'll have the pad cleared for your landing. Command out."

"Let's get out of here," he decided for everyone aboard the chopper. "ETA thirty minutes."

I do not get paid enough for this bullshit.

World's End Bar, Ushuaia, Magellan, Continental States of America, 25 December 1975 (Uptime Calendar)

"Turns out the American mercs didn't expect somebody else to fight back, either," Tom told his two patrons at the bar. "Not that I'm complaining, though."

"That's the thing I don't get," Morgan pointed out, "So you guys in America have a military, which does military things, and a mercenary army that also does the same kind of work?"

"Pretty much. Ever since my- er, when the last Caesar came to power," To Tom's relief, neither of his guests noticed the slip-up. "Business has always had a hand in everything. You should've seen it when I was a kid: Companies were moving left and right to take control of everything they could get their hands on in South America. Even started having their own security forces going after one another at times."

"Factor in that we had two continets' worth of decommissioned soldiers who needed jobs, and we were looking at the makings of a full-on corporate war that'd burn down everything that wasn't already burned to the ground in South America and bring the war home to North and Central America if something wasn't done."

"So a state-run monopoly on mercenaries," Sam observed, and Tom nodded. "Doesn't sound very Free Market."

"Neither is having your hands so far up almost everyone's ass in the government that they're your puppet, but here we are. Anyways, it kinda worked at first - CASS handled all the manpower needs down south, which meant the military could de-mobilize and we'd have the semblance of peace. Problem is... well, three things, if I'm being honest."

"First," the bartender told them, "Is that Caesar John Washington died. Official story's that he got sick, but I have pretty good intel saying otherwise."

"How did-"

"Second, is that the First Princeps Thomas Washington died," Tom continued, paying no attention to Morgan's question. "America - well, this America, anyways, doesn't officially have a monarchy, but the Caesar is an Absolute Monarch in all but name and the First Princeps is sort of like a Crown Prince."

"So a hereditary dictatorship," Morgan observed. "Doesn't sound too Presidential."

"Trust me, I know," Tom sighed, "But for the most part, it kinda worked. Every Caesar, be they George I, Alexander I, Phillip, Alexander II, George II, or John Washington, was either smart, competent, smart and competent, or they surrounded themselves with people who were one of those three things and listened to them. I mean, you don't get this far from just dumb luck alone, right?"

"Makes sense," Morgan admitted, as much as she didn't like it. "But what happens when you get somebody who isn't, y'know, competent, smart, or decent?"

"Well that's how you get to our third problem," Tom muttered. Morgan could see his hands ball up into fists. "The current Caesar."

"The racist one, right?"

"They're all racist, Morgan," Tom admitted. From the looks of it, he wasn't too happy to say it. "Not 'lynch mob' racist, but you don't get a contrinent-spanning empire by not clubbing minorities. Then this new Caesar decided to turn it up to eleven."

"You know," Morgan interrupted, before downing her drink, "Usually it's the patrons griping to the bartender. Not the other way around."

Which is a fancy way to ask, "Why did you bring us all the way down here to the literal end of the world?"

"Well, it's not like I can do this myself, right? We're going to need everything: Manpower, Weapons, Resources, and Recognition. Zen's got the first part, and I have people who can get numbers 2 and 3. You're going to be how I get the last one."

"You think you can really pull this off?" Morgan asked him. At this point, she'd seen enough to know anything was possible. "I hope you know what you're getting yourself into."

"Let us handle the details," Tom promised. "Trust me: I know this shit inside and out. Been dealing with it my whole life."

"If you say so."

"All I ask is that when the time comes, we get that recognition. Extra guns and resources wouldn't hurt too, though."

"How North and South America Can Find Common Ground," by "Thomas Paine", Liberatdor Magazine, January 1976 (Uptime Calendar)

As I write this, mercenaries sent by the American Caesar are imprisoning and interning our fellow Americans all across the continent. What had once been relegated to South America and sometimes Central America (and censored in the media in North America) has now hit home as a new wave of arrests for charges of sedition have hit North American communities.

Activists, opposition politicians, and everyday people have been detained and imprisoned by the Ministry of Internal Control and shipped off to detention centers, just like their fellow Americans in South and Central America.

Peaceful protesters are dragged into vans and shot with live ammunition, just like their fellow Americans in South and Central America.

The American Caesar has argued that these people are not "Real Americans," just like their fellow Americans in South and Central America.

While some may see it as hypocritical that the North American people have only become aware of the injustices of the American Caesar's dictatorship when it started affecting them, the very fact that it does affect them creates a common cause between the people all across the Americas.

Some would even argue that we should refuse to cooperate with these potential allies, arguing that we should stand by ourselves as we had for decades.

To them, I ask which they want to be: Victorious or Self-Satisfied.

Because this is a golden opportunity for a United Front against all who oppose the dictatorship, and we need as many allies as we can get.

Pan-American Uprising

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

(Redirected from Second American Revolution)

The Pan-American Uprising (also known as the Second American Revolution) was a popular uprising that led to the escape of Caesar Justin Washington to the unrecognized State of French Algeria.

The conflict began as a result of blowback against the American Caesar's abduction and subsequent detention of protesters throughout the North American states. While this has happened more recently in the Southern American states, the reality of these actions radicalized several sectors of the American populace and led to uprisings against Ministry of Internal Control (IC) forces and Continental Armed Security Services (CASS) mercenaries.

These protests would only be inflamed upon the return of First Princeps Thomas Washington, who had been presumed dead after a 1970 assassination in Tayabas, Philippines. His return, coupled with the Office of Strategic Action's surprise release of documents detailing the conspiracy to kill him and his father, Caesar John Washington, and replace him with his younger brother.

On July 4, 1976, Caesar Justin Washington would flee from the Cesarean Residence in Washington (now re-named New York City) and traveled via private plane to the State of French Algeria, where he currently leads a government-in-exile.

First Princeps Thomas Washington gave a speech the same day accepting the position as American Caesar, only to shock the crowd by abdicating and acknowledging the Provisional Government of the United American Republic as the legitimate successor to the COntinental States of America.

World's End Bar, Ushuaia, Magellan, Continental States of America, 4 July 1977 (Uptime Calendar)

"You know," Morgan told the bartender, "At the MIB, we have a plan for everything. Or at least a plan to have a plan for everything."

"I'd believe that," Tom figured, "OSA was pretty similar. So, what was yours?"

"Ally with the least-terrible people and screw over whoever is screwing over East Asia the most. Usually it's Japan in these scenarios? Sometimes China."

"Speaking of plans, you remember how I was talking about how the plan with the American Caesars would work?"

"Train somebody from birth to be the ruler so he's either smart, competent, or he can surround himself with people who are both. Then give him near-dictatorial powers."

"Exactly," Tom said with a smile, "And do you remember what the weakness in that system is, right?"

"That you're kinda screwed if you end up with a guy who's none of those things."

"Basically my little brother. Which is exactly what happened when I 'died.' You know what's the funny thing, though?"

"What?"

"What happens if you train somebody from birth to rule, and they don't want to?"

"Even if he's smart, competent, or willing to surround himself with people who are?"

"Well, I like to think that I am," Tom chuckled, "So sure, let's go with that."

"I..." Now that Morgan thought about it, she didn't really have an answer. "Honestly? I don't know. Not off the top of my head, anyways"

"I don't know either," Tom admitted, "I mean, I'd like to think I'd do a good job, but I honestly have no idea how I'd do."

