Prologue

It was high noon in New Jersey, Africa, the city where everything was yellow including the asphalt. Sam and Bladewolf were sitting next to each other across from Senator Armstrong in the limo chatting about things they had just done. Sam was wearing a tuxedo and Bladewolf was wearing a stylish black vest around his midsection with the top button roguishly undone.

Armstrong spoke. "Damn fuck, son. If it hadn't been for the help of Desperado I wouldn't have been able to restore war to this monkey shit disaster of a country." He winked at the bald cyborg sharing the seat next to him, the fourth passenger in the car. "No offense, bud, but sometimes what you need is a beautiful bastard with beautiful hair." He lit his cigarette and winked at Sam. "Like you, mister 'Jetstream.'"

Sam grinned his trademark shit eating grin. "No problem, Senator. That's Desperado's job—ravaging the world, wronging rights, putting good people to the sword. Now that the region is in absolute chaos, it should be easy to make billions of dollars off of the military industrial complex." He turned to Bladewolf. "Think how many milk bones you could buy with that, eh, poop?"

Bladewolf's tail lashed back and forth. "You must cease calling me poop, Sam. It is highly disturbing."

Senator Armstrong chuckled. "Some bastards might not be happy with what we've done here. A lot of people want peace. A good man is hard to find."

Suddenly, the car stopped. Armstrong growled in irritation and slapped the back window. "What the hell's the matter with you? I don't have all day, driver!"

The window scrolled down. "Sir!" said the cyborg who was driving the car, also bald. "There's someone in the road!"

"Well run him over!" Armstrong threw up his large meaty hands in exasperation. "Who do you think we are, anyways? Drivers?"

Outside of the car a strange scene was transpiring: a muscular black man in a blue shirt and cargo pants was standing spread legged in the middle of the road, a disturbing smile on his face. His dreadlocks shone with expensive and lustrous hair gel and his glam muscles flexed menacingly, and he was wearing yellow goggles. Across his chest was strung a bandolier of coffee mugs.

The bald cyborg in the tank that had accompanied the limousine aimed an armor piercing turret at the interloper. "Sir! Sir, you are standing in the middle of the road in order to stop us from moving our convoy to a safe destination. Move now, or I will be forced to assume that this is part of an elaborate and dramatic attack!"

The man's strange smile only widened. With deliberate care he removed a single coffee cup from his bandolier and began to spin it in his fingers. The ceramic became a blur.

The cyborg on the turret gasped, but it was too late. He barely had time to give the order to open fire before the cup smashed into the side of his face. Blisteringly hot coffee sprayed across his skin and melted it instantly. This produced much flailing and screaming as the guard toppled out of the tank and fell to the road to die. The man in the middle of the road only laughed. His next move was to flick another coffee mug, this time high into the air.

Through the limo's window, Sam peered over Armstrong's enormous shoulder. "What the hell?"

The crazed coffee crusader delivered a spinning axe kick to the mug that sent it flying in an arc into the air. Before anyone could realize what was about to happen, sharp broken mug shards and boiling hot fair trade coffee rained through the open hatch of the tank. Everyone inside died, their bodies scratched and poked by the cup fragments, their tongues badly singed by the coffee droplets.

"Hesus Christe!" exclaimed Sam as he stared at the tank, but it was too late again: the tank blew up and the blast flipped the limo onto its top. Armstrong, Bladewolf, and Sam all became uncomfortably intimate with each other for a few moments. Then they became uncomfortably unconscious.

"Sam!"

Sam awoke to something dry slapping against his face. It was Bladewolf's cyber-tongue. "Sam, wake up."

"Stop that!" Sam pushed the UG away. Who knew where that tongue had been?

"My apologies," said Bladewolf. "You were knocked unconscious in the crash."

"And you?" asked Sam, getting to his feet and checking to make sure that his sword was still there.

"My mechanical brain was jostled in the crash, necessitating a reboot of my core systems to prevent a short circuit. In layman's terms I was knocked unconscious."

Sam patted Bladewolf on the head as he surveyed the site of the crash with narrowed eyes. Nearby, the exploded tank smoldered. The limo was totaled, and there were bald cyborg corpses littering the ground.

"Wait a minute…" Sam's petting hand went to his chin.

"Indeed," said Bladewolf. "It seems that all of Armstrong's cyborg guards were bald and looked virtually identical. This may have been caused by budgetary concerns."

Sam waved this away. "Not that, poop! The senator's been kidnapped!"