"It's all hypothetical, anyways," Morgan figured, "And unlike physics, it's not like we can solve it with calculations."

Not to mention that unlike photons, people are not rational actors.

"Eh, I guess I'd abdicate, declare an actual Republic, and then fuck off to a bar at the end of the world."

"Yeah, seems like something you'd do. Guess you really do have a bit of George Washington in you."

"I really hope you mean yours, Morgan. Because mine left a lot to be desired by the time he died."

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Accord News Tonight, Ufa, Ufa Governorate, Russian Empire, 2 July 1942

OZAKI: Welcome to Accord News Tonight. I'm Ozaki Hotsumi with a special report on Samara regarding the disappearance of thousands of Accord civilians over the last seven months. Tonight, I interviewed Colonel Dmitry Medvedev about the atrocities committed by the Ultranationalist Forces.

[Camera cuts to the interview]

OZAKI: With me is Spetsnaz Colonel Dmitry Medvedev. Thank you for your time, Colonel.

MEDVEDEV: Of course, ma'am.

OZAKI: Now, can you describe what you saw?

MEDVEDEV: We were performing reconnaissance at the outskirts of the city when one of my snipers saw what looked to be recently-dug earth. While we've seen lynchings and executions since Samara, what we found was... There's no other way to describe it than a mass grave.

OZAkI: I see. And has the military released any information regarding the alleged perpetrators?

MEDVEDEV: I'll let the Ministry of Defense do the speaking and refer you to their official statement.

[Camera returns to the live feed]

OZAKI: We now go to Defense Minister Georgy Zhukov, who released a statement today about the atrocities uncovered in Ufa.

[Camera cuts to the press conference]

ZHUKOV: What we have uncovered in Samara, Ufa, Kazan, Novosibirsk, Tomsk, and a dozen other cities over the last few months are nothing short of War Crimes and Crimes Against Humanity. The Ultranationalist rebels have violated every rule of war and committed atrocities not only against innocent civilians, but their own people.

ZHUKOV: As we push forward towards their capital in Yekaterinburg, know that we will bring every man responsible for these atrocities to justice, first through their Unconditional Surrender, then through military tribunals for all who were responsible.

ZHUKOV: The Ultranationalists will be defeated, and they will see justice, from the lowest private to Marshal Sakharov himself.

[Camera returns to the live feed]

OZAKI: That was Defense Minister Georgy Zhukov. For all of our viewers with missing friends or loved ones, please call the number on the screen below to contact the Russian Government for any updates on their whereabouts.

Diary of Colonel Boris Alexeyevich Smyslovsky, 12 July 1942

We lost Omsk.

With this, our three holdouts that remain are Chelyabinsk, Tyumen, and Yekaterinburg.

Sakharov has called for a defense on all fronts and a plan to retreat to the mountains with the Black Hundreds volunteers, where we will wage a guerrilla war against the Loyalists for the foreseeable future. In doing so, he has claimed that we will, "Ensure the survival of our movement for another decade, if not more."

I, for one, do not have any interest in losing slowly over the course of a decade instead of a year.

And I know I am not alone in this.

Prologue from The Unlucky Survivors, by Suzuki Sumire, University of Tokyo Press (1950)

When somebody thinks about the atrocities of the Ultranationalists, there is a good chance that the first things that come to mind are mass graves and lynchings. But for me, my own memories are of starvation, of emaciated bodies barely kept alive.

I came to Russia in the Fall of 1941 as an exchange student in Yekaterinburg, part of a year abroad in the Accord Exchange Program. Why wouldn't I, when it was a free chance to explore the world.

There were dozens of us, from all over: Japan, Korea, China, Siam, Indochina, Indonesia, Burma, and even a few Australians. All of us were excited to start the semester, and I can still remember the night when it happened.

We were partying with some of the Russian students when the first soldiers showed up. Lan thought they were police at first, and we quickly started hiding all the alcohol in the closets and shutting the blinds.

They came quickly, and secured the school in less than an hour before having us marches out into the cold winter night.

I remember this one soldier, who couldn't be much older than me. He was shouting at us, demanding our papers and identification as they split us into two groups.

Russians were sent to the left, while foreign students were sent to the right.

Foreign men were sent to the left, while foreign women were sent to the right, into once of the classrooms.

I was halfway through the door when I heard the first gunshots. I turned around to see my classmates, my friends, dead on the ground.

We were drinking and partying just a few hours ago, and now the guys were dead, on the ground, with blood flowing out to the gashing hole in the back of their heads.

That was the beginning of six months of Hell for us.

Six months of starvation, slavery, and abuse at the hands of our captors.

Six months of near-starvation where I had to serve my own abusers if I wanted anything more than starvation.

Six months of wishing they'd taken me into that other line and shot me with the others so I didn't have to suffer anymore.

Six months that the world needs to know firsthand, so that maybwe, just maybe, others won't suffer as I and my friends did.

Ministry of Defense, Nanjing, National Capital Region, Republic of China, 20 July 1942

"GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!" former MIB Director Martin Li roared, before punching the table again, "Just... Fuck!"

"Christ, Marty," his old friend told him, trying to calm him down.

In all the years they'd been friends, practically brothers, Michael Chen had never seen his old friend this furious.

Angry? Sure.

Frustrated? Definitely.

But this enraged? Never in his life.

"You're read the reports, Mike. You know what they're doing over there."

"Yeah, I know-"

"They're fucking enslaving and raping people, Mike! Taking people and turning them into their slaves and comfort women, for fuck's sake!"

"It's the same shit our grandparents went through. It's the same thing that my Waipo went through."

That explains it, doesn't it? It's personal.

They don't know, but I do. Rachel does.

I mean, how could these other guys know?

How do you explain to them that your father was the bastard child of a comfort woman and a Japanese officer?

"I know," Chen said softly, before walking closer to his brother, "And that's why I need you at 100% right now. We have these bastards on the ropes, and MOJ's going to drag every raping, murdering, and enslaving son-of-a-bitch before a judge so we can kill them by the books."

"Yeah..." Marty growled, before softening his tone a few octaves. "We'd better."

"Hell, if it makes you feel better, you could probably join the damned firing squad for some of these fuckers. God knows people aren't going to be jumping at the call, y'know?"

"I might just take you up on that," Marty said with a grim smile, "You know, one of these days, you're going to have to tell me your secret."

"About what?"

"Staying calm. Didn't know you were better at this than me."

"Oh, I'm not," Mike sighed, "I'm just better at hiding it, apparently."

Diary of Colonel Boris Alexeyevich Smyslovsky, 12 August 1942

The explosives were easy enough to acquire.
Everything's being moved into the mountains, and it's not as if they're checking every manifest and counting every bullet.

Enough explosives to fit in a briefcase or three.

One for me. One for Bunyachenko. One for Kazembek.

And unlike the Germans, we'll make sure there's no table leg to keep Sakharov alive.

"Tsar Vladimir III Returns to Saint Petersburg," Saint Petersburg Journal, 1 September 1942

Tsar Vladimir III formally returned to the Winter Palace today after his recovery and release from government custody to a mixed reception.

Supporters lined the streets to welcome him back, while protesters showed up in equal (if not greater) numbers to condemn the Tsar as a collaborator with the Ultranationalists and an opportunist who only defected to be on the winning side.

Tsar Vladimir III had been on holiday in Sevastopol at the time of the coup, which was under Ultranationalist control. As the Ultranationalist forces were pushed back from the Crimean Peninsula, he was ferried across the Kerch bridge then relocated, first to Samara and then to Yekaterinburg.

During this time, he made several public appearances with the self-proclaimed Marshal Sakharov, as well as several statements calling on all patriotic Russians to support the Ultranationalist coup.

Supporters of the Monarch have argued that he did so under duress, as the Sakharov regime had custody of his family, while detractors describe him as a full-on collaborator and call upon him to abdicate.

Calls for abdication are split, with the moderates calling for his abdication, while the more-radical elements are calling for the dissolution of the monarchy as a whole and the formation of a Republic in the Chinese tradition.

So far, the other members of the House of Romanov have remained silent on the affair, though Grand Duke Alexei expressed his support of the Loyalists as Ambassador to the Republic of Britain, while Grand Duke Michael has called for compromise and a new constitution.

As the protests and confrontations between the two sides continues, we here at the Saint Petersburg Journal will continue to keep you updated as the situation develops.

Diary of Colonel Boris Alexeyevich Smyslovsky, 2 September 1942

The meeting is planned, and the men are in place.

We make our move on the eleventh, at the meeting.

I don't even know if the Loyalists would even accept our surrender, but I imagine a deal can be reached. Anything is preferable to a protracted insurgency, and they know it as well as I do.

I won't pretend that I am acting out of altruism, but I will take a chance at survival over no chance, no matter how slim our chances.

If nothing else, we can have the Black Hundreds take the brunt of the fall.

Outskirts of Omsk, Omsk Governorate, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 8 September 1942

"Another one, Misha," Vasily Kamarov sighed, before placing a small marker down. "How many does that make it, at this point?"

"Five hundred and twenty seven," Mikhail Davydov sighed, "And that's just this sector, Vasya."

"It's not like we can grab one of the Ultras and just ask them where the landmines are." And while they could, it would only be effective until that poor bastard blew his leg off. "So we're stuck with us and metal detectors."

"Almost makes me wish we could just use some robots and be done with it. And before you say it, yes, I know we can't use them outside an open field."

"Not if you don't want to blow up half the damned neigborhood, Misha. So it's you, me, and our metal detectors for now."

"...Fuck."

Rastorguyev–Kharitonov Palace, Yekaterinburg, Yekaterinburg Governorate, Ultranationalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 11 September 1942

"We are at a crossroads," Marshal Konstantin Sakharov said to the men assembled in the bunker. It wasn't as palatial as the palace itself, but at least they were safe from air raids. "As I speak, the lapdogs in Moscow and Saint Petersburg are pushing us on all fronts. Magnitogorsk has fallen, and the enemy marches on Chelyabinsk as we speak."

"However," the elder Sakharov continued, "I have no intention of losing and dying slowly. over the last month, I have tasked my son Igor with preparing caches and hideouts across the Urals. From there, we will continue to wage the war for Russia's independence."

"It make take us years, even decades," Sakharov admitted. The men nodded, with Smyslovsky among them. "I myself might not even live to see our final victory."

The men nodded again, before turning to his son Igor. For his part, the young commander was sitting off to the side, intently looking over the men.

It was no secret that the elder Sakharov's health was in decline, and this war had done him no favors.

It was also no secret that he had grown distrustful ever since Vlasov's defection with the Tsar.

Hence his son Igor being in charge of the partisan strategy. It was no secret that the younger Sakharov was ambitious and talented, but his father had plenty of men who were both, or at least one of those.

What he needed, however, were trustworthy people. And there wasn't anyone more-trustworthy than your own children.

"Colonel," an officer whispered, and Smyslovsky turned around, "Message for you from the front. Your eyes only."

"Of course."

Right on cue.

Something similar happened with Bunyachenko, who excused himself from the room.

Now, it was in fate's hands.

Fate's... and the time delay on the detonators.

And then it all went to Hell.

The explosion thundered through the complex, sending them running for cover. Even Smyslovsky, who'd planted the bomb himself, flinched for a second, only to continue walking.

"Get to the front."

"What?" asked the driver.

"I need to get back to my unit. Now."

Official Statement from the (Loyalist Russian) Government, 11 September 1942

Today, the Ministry of Defense was made aware of the explosion in Yekaterinburg, as well as the death of Konstantin Sakharov and the coma of Igor Sakharov. Though the elder Sakharov's military record during the Great War is admirable, the fact remains that he masterminded a coup against the Russian government and its people.

While we have received offers of a negotiated surrender, we maintain our stance that the Ultranationalist leadership must surrender to Loyalist forces and turn over any and all perpetrators of atrocities against civilians and Prisoners of War.

Should these conditions be met, we will accept the surrender of the Ultanationalists.

"Project Double Decker," Counterintelligence Service, 6 September 1942 (Declassified 1992)

Despite the calls for an unconditional surrender, the Ministry of Defense and the Grand Coalition have both indicated an openness to cooperating with the coup attempt against the Sakharovs (hereafter referred to as the "September Plot"). Reasons include (but are not limited to) testimony and cooperation from key witnesses against the perpetrators of atrocities, as well as an avoidance of a protracted insurgency in the Urals.

It is for these reasons that we have not interfered with the plot, and have taken steps to ensure that what is left of their intelligence service does not uncover the purpose. This was done through high-level assets and sympathizers, as well as a destruction of evidence by lower-level agents.

Said agents have been advised to lay low and await extraction in the upcoming months.

While no plan survives first contact with the enemy, it is likely that we can promise reduced sentences or preferable accomodations for the perpetrators, as well as any who promise to testify against the responsible.

Koltsovo Airport, Yekaterinburg, Yekaterinburg Governorate, Loyalist-Controlled Territory, Russian Empire, 20 September 1942

Airports were not built as hospitals, but most had at least some capacity to transport patients.

That went double in times of war.

Men and women with everything from gunshots to missing limbs would be transferred to gurneys and stretchers to the nearest doctor, surgeon, or medic for whatever treatment they could get their hands on.

This was no exception. Not when the patient was missing an arm and an eye from an explosion. Tubes jutted out from his remaining arm while a ventilator was shoved in his mouth.

A steady but faint tone continued to beep next to him, and the lines of the machine seemed consistent enough to bring him out here.

The doctor didn't really know how it happened, and he honestly didn't care when there were more-pressing matters.

What mattered more to him was the fact that the man's remaining arm was handcuffed to the gurney like a prisoner while the rest of him was strapped in tight.

"Is this him?" a voice asked in Chinese-accented Russian. "Is that Sakharov?"

"That's him, Misha," a native Russian speaker answered, "Igor Sakharov in the flesh... or what's left of it."

"Christ. How bad?"

"Blast put him into a coma, but he's stable."

"Enough to stand trial?"

"Eventually. That what this is about?"

"Yeah. War's over. Tribunals are being set up."

"Kid's going to have one Hell of a shock when he wakes up."

"Probably."

"You don't really care, do you, Misha?"

"Nope."

 

[ChrisProvidence]

"If you want to get technical," Shannon Wu told her wife over dinner, "It's not so much 'fencing,' as it is 'laundering.'"

"Shan, those are semantics," Rachel Fong yawned, before taking a well-deserved sip of coffee, "'Fencing' works just fine."

"Tell me," Rachel could see the mischievous grin on Shannon's face. "Which one of us writes for a living?"

"Fair enough," she relented, oand she needed only a second to think of a comeback. "But which one of us runs a spy agency for a living?"