"Oh," said Bladewolf.

"Let's go!" Sam pressed his feet against the ground and cybernetic energy welled up around his strength enhancement suit; while Sam was all man, his capabilities were certainly enhanced by the advanced super suit that Desperado had bought him. He set off down the street at a breakneck pace until finally arriving at his parked motorcycle only slightly out of breath. Sam swung on and Bladewolf hopped on behind, wrapping his arms around Sam's midriff.

"Could you not do that, poop?" asked Sam.

"Do what?" asked Bladewolf.

"I mean, don't get me wrong, you're a great guy. But you're no Mistral."

Bladewolf's eyes glowed slightly brighter. "Ah. I think I see the problem. You are afraid I will scratch your paint." Instead of straddling Sam's bike while holding onto him, he lifted his legs and sat daintily on the back cushion. The maneuver scratched half the paint off the bike and punctured the seat to boot. Bladewolf retained his embrace of Sam, who winced.

"I apologize," said Bladewolf.

"It's fine," said Sam. "Just forget it."

And with that they were off! The bike ripped down the road in the direction that Sam guessed the mysterious corn-rowed attacked had taken Armstrong. Sam tapped the radio implant in his ear as he steered the bike.

"Sundowner, do you read?"

"Lard and clear, hoss." Half a world away, Sundowner closed his Google image search of 'War + Nudes.' "What can I do ya for?'

"Armstrong's been keednapped. I need a track on his attackers."

"My pleasure," drawled Sundowner, his mechanized hands racing over the small Dell laptop keyboard in the back of the command helicopter. "Good thing we put that little trackin' bug into Senator Armstrong's jock strap, huh?"

"I guess so," said Sam. He and Bladewolf exchanged confused looks.

"Hot damn!" exclaimed Sundowner. "The bastard's less than half a klick east of your position. Looks like he's tryin' to catch a train."

Sam smirked with a confident look in his eyes. "Looks like our friend is trying to catch a train." He winked at Bladewolf. "I've got an idea, poop."

"Please stop saying that."

Ignoring Bladewolf's protests, Sam swung the bike around a street corner and headed straight for a derelict truck whose loading ramp was extended. Afar, he saw that a set of elevated train tracks ran above him at the other end of the block, just at the edge of the city. With expert driving he drove his bike up the truck's loading ramp at a furious speed.

"This mode of operation is inadvisable, Sam!" exclaimed Bladewolf as he comically clamped his claws over his electronic eyes.

"Hang on, poop!" exclaimed Sam. But Bladewolf didn't hear him; letting go of Sam's waist the moment they hit the ramp had jolted his body straight off the motorcycle and into the street, where he lay dazed and confused for several minutes.

Sam looked over his should even as he drew his crimson HF blade and bisected the truck to let his bike shoot out in a clean arc for the tracks. "Shit!" He called back over his shoulder in concern. "Poop!"

His codec popped to life. "No need to shout, Sam," said Bladewolf. "I have not been knocked robot unconscious. I will meet up with you at the train. Probably."

Sam nodded as the elevated tracks whooshed towards the bike. At the moment that tire met track, Sam thrust his blade into the metal girders below and used this as a fulcrum to pivot his bike into the proper position so that he didn't go flying straight over the track. Sam finished the maneuver by slamming his foot into the track to steady himself. Sam smirked as the dust settled around his huffing motorcycle-he was so satisfied that he almost didn't notice the huge cargo train rushing towards him! But without missing a beat, Sam tightened his enormous butt muscles and shot a full twenty feet into the air, coming down with a text book bun squat workout landing safely atop the engine. Yet he did wince as he heard the train mangle his bike into smithereens below.

"Not bad, hoss," said Sundowner.

"Thanks. I work them out twice, maybe three times a week."

"Ah meant the train."

Sam was confused. "I don't know why you would be. It looks like an old model." Everyone listening to the codec was also confused.

"Didja know," interrupted Sundowner, "that this is the same train Armstrong's captor caught? Or was that a lucky guess?"

"I'd like to keep my aura of mystery, thanks all the same." Sam inserted a rose stem between his teeth and waggled his eyebrows.

"Awright," drawled Sundowner. "Suit yerself. Armstrong's friend is just a few cabs down, so get ready for a helluva fight."

Sam carefully picked his way across the gap between the engine and the conductor's coach or whatever, I don't know how trains work. "So, we got any info on this coffee guy?"