"Running a spy agency doesn't give you an excuse to use the wrong words, dear."

Honestly, Shan. I don't know if you're bored, or if this is actually that big a deal for you.

You'd think I'd know after almost thirty years.

"You're really going to do this, Shan?"

"Yup."

"Fucking Hell. Since when did you have such a stick up your arse?"

"I mean, there was last-"

"NOT LIKE THAT!" Right, then. She's definitely screwing with me. Well, it's not as if I have anywhere else to go, tonight. "So, why isn't it 'Fencing,' then?"

"'Fencing' refers to knowingly buying stolen goods and reselling them for profit," Shannon began, only to take a sip of her tea, "But the weapons you're shipping to America aren't stolen - They're legitimate sales to third-party sellers."

On one hand, fair.

On the other hand, I'm starting to regret bringing you in to advise training American Apache pilots.

On the other side of the same hand, at least I can talk about work with you, so there is that.

"I suppose so, Shan." Rachel shook her head as she spoke. After all, she hated being wrong. "So, why would it be "laundering," then?"

The manhua writer shrugged, "I mean, it's basically money laundering at the end of the day, isn't it? Just with weapons and military equipment, instead of money."

"Go on..."

"When you launder money, you can use shell companies as intermediaries to conceal the true origins. When you launder military equipment, you can use third parties-"

"You know, you can just say 'Arms Dealers,' right?"

"Sure. Sounds cooler, anyways." Now that she thought about it, Rachel had to agree. "Anyways, you use these Arms Dealers to transfer weapons in between people. The weapons go from us, to Company A who buys them from us in China, then Company B who buys from Company A in Australia, then Company C who buys them from Company B in Mexico-"

"I get the idea," Shannon promised. "And eventually it gets to the Unionists?"

"More or less, Shan. And if anyone tries to trace them back to their origin, they'd have to go through multiple companies in different countries."

"So your plan is to drown them in paperwork?" asked Shannon, and Rachel nodded. "Ouch."

"Indeed."

"And even if they did go through all that bureaucracy and the weapons did get traced back to us, they'd just find out that all of the sales are legitimate, anyways."

"More or less, Shan," Rachel answered. Now, there was a whole conversation to be had about the moral culpability of knowingly selling weapons to Person A when they're going to use them to kill Person B, but in Rachel's defense, Person B is fucking cunt. "Of course, it's more convoluted than our other method."

"Which is?"

"Have the European Radical Socialist countries like the French ship over their equipment, then tell the Nationalists to fuck off while we send over more supplies to replenish their stocks."

"That seems... less convoluted. And we'd just be acting as good allies, right?"

"Yes. We'd be terrible allies if we didn't re-arm our allies, right?"

"Of course." That seemed to make enough sense to Shannon. "Wait."

"What is it?"

"That's what we tell the Nationalists when they get mad at us, isn't it?"

"...Yes."

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Saint Louis City Hall, Saint Louis, Missouri, Contested Territory, United States of America, 2 September 1942

"Clear!" shouted a soldier as they rushed into the room. Sure enough, there were no Nats here. The dead sniper with a torso that was more shrapnel than organs at this point didn't count. "That's about everyone, Captain."

"Good to hear," Captain Coles said over the radio, only to turn to Colonel Truman, "City Hall's ours, boss. Or what's left of it, anyways."

Colonel Harry S Truman let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and nodded. "What's left of it" truly meant it, when the windows were shot to Hell and half the Neo-Renaissance rooftop had collapsed.

"You're clear to plant the flag," he said to the men over the radio. "God knows you've earned it. Are there any survivors?"

"Twelve KIA, sixteen wounded, sir," the soldier told him over the radio. "Thirteen are stabilized, and three are critical."

"Acknowledged. I'll redirect a field ambulance their way."

And then he breathed again.

Is this what winning feels like? Half the damned city is blown to Hell, and the other half is falling apart!

Then again, urban combat was like that. It was violent, brutal, and full of enough traps and ambushes that just bombing a damn building might be better than storming it.

Of course we couldn't just flatten this one, and the Nats knew it. They tried to turn this place into the Alamo, but it ended up becoming their Little Bighorn.

And us?

Well, the city may be rubble, but it's our goddamn rubble, and that's what matters.

That, and the Nats'll be unable to cut us off from the West Coast.

"The North Falls Apart," Ken Burns' The Second Civil War, National Endowment for the Arts and Humanities, 1995

[Footage shifts between battles in Saint Louis, Denver, Salt Lake City, and all across Montana as Nationalist soldiers with white or red armbands fight against the the Unionists in a variety of combat. The scene then shifts to a live broadcast of the PBS Evening News reporting the war that is suddenly shut off]

ALEX GREENE: By the time I joined up as militia, we'd completed the encirclement of the Nats up north. A young man, about my age - so we're talking mid twenties at the time - asks me, in an Australian-sounding accent, "Where are you from?"

GREENE: I said, "I'm from Montana." He said, "Where?" and I said, "Butte."

GREENE: What he told me next, was that he was from Kalispell, and that he'd moved here from Cornwall as a child. I asked him, "From where?"

GREENE: He said, "Cornwall, England. This is our homeland. Or at least it was, until you showed up with them."

GREENE: I was confused. I didn't know what they were talking about. I was born in Butte! And here this guy is, saying that I'm not American enough?!

GREENE: And then I saw him turn to the guys from the 542nd and motion towards them. And do you know what he told me?

GREENE: "Them."

"The Encirclement of the Nationalist Forces in the Second American Civil War," Student Report by Fidel V. Ramos, Whampoa Military Academy, 1947

The Army of the Rockies had always been in a precarious position. Despite the larger popular migrations to the Western United States compared to the Lost History, they still lacked the manpower to effectively control such a large territory with spread-out population centers.

This was helped by the large presence of Colonial immigrants from Africa, as well as members of the Golden Circle militias who had joined their ranks after the 1942 Coup, but they still faced shortages of materiel and manpower to effectively consolidate their control as they did in the relatively more-populated and industrialized Southern United States.

This splitting in two of the Nationalist Forces effectively determined the Nationalist strategy throughout 1942, during which Van Horn Moseley's Army of the Rockies and the Patton's Army of the Heartland pushed on Saint Louis, Kansas City, Salt Lake City, and Denver to sever the Unionists' connection to the South.

In doing so, the Army of the Rockies would be reinforced and resupplied, while the Unionist Forces would be separated along the Rocky Mountains and dismantled piecemeal.

It is this strategy that ultimately led to General Van Horn Moseley's focusing the bulk of his forces on Salt Lake City and Denver. Had he not coordinated his forces with Patton in a rapid pincer maneuver across Utah, Denver, Kansas, and Missouri, his forces would risk being cut off themselves by a consolidated push by the Unionists from the Midwest and the Pacific Coast.

It is this decision that ultimately led to a weakened flank that was exploited by the Unionist Army of Cascadia under General DeWitt and the Army of the Midwest under General Eishenhower. The 10th Mountain, 11th Airborne, and 1st Cavalry Divisions pushed from Washington State, while the 101st Airborne and the re-activated 3rd Armored Divisions pushed from Minnesota against the dug-in forces of Nationalist-Aligned militias and National Guard units.

This counter-offensive by the Unionists left the Army of the Rockies in a predicament. Sending their reserves to the Southern Front would leave their flanks wide-open, while sending their reserves to the Eastern and Western flanks would almost-certainly lead to an abandonment of the offensive against Salt Lake City and Denver.

It is for this reason that General Van Horn Moseley dedicated the bulk of his reserves to his Southern Front while ordering his men to engage in a fighting retreat with the irregulars as the Unionists pushed through Idaho and Minnesota.

This strategy would be countered by the lack of materiel and population centers in the Great Plains and the Northwest. The lack of population centers in the region meant that the Nationalist forces had no nearby population centers to fall back to. This, coupled with the use of kamikaze drones against air defenses and Airborne forces on the Eastern and Western flanks, meant that the Nationalist forces holding strategic cities such as Coeur d'Alene were effectively cut off with nowhere to retreat to.

The Nationalists would respond with a guerrilla campaign by their irregular forces and the remnants of their National Guard units. While these forces would provide some means of stalling the Unionist advance, the latter would counter with their own irregular forces. This side-campaign mirrored the African Bush War in the late 1920s in former Colonial Africa, in which government forces as well as allied irregular forces would track down and besiege the "Redoubts" of the Colonial Holdouts and eliminate them.

This would prove to be a sideshow for the Unionists, and the Nationalists' inability to effectively re-organize their forces after the initial counter-offensive turned into a rout that left the bulk of the Nationalist forces in the South and North surrounded.

"Prologue: A New Home," Diary of a Prisoner: My Year of Redemption in Delano Prisoner Camp, by Melvin Holmes, Union Press, Fargo, North Dakota, 1960

Before the War happened, I don't think I've ever seen that many Asian people in my life. Then again, not too many Asian-Americans moved to Mississippi, and I honestly don't blame them. Sure, they weren't Black, but they definitely weren't White, either.

But when you grow up in Biloxi when I was a kid, you sure hear a lot of stuff about them. Plenty of people going on about how they wanted to "Replace us," and "Take our lands and our lives."

Basically, they were going to make us not white and take over the world. In a way, they were kinda like how people talked about the Jews and the Jesuits: Everything that was bad was their fault.

There's this stereotype that it was only the Golden Circle types and the Collies (Former white settler populations of Africa resettled in America) who were like this. And there were people like that, when I was a teenager. I can still remember one former soldier from, I think it was Kenya, who was going on about how "The Asiatics took everything from [them]. Everything [they] built, worked for, and fought for was taken away in an instant."

But it wasn't just them. I can still remember my mother and father saying the same things over dinner when I was in high school. They believed it as much as the Golden Circle and the Collies did - they just didn't make it their entire identities.

It's kinda funny. In hindsight, I realize I was only hearing one side of the story. But in my defense, it wasn't as if the schools brought in many Black people from Africa to tell their side of the story. Turns out not many of them wanted to settle in the South or come by to visit after the war.

Now, I'm not trying to defend how I used to be, but you have to understand that if you grow up in an environment where people keep demonizing Asians and Africans people and say they're going to do what they did to Africa to the South, you're going to start believing it. Especially when you aren't exposed to anyone saying otherwise.

That's what happened to me.

Back in '42, I was a True Believer who thought that I was fighting for what made America, well, America, from the degenerates to the East.

It was only when I was captured in Saint Louis and shipped off to Delano that I realized that the people I've been taught to hate were something I couldn't comprehend.

They were people.

You know, it's funny in hindsight. And I'm not just talking about the fact that I am now, one, married to a Japanese-American woman, and two, a practicing Ba'hai.

No, I'm talking about how the people I've been told to hate, who were not only "Not American" (despite being in America longer than I've been alive), were so similar to the people I grew up with.

I mean, there was somebody who reminded me of almost every single person I grew up with in Biloxi.

It was then that my life changed forever.

"The Coming Boom: How Latin American Economies Capitalize on American Instability," Future Today, Youtube.com, 20 September 1942

[The video begins with a pan over the modern cities of Lima, Buenos Aires, Mexico City, RIo de Janeiro, and Caracas]

NARRATOR: It's no surprise that Latin America is doing better than in the Lost History.

NARRATOR: Between the switch to the Good Neighbor Policy over the last decade and almost three decades of Asian investment to bring Latin America up to speed, it is no surprise that the economies of Latin America are more-productive, more-dynamic, and more-independent than they were in our own history.

[An American flag fades into the shot]

NARRATOR: While this would be an economic miracle in and of itself, it was stymied by the United States' economic modernization.

NARRATOR: For all of Central and South America's economic development, the simple reality is that the United States was able to produce more goods and export more resources with the same technology, because they were already producing more goods and exporting more resources before the Great Journey happened.

[Screen shifts to show John Maynard Keynes]

NARRATOR: As economist John Keynes put it, "It is easier to build on a foundation than to build from scratch."

[Screen shifts to show the aftermath of the Capitol Bombing]

NARRATOR: This changed in the outbreak of the Second American Civil War.

[Video of American industry cross-fades into military production]

NARRATOR: Resources that would have gone to market were now needed for the war effort, and factories dedicated to consumer goods were repurposed for war production, leaving an American-sized hole in the global economy that Latin America could fill.

[Footage of American farms fade into Latin American farms]

NARRATOR: Almost every export of the United States was soon replaced with an equivalent in Latin America. Grains grown in Nebraska were replaced with those in Brazil and Colombia. Livestock bred in Kansas was replaced with Argentine beef and poultry. Oranges bought from Florida and California were now bought from Mexico.

[Footage of American mines fades into Latin American lithium mines]

NARRATOR: This phenomenon wasn't just limited to food. Copper from the frontlines of Utah and Arizona were replaced with Peruvian and Chilean copper, and the same could be said for Columbian pines with Amazonian wood or Texan, Californian, and Albertan oil with the vast oil reserves of Gran Colombia.

NARRATOR: And it goes without saying that the demand for Latin American goods has skyrocketed, now that their northern competition is distracted.

NARRATOR: As 1942 comes to a close and the Army of the Rockies surrenders, many see this as a turning point. The question is, what happens next?

NARRATOR: Will the United States be able to claw back its lost market share, or will it be too busy rebuilding to retake its dominant place in the Americas What happens to Latin American economies if the United States regains its footing?

NARRATOR: Only time will tell, but one thing is clear: Latin America's economies have found their place in the sun, and it's not going anywhere.

Atlanta, Georgia, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 10 October 1942

"During the American Revolution," the Reverend said to his son, "Mobs would strip people naked, slather them in hot tar, and coat them in feathers."

"They did that until a few years ago," the young Black man pointed out, "Klan would do that, back during the '10s."

"That they would, son," the Reverend said sadly, before looking up at the traffic lights. "But as bad as that may be, many of those same people still live to this day. These men?" the Revenend motioned upwards, "They're long gone after last night."

The boy looked up to see over a dozen corpses hanging from the traffic lights.

"Were they guilty?"

"God only knows, Martin," said the Reverend to his namesake. "Maybe they were. Maybe they weren't. Their crowds didn't care, though - they made up their minds already."

The young man looked up to see the corpses. They were men and women. Young and old. Black and white and every color in-between.

All of them were united in two things.

First were their deaths. Both he and his father had seen the videos last night of the mob lynching these people in the street with the protection of the militias and the unspoken blessing of the police.

Second were the placards on their necks. They were bits of scrap cardboard with holes punched in the side for string. The same word was on every placard, written in big black letters for all to see:

"TRAITOR"

 

[ChrisProvidence]

Chen Residence, Ishigaki, Taiwan, Republic of China, 1 November 1942

"Remind me," Dr. Chen Akira said to her husband in his workshop, "Why exactly are you doing this?"