"Hmm. Nothin' good." Sundowner peered down at the laptop as he pulled his cyborg pants up. "Some 'Kevin Washington' liberal peace loving tree hugger. Got a dozen degrees in racism or some shit, tons of multicultural credits on his college transcript. He also worked at a barista at an independent coffee house in Washington for five years."

"That explains the coffee!" said Sam excitedly as he leapt over another gap in the chain of cabs.

"Right. But that's not all—" Sundowner opened up a new window on his browser, then close it quickly and opened the right one "—looks like there's some guy there with him. Satellite imaging ain't good, but I think he's got a sword."

A cocky grin spread over Sam's face. "Oh, yeah? Maybe I'll finally get to test out my skills on a real challenge."

"Well, don't get cocky," said Sundowner.

"Don't worry," said Sam with absolute confidence. "I won't."

Sam strolled confidently over the gap to the last cab only to come across a scene of horror: Armstrong had been bound across the wall of an open cargo platform running on the tracks. There were chains and tape and more chains and an industrial metal pressing robotic claw attached with a pneumatic pressure lock, all to keep the Senator still. He looked dazed but unharmed. Beside him stood Kevin Washington, leaning casually against one of the massive restraints required to keep Armstrong's legendary football skills locked down. Kevin Washington acknowledged Sam's presence with a smile and then took a deep sip from his coffee cup.

"What do you want with the senator?" Sam asked casually, drawing his sword as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"I want him…" Kevin inhaled a deep whiff of his premium pastry roast. "…brought to a fair trial in his home country and imprisoned in comfortable conditions." His face suddenly broke into a horrific grin. As Kevin was talking, Sam noticed a young woman with heavy cybernetic implants sitting on a nearby box. She seemed to be mostly robotic; he could make out pale yellowish muscle through transparent and flexible armor. Though obviously unnatural, her body had a certain inhuman power and grace to it. There were even a few feminine touches: dark eyeliner, pale lipstick, the cybernetic muscled wrapped beneath the armor in the coy imitation of a one piece leotard in a feminine cut, and even almost fetishistic high heels built into her very feet. Quite the distraction.

Sam's attention was drawn again as Kevin, with almost sensual gentleness, poured some hot coffee down the side of Armstrong's neck.

"AAUUUUGUH!" screamed the senator.

"War, war, war," lamented Kevin in a hoarse whisper. "What about all the good things peace has done for us, you damn white privileged cis gender normer?"

Armstrong could only sputter in pain. "Football! Ideals! America!"

Sam winced in sympathy. The woman sitting on the box seemed bored and uninterested with the whole affair.

"What's your game, Kev?" Sam asked, trying to close the distance between him and the madman without anyone noticing.

"My game?" Kevin Washington laughed. "I don't want to play a game. I just want to end all the senseless violence in the world. Is that so much to ask?"

Sam gritted his teeth at Kevin's insane words. "You're mad! You're just a naïve colleges student who doesn't know how the world works?"

"Really?" Kevin drew another cup of coffee from his bandolier and held it carefully to the senator's lips, holding the man's head in place. "All we are saying is…give peace a chance." And with that he forced the hot coffee down Armstrong's throat. The senator tried to spit up, but it was too late; the intense rush of caffeine into his blood stream had already accelerated his heart into palpitations.

"NO!" Sam screamed, drawing his sword. He rushed at Kevin with a strike that would cut the man's hand away from the mug. But in an instant his strike was blocked by the mysterious stranger, who seemed to have their own high frequency blade! Their eyes met—Sam's normal eyes, and the exotic woman's intense dark red ones. Her short white hair billowed from the wind as she smirked, and Sam could see the faint lines of artificial juncture between her teeth and jaw. When she spoke her voice was like sweet white velvet.

"Mind if I insert my sword into this situation?"

Sam tried to push past her, but it was too late. Armstrong's heart began to beat so fast that he entered into cardiac arrest and died within moments. Kevin Washington let out a sadistic laugh. He detached Armstrong from the restraints and nudged the body off the train with his foot.

"NO!" exclaimed Sam in mental agony. The pain and shame of his failure hurt almost as much as having an arm cut off by someone's razor sharp forearm that had been turned into a sword by nanomachines, not that he knew what that felt like though.

Kevin Washington just laughed his psychopathic yet somehow child-like laugh. Above them, a large black helicopter with the foreboding insignia of two crossed olive branches swooped down to hover above the speeding train. As Armstrong's dead body spurted fluids many yards away and counting, Washington reached up and grabbed the orange safety harness that the helicopter was dropping to him. He carefully attached the harness to his body and then looked over at Sam and his attacker.