Her husband Michael just laughed a hearty laugh and sighed. "Because I just can't seem to get away from being roped into historical events? It's as if God heard my teenage wish to live in interesting times and said there were no take-backs."

The professor shook her head and crossed her arms. "We both know that's not what I meant. I never took you for an existentialist, anyways."

"Fair enough, Aki. I'm doing this because I'm bored."

"Most people write books or watch baseball when they get older," she pointedly observed. And he did do those things (even if she had done most of the writing for him). "Not try to modify the settings of an exoskeleton for combat."

"Most people don't nearly have their kids murdered by terrorists, Aki," Michael countered, "And if this is the difference between our daughter coming home safely and not at all, I'll work as many sleepless nights as I need to."

Work really is your way to stay focused, isn't it?

Hmph. You never change, do you?

"So what exactly is the difference," she asked him as she walked over to the modified exoskeleton. "Plenty of people use these for their arms and legs already."

"For logistics," Michael countered, "It's for heavy lifting and carrying stuff. Not actual combat. Hence the limiters on them."

"Which I assume they have for a very good reason, Michael."

"That they do," he admitted. Of course, said "very good reason" involved people not tearing their muscles clean apart, but he figured she got the idea. "The difference, now, is that the Armaments Bureau has a new upgrade software for the Mark V exoskeleton that'll synch with the body's motions to prevent any overexertions."

"And how do they do that?" the professor asked curiously to the engineer. "Programming?"

"Pretty much," he figured. "I didn't really 'get' it when they explained it to me."

Michael liked to think he was tech-savvy, but he was the same person who studied Mechanical Engineering and minored in physics because he thought Computer Science was "too hard."

Classmates never did stop giving me shit about that.

"So the computer basically amplifies the operator's movements," Aki observed, and her husband nodded. "Except instead of carrying heavy equipment, it can be used to improve their strength and agility in combat?"

Michael shrugged. "Pretty much. I mean, it's no Iron Man suit - more like the exo from Advanced Warfare, if I'm being honest."

"...I have no idea what that means, but I'll take your word for it," Aki decided. She wasn't much of a shooter player; Grand Strategy was her forte. "So, does the software update work?"

"Probably," Michael figured. "At least on the proving grounds. Next step is field testing."

"I really hope that you're not going to be the one testing it."

"Me? God no," Michael promised, much to her relief. "I may look like I'm forty, but I'm pushing sixty, Aki. I'm too old to do this."

"Oh thank goodness. You had me worried for a second."

"Yeah," he agreed, "This kind of stuff is for Morgan's generation."

"...She volunteered to test it, didn't she?"

"Yup."

"Fuck."

"Yup."

Bolshoi Theatre, Moscow, Moscow Governorate, Russian Empire, 5 November 1942

"It wasn't my first military tribunal," is something most people wouldn't be proud of, depending on which side of the bench they were on.

Thankfully, former Director Military Intelligence Bureau Martin Li, had been on the side of the prosecution in both of them. Such was to be expected, when he had at least some rank and influence.

Even if it's less than when I was still in charge.

He could still remember the Accord Tribunals in The Hague after the Great War, when that bastard Reginald Dyer finally answered for his crimes against the Indians.

Dyer was remorseless and said he was serving his duty as Commander in Chief of the Raj, but the evidence was insurmountable when dozens of men and women testified against him.

Reginald Dyer would die by firing squad in 1926, with both Li and his old friend Michael Chen of the ROC Marine Corps watching.

Now, neither of them took any satisfaction in killing. Sure, Chen would convince himself that the people he killed were terrible human beings or at least doing terrible things, but it wasn't as if he liked killing people.

Li was a little more complicated.

While he didn't exactly enjoy killing people, he'd signed off on numerous morally-questionable operations that led to numerous targets assassinated in the name of a "Greater Good." And while he still believed he was doing the right thing, he still signed off on the operation that killed off the Saudi Royal Family.

Children included.

But this?

Well, he saw justice as something different, which meant that satisfaction was on the table.

And with Igor Sakharov sitting in the defendant's chair, he knew it would only be a matter of time.

"Mister Sakharov," the Russian judge said to the defendant, "You are charged with Crimes Against Humanity for the murder of countless civilians under your control, as well as rebellion against the Russian government. How do you plead?"

"Not guilty," the one-armed former Ultranationalist leader spat. "On all counts."

Martin Li could only look from the gallery and sigh.

They never deny it. None of them do.

Well, here we go again...

Bridge of the MN Internationale, International Waters, Caribbean Sea, 12 November 1942

As far as warships went, the French aircraft carrier MN Internationale was the most-obvious choice for a command ship. Its large operations center, squadrons of planes, and sheer tonnage were all arguments in its favor that Admiral André-Georges Lemonnier understood.

It was no surprise that the Internationale became the flagship for this operation despite it ostensibly being a Pan-American (as the Latin American nations called themselves) operation. Then again, it was Admiral Henrique Guilhem who was in charge.

Admiral Lemonnier and the Internationale's carrier group? They were simply here as reinforcement to "Ensure the Freedom of the Seas."

Of course, "Endure the Freedom of the Seas" in this context meant, "Threaten to destroy the Nationalist navy if they tried anything," but the point still stood.

Latin American shipping would continue, and the Nationalists simply lacked the tonnage to go up against them.

Khartoum, Republic of Sudan, 20 November 1942

"Well, today's the day," Mustafa Aydin said to his brother Yusuf over the phone, "Sudanese, Darfurian, and Azanian independence, all at once."

"Well, they do want to- Mehmet!" Mustafa could hear his nephew shouting in the background, "Put that down!"

"Is this a bad-"

"No, it's fine," Yusuf sighed. "Oh, and your nephew can walk, now. Wait, what were we talking about?"

"Handover ceremony, Yusuf. After over a decade out here working with the locals to basically build not one, but three states from scratch, I can finally say that my work here is done."

"It sure sounds like it," said the younger Aydin brother, "So, still think it was 'Too good to be true?'"

"Hindsight is what it is, Yusuf," Mustafa figured. And while the work was daunting, it wasn't as if the Accord could be too picky when it came to administrators who could speak Arabic. "But we had to basically train people from scratch, then phase them in to replace the people like me who had to keep things running in the meantime. I'm probably the last of the bureaucrats from that time, and I'm getting transferred to the embassy next month."

"Here's hoping you're getting a raise for your trouble, brother."

"Of course," Mustafa chuckled. It's half the reason I'm staying. Even if the other half is my wife was born here. "And easier work, too. Those are the perks of seniority."

"Anything is easier than, how did you call it? 'Building three nation states to minimize ethnic tensions?'"

"Something like that."

Because it's not like I can say that the meetings were fifty percent negotiations and fifty percent trying to prevent future genocides and ethnic cleansings from happening.

Los Angeles General Hospital, Los Angeles, California, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 1 December 1942

"Remind me, Lena," Chen Lin said to his wife as they walked into the hospital, "Why do I have to do this?"

"Because there are a bunch of children who just got out of an internment camp, and they could use a visit."

"No, I meant, why did they ask for me, specifically?"

Selena Chen shrugged. "Because the kids'll probably think you're cool or something? I dunno."

Huh. She actually said it.

A mischievous grin formed on Lin's face. "What was that, Lena?"

"I said they think you're cool, Lin," she wryly answered back, before elbowing him in the side. "I, personally, think they're more of a dork. Lovable dork, but it still counts."

That's a fancy way of calling me a Himbo, isn't it? Oh well.

"Yeah, maybe," he figured, before showing his ID to the security guard. The man nodded, then let them walk inside the recovery wing. "Well, at least these kids think I'm cool."

Okay, here we go. I'm here to cheer some kids up, so just be myself.

Wait, I swear too much. Myself but without the swearing. Don't want to set a bad example.

Oh, and the kid's lost his parents, so don't bring that up. Ever.

Here goes... well, something, I guess.

Lin knocked on the door and peered inside. A nurse turned around, then walked up to let them in the hospital room.

"Glad to have you here," the guy told Lin and Lena, before motioning to a frail child on a bed. "Henu, this is Chen Lin of the Los Angeles Angels. Lin, this is Henu Kim."

"...Hi," the tired boy yawned, "Wait, is it really you?"

"Last I checked," Lin figured, before sitting down next to the kid. "How you doing, kid?"

"Better than I was a week ago," the frail boy answered. Tired as he was, Lin could still see the kid's eyes light up. "I didn't think you'd show up."

"Well, this is the first time I've visited anyone in the hospital," Lin said sheepishly. "Still getting used to being in the pros. Oh, and before I forget-"

Lin pulled out a baseball from his pocket, signed it, and handed it to Henu. "It's yours if you want it."

"Thanks!" Out of all the things, that was what had gotten the kid to open up? "Congrats on getting Rookie of the Year, Mr. Chen."

"Lin." The kid looked at him weirdly. "Kinda weird being called 'Mister.' I mean, I'm not even 25."

"Alright then, Mist- I mean, Lin. Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, I guess," Lin figured. It couldn't hurt, and it wasn't like Lin was the one with the state secrets. "What's up?"

"Do you think I could be like you? You know, when I grow up?"

"You mean, as a baseball player, right?" Henu looked at him weirdly. "Yeah, I guess so. Why?"

"The guards at the camps didn't think somebody like me should play baseball. Said that people like us are 'ruining the game.'"

"Really?" Henu nodded. "Well, those people can go fuck themselves."

Edmonton Internment Camp, Edmonton, Alberta, Unionist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 28 December 1942

"You're going to want to see this," Daigo Shinoda said to his friend and commander. "It's bad, Sam."

"How bad are we talking?" the Japanese-American sergeant asked, but Daigo just shook his head. "How bad, D?"

"We don't have enough medical supplies," the medic answered, before turning to Morgan. "I'm going to need one of you to call it in."

"Way ahead of you," Morgan Chen promised, and she turned on the radio. "This is Sergeant Morgan Chen broadcasting to all Unionist troops. We have civilian prisoners at our position, around - How many, D?"

"Four thousand?" he figured, before looking over the supplies in the truck. "We don't have enough, Mo."

"Right," Morgan breathed, before turning back to the mic. "We have approximately four thousand civilian prisoners of unknown condition. We need reinforcements and medical supplies, ASAP."

"Understood," Lieutenant Colonel Young-Oak Kim answered, "Sending a QRF from the 11th Airborne and the rest of the 542nd. ETA thirty minutes."

"Copy, Colonel," Morgan sighed. She wasn't happy about it, but the sound of gunshots made her fall to the ground and drop her radio. "Shit!"

Both Sam and Daigo ducked behind their Humvee, while Inouye, Gabaldin, and Nakano did the same behind theirs.

"I thought this place was empty, Sam!"

"Every other camp was, D!" Kimura shouted, before looking around for any sign of the shooter. "See anything, Mo?"

Morgan peered through her scope and scanned around the area for a good thirty seconds over the sound of distant gunshots.

"Nothing!"

"Are they shooting at us?!" Nakano shouted from the other truck, "Might be shooting somebody else!"

"Partisans?" Daigo figured, and Sam shrugged. "Whoever it is, they're probably friendly."

"Want me to call it in, Sam?" Morgan offered, and her counterpart nodded, "Colonel, we have enemy fire in the area. Unknown shooters with possible friendlies. Moving to assist."

"Copy, Chen," Young decided. "ETA twenty minutes. Kim out."

"We're moving in," Sam shouted to the other truck. "Gabaldin, Inouye, Nakano, hold the entrance. Nobody comes in our out. Mo, D, you're with me."

The move inside the camp was... quiet, outside of the gunshots, but the trio could smell a familiar odor of smoke as they moved towards the center.

"I thought this place was empty of Nats," Daigo muttered under his breath. "Every other place was empty of Nats when we showed up!"

"Every other place had somewhere else to go," Sam pointed out, "After this, it's just Yukon."

"Contact, 300 meters!" Morgan hissed, before re-adjusting her sight. "Looks like a couple fireteams. Your call, Sam."

"Yeah, I see 'em," Sam answered, before looking through his holo. There were about a dozen men there, surrounded by burning buildings and a few dead bodies. Sure enough, he could see the red and white tapes on their sleeves as the soldier readied picked up what looked to be a molotov. "Drop 'em."

The familiar whiff of her suppressed M14 was all the Nationalist militiaman heard before his brain splattered on the wall behind him.

"Open fire!" Sam shouted, and both he and Daigo did just that. Round after round shot through the Nationalists who rushed to cover.

"Shit," Morgan spat, before reloading another magazine into her M14, "Sam, there are people in those buildings!"

"What?"

"They're burning them!" Morgan shouted over the sound of the gunfire, "Anyone who's in there is going to burn to death!"

Damn it. Did they stay behind to kill everyone?

Daigo didn't have enough time to think before his best friend grabbed his shoulder. "We're going around the far side. Morgan!"

"Yeah?!"

"Keep them pinned!"

"On it!" Morgan shouted back, before firing again at anything. It didn't matter if it was a leg or a hand or a hair - she kept shooting.

"C'mon," Sam said as he moved around the side with Daigo. "Fifty meters and around the corner!"

"On it," Daigo promised, before kicking his legs into overdrive, only to find a dozen men behind cover.

From the looks of them, they had the red tape the nationalists wore to show which side they were on.

The men were distracted, hiding from Morgan's sniper fire at the other side of the yard and unaware of the two 542nd soldiers behind them.

"Drop 'em." Sam growled.

And they opened fire on the last remnants, gunning them down where they stood.

"Clear!" Sam shouted, before turning back towards where Morgan was, "Courtyard's clear!"

"And not a minute too late," Daigo observed as the sound of distant helicopters drowned out the groaning men on the ground. "So, what do we do about the survivors?"

"Screw 'em!" Sam said off-handedly, "C'mon, we gotta get these guys out of the barracks!"

"Alright then," he sighed, before taking one more look at the enemy wounded.

You're not worth it, anyways.

Threat Assessment: John Brown's Army, Federal Bureau of Intelligence, Washington, District of Columbia, Nationalist-Controlled Territory, United States of America, 1 January 1943

ORGANIZATION: John Brown's Army

IDEOLOGY: Socialism, Libertarianism, Opposition to Legitimate Government

POLITICAL POSITION: Far-Left to Centrist

SUMMARY

The organization known as "John Brown's Army" (also known as the "JBA")is a decentralized partisan movement located within the territory currently under control. While its exact date of formation is unknown, its origins can be traced back to internet traffic in the wake of the traitors' rebellion to the north.