"Lightning bolt. Take care of him."

The platinum haired woman grinned. "My pleasure, Kev." Her arms flexed and pushed Sam's sword further towards its owner. Sam was momentarily distracted by noticing how flat the chest of this 'Raiden' was. Personally, Sam preferred more well endowed women, but this one was so incredibly beautiful in every other way that he could easily forget that. The truth was he didn't even like white women that much, but that didn't seem to matter to the torch slowly kindling in his soul.

"Damn!" exclaimed Sundowner. "That sunuva bitch killed Armstrong. Make 'em pay, Sma!"

"Little busy right here!" strained Sam as Raiden gave one final push, knocking him back. The mysterious cyborg ninja began flourishing her blade in front of her even as Sam recovered his guard. Sam watched in trepidation as Raiden began to perform a showy but extremely fast kata in front of him that somehow managed to involve her feet holding the sword.

"Sonnova gun!" It was Sundowner. "That bastard's fast! We're on our way, hoss—try to hold out as long as you can!" Sam smirked. He reached up and turned off his radio. Then, keeping his eyes locked with Raiden, he performed his own demonstration by hacking at the air a few times with his sword.

"Not bad," said Raiden.

"Likewise," said Sam. "You're self taught, aren't you?"

In answer, the femme fatale ninja charged him with a burst of speed. Sam deflected the attack and then exchanged a series of lightning quick parries and thrusts with his opponent. Every impact jarred their arms and brought their faces close together. Sparks flew. Raiden disengaged and spun to deliver a sudden backwards thrust. Sam stepped aside and threw out his own cut across the body, but Raiden transferred her sword to her foot and almost knocked Sam's own away with a backwards flipping up-spin kick. Or at least she would have if Sam hadn't stepped just out of range.

Sam watched as Raiden flipped right side up again. "And not half-bad, either," he added.

Raiden returned his appraising look. "You're not half bad yourself."

"Heh," said Sam. "You're sharp."

Raiden rolled her eyes and then went in again. Her flurry of attacks was enough to drive Sam back a few feet, but he held his own all the same. Then in an instant he found himself having to dodge a deadly swooping lash coming straight at his head. He slid his own sword across the underside of the blade and then sidestepped to deliver a splitting head strike to what appeared to be an open guard. He was just regretting killing Raiden when he realized that his blade had stopped a few inches from her face. Sam was shocked: the cyborg had sheathed her sword and slapped his blade tight between her palms!

"Hey!" he said in dismay. "Cut it out!"

"Are you going to make blade puns all day?" asked Raiden just before she twisted, almost tearing the sword out of Sam's grip. He readjusted and pulled back into a defensive posture. Raiden laughed and began to circling him, spinning her ninja blade in circles by her well formed hip. Sam watched her with narrowed eyes—this was getting worrying.

"Look at you," said the ninja. "Little techno samurai. Selling your sword to the highest bidder in a quest for eternal combat. What do you even do with that little sword of yours?"

The question stung, or rather cut. Sam shifted his eyes about and licked his lips. "I…I kill people. For profit."

"Ha!" Raiden laughed in derision and then moved in again, her blade coming from seemingly all directions. Sam was caught. It was all he could do to deflect one or two before his sword was knocked suddenly out of his hand by an incredibly powerful blow. He hissed in pain at his bruised fingers and tried to dodge out of the way, but the tip of Raiden's blade had found its way to his throat. Sam gulped.

"Now I see," chuckled the ninja. "You try to deny your weapon its purpose, don't you? Swords aren't for killing, Sam. They're for keeping the peace in unequal societies where the lower classes can only be subdued by force lest they seize the means of production for themselves." She lowered her blade to watch the effect of her words take effect.

The truth hit Sam hard. "No!" he exclaimed. It went against everything his family lineage had taught him, yet he knew it to be true. In a rage, he spun and snatched up his crimson high frequency katana from the top of the train.

As if from far away he heard the ninja laugh. "You poor bastard. You brought a sword to a tool fight."

Then something caught on Sam's neck and the world spun around and around and around. The last thing he saw before all went black was his own incredibly firm butt clenching and twitching as his headless body collapsed to its knees.

"Sam!" cried a vulpine voice on the codec. "Sam? Saaam!"

FELT DOLLY FALLING: RECONCILIATION