Its composition consists of a "Broad Tent" along the ideological spectrum that is largely united in opposition to the legitimate American government on the grounds that President Theodore Bilbo's succession was illegitimate as well as the conspiracy theory that the Capitol Bombing was perpetrated by the Knights of the Golden Circle in order to decapitate the Olson Administration and allow President Bilbo to enact martial law.

The John Brown's Army first appeared on the radar at the Battle of Maxton, in which the insurrectionists attacked allied militias in the vicinity of Hayes' Pond. The organization would first claim responsibility for the attack during the aftermath, and it served as a rallying cry for armed resistance in support of the illegitimate Philadelphia Government.

The organization can be best-described as a decentralized alliance of different insurgent groups throughout the South and Sky Country. Organizations largely claim membership to the main organization despite the main organization being largely non-existent.

This apparent lack of a centralized leadership does hinder our efforts at rooting out the organization, though it does prevent any Unity of Command on their side. Insurgent groups under their banner largely act autonomously and their Modus Operandi will vary between different cells.

RECOMMENDATIONS

We must continue to use all mediums to reinforce the idea that these accusations of a coup are baseless. While there are likely members of the Knights of the Golden Circle within our ranks as militia, they make up a fraction of a fraction of our forces. These are the "Bad Apples" of our forces, and we simply do not have the resources to vet our forces at this moment.

It is also imperative that we martyr the victims of these attacks by painting them in the most-positive light to portray the JBA as murderers of decent, everyday Americans. Ideal victims would include public servants, police, and volunteer militia, though it is imperative that a background check is done whenever possible to prevent our side from elevating less-sympathetic members of our ranks.

Resources and manpower should also be dedicated to performing background checks on any identified members of the JBA to discredit the organization. When possible, criminal records and social media footprints should be referenced to find particular members who would be less-sympathetic to the average American.

These include, but are not limited to, men and women with a criminal record, homosexuals, and anyone who has a history of radical statements. Identifying these people and bringing them to attention will invoke a sense of "Guilt by Association" that will discredit the JBA in the eyes of the general public.

Finally, identified members and sympathizers should have their public information leaked to the general public, including (but not limited to) their addresses, phone numbers, and email addresses, as well as any and all actionable information.

Doing so will create a sense of perpetual sense of insecurity and unease among the ranks of the JBA and their sympathizers, which has the potential to cause desertions and defections in their ranks while dissuading sympathizers from publicly-supporting them out of fear of retribution.

Due to the extra-justicial nature of these actions, it is recommended that the actual actions be undertaken by non-official entities. This creates a sense of plausible deniability on our part.

CONCLUSION

As an decentralized insurgent group, the JBA needs to be fought on all fronts by any and all means necessary. Insurgencies may have the advantage against organized force of arms, but they can be combated through a hybrid warfare of propaganda and counter-insurgency warfare.

Galeão International Airport, Rio de Janeiro, Rio de Janeiro State, Republic of the United States of Brazil, 6 January 1943

"So," Gisele da Silva asked her mother and father at the baggage claim, "They're going to live with us?"

"For a bit," Ana told her daughter, "At least until the Civil War up north is finished. Then they'll go back."

"What if they like it here?" their younger son, Joao, asked, "Then could they stay?"

"I'm sure there will be some way to help them," Ana yawned, before looking to her husband to do the talking, "Isn't that right, Rico?"

"I'm sure we can find work for them at the yard," he figured, before peering at the arrivals. "Thought they'd be here now."

"Do they even speak Portuguese?" asked Joao, only to get elbowed in the side, "Hey!"

"Ana, no," Henrique said sternly, "Joao, that's rude. Plus, we have real-time translators for a reason, you know."

"Sorry..." the boy said sheepishly, "So it's no problem?"

"Shouldn't be," Ana thought aloud. At least if their flight shows up on time. "Oh, there they are."

At least I think they are. Unless there is another family of three American refugee women with brown hair and fairly nice luggage walking towards us.

"Are you the Silva family?" the mother's voice asked through the translator. Both Ana and Henrique nodded. "Well then. It is good to finally meet you."

"That it is," Ana confirmed. Both she and Henrique had agreed that she would do the talking after what their guest had been through. "It's a pleasure to meet you Mrs-"

"Please, call me Janet," the former socialite insisted with a tired smile. "I've had enough formalities for a lifetime."

Ana simply nodded.

I can imagine. At least this means I don't have to worry about accidentally refer to her as "Mrs. Bouvier."

That would be awkward even if her husband wasn't a drunken womanizer.

"Are you ready to go?" Ana asked the family of three, "How long until the taxi gets here, Rico?"

"Called it now," he promised, "Should be here in fifteen."

And so they waited at the terminal. Ana and Henrique made small talk with Janet while the children started talking with one another.

Of course, they took extra care not to talk about anything even tangentially-related to the divorce. It went without saying that any mention of her ex was out of the question.

From what they heard, John "Black Jack" Bouvier was, for lack of a better term, a piece of shit. The guy was a womanizer, a drinker, and also a sympathizer for the Nationalists who was currently in Washington. And even if he wasn't, it wasn't like divorcees liked talking about their exes.

"...we don't actually have a house," Ana overheard her daughter explain to one of the girls, "But the apartment should be big enough, and we're nearby the beach, too."

"Can we come with you?" one of the girls up front asked. Her son and daughter nodded, and the two Lee girls' eyes lit up.

It was at that moment that she knew that everything would work out just fine.

Sure, they were cramming three additional people into their condo.

And sure, that refugee family of three might not speak a word of Portuguese.

But if the children were as optimistic as they sounded, then she knew they'd all make it work.

 

[ChrisProvidence]

"Ayn Rand Releases New Book 'It's Okay to Be a Piece of Shit,'" The Onion (May 1943)

Geneva, Switzerland

Today, author Ayn Rand (born Alissa Zinovievna Rosenbaum) has taken time off from debating teenagers half her age to release her new book, It's Okay to Be a Piece of Shit.

The novel, which portrays heroes whose ideologies just happen to politically align with Rand, who react to the transportation of Taiwan from the Lost History's 2020 to our 1911 by capitalizing on the share in technology while also working to prevent the mistakes of the Lost History.

Of course, in their case, "Prevent the Mistakes of the Lost History" includes preventing the Food and Drug Administration from being formed and opposing anti-smoking laws, or letting women vote.

The novel contains several dialogues as well between her protagonist (who definitely does not share her political views) and several ideological opponents who serve as antagonists (who just so happen to have political views opposed to Rand).

And in typical Randian fashion, her protagonist either wins the argument, is later proven right, or wins the argument and is later proven right.

It's Okay to Be a Piece of Shit also includes a hundred-page filibuster in which the protagonist Andrew Ryan that just so happens to also politically align with Rand's own views. During said chapters, her protagonist (who is definitely not a stand-in for Ayn Rand and her political views) goes into the details about all of his ideology, how it is morally-justified, and how everyone who disagrees with Ayn Rand is wrong.

The novel released to rave reviews from some parts of the literary world who see it as a "Return to Form" to Rand's previous works.

Her critics, who can best be described as "Everyone who doesn't already agree with her, have a more-muted responses, including a "Who?" from F. Scott Fitzgerald, an "Isn't she the lady on YouTube who debates people half her age?" from H.P. Lovecraft, and an "Oh, she finally released her manifest?" from Ernest Hemingway.

Despite the mixed response toIt's Okay to Be a Piece of Shit, Rand has already announced that she is writing a sequel with the working title of These Are My Political Views and Everyone Who Disagrees with Me Is Wrong.