Welcome back, it's been a long time since the creation of this side project for Manifest Destiny.
Many thanks still go out to BlueWay for allowing this project and to extend a hand of help when I was still down trying to find a way to write this right. I'm kind of screwed when it comes to writing, tired and emotionally drained. I've been slow with my work and that's partially due to distractions, college, and a lack of motivation.
I'm thinking that I should throw my focus toward my shorter stories so updates again will be a little difficult, however, I'll try to get a chapter or two for this story out in a much timelier manner. Homestead, once referred to as The Nation, is a parallel narrative to Manifest Destiny, and tells the story of our people in 2028 onward as the events of the Gate take place. This chapter contains a little exposition and hints toward the story that will be told here. The first two scenes are written by myself and are retellings of the original first chapter of The Nation. The final scene of this chapter is written by BlueWay but edited by myself.
War is never fair and it's never honorable. The civilian and detached outlook will be the focus of this story. Homestead is a tale about the United States after the Global War on Terror and the consequences it creates for this post-terror world. Terrorism becomes a bit of a normalcy and peace is a far-fetched dream. We would be fools if we believed that it would last and Homestead hopes to capitalize on that. Anyhow, enjoy the chapter and please do read and review. It's been so long and I think it would help me understand my current storytelling ability if I know how I did here so it would be nice to have some more reviews this go around.
If you are an American like me, I want to wish you all a Fourth of July and to enjoy the rest of your day. Thanks for the support and I promise I'll try not to leave everyone in dampened spirits at the end of every chapter. This is only the tone setter, there will be more ups and downs from here on out. Hope you all enjoy the short adventure, please do give your feedback.
Welcome back to the newly-established first chapter of Homestead.
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Welcome to "Homestead," a non-profit fan-produced fiction product under the ownership of set penname: RiptideZ.
DISCLAIMER: All intellectual property revealed in this work belongs to their rightful owner(s). RiptideZ, the author, owns only that of his intellectual assets. Please Read and Critique constructively via private messaging or review.
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["Destiny's Manifest"]
[Summer 2028]
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"Our government has failed to contain this disaster. Two decades of continuous environmental damage since Paris – we should have been passed this by now but we're not. It's clear now, our leaders cannot make the hard decisions – it is up to us now. Only we can decide our future. We decide our own destinies." – Anonymous Hacktivist with connections to known Eco-Terrorists, 2026, Eastern Canada
…
Open of the twenty-first century and twenty-eight years counting. This is 2028.
Twenty-seven years since Nine-Eleven and the beginning of the Global War on Terror. From Bush to Obama and all their successors, in one way or another they made mistake or two or more – the mission failed over and over again and the United States' involvement in the Middle East and the greater extent of what had often been referred to as the Islamic Belt fluctuated, never completely receding, and never overflowing, over the course of decades. Some of the soldiers on the ground would have been able to claim to know the land just as well as the actual inhabitants.
Somehow, through two decades and a half of constant conflict, the world had survived and life continued on.
On a cloudy morning along the White House lawn, the sky had darkened with the hanging threat of scattered thunderstorms. A hanging mist grasped the ground as humidity tickled the skin of anyone walking through Washington this early in the day.
In the distance, toward the edge of the Presidential property, cameras clicked and flashes of rainbow color flapped from dozens of busy umbrellas being popped or waved to the light breeze in the busy streets of the American capital. Tourists in their light jackets and cheap plastic body wraps stared in awe at the nation's most important home dressed in its cheap, flaky white paint. The publicity surge along the White House grounds always peaked in the late mornings and early evenings whereas the afternoons were practically vacated.
It wasn't a coincidence but rather a voluntary choice by the extensive crowds that passed through the District of Columbia every day, these were the times best to catch a rare glimpse of the forty-seventh Commander-in-Chief of the United States of America, Anton Dirrell. While a picture of the White House alone left a lasting impression, a picture of a President lasted a lifetime.
Within seconds an uproar echoed against the steel fence line of the Presidential Estate as dress shoes met pavement and Secret Service Agents went rigid with concentration. Five men, four dressed in uniform akin to royal guards, two pairs of United States Marines Corps Honor Guard escorted their President to the West Wing across from the leader's living quarters. Whistles and cheers erupted from the crowds and the bark of German Shepherds told the crowds to stay away from the fence.
His blonde hair was a mess this morning, obliterated by high humidity and the dampened breeze – the President of the United States walked across the White House lawn to his majestic office. He wore a gray suit and a red tie and his dress shoes had been shined to match the flash of the marching Marines. Dirrell waved a hand in the direction of the fence line which was quickly met with the gasp and squeals of onlookers gushing at the President's acknowledgment as if rabid fans of a television star.
Anton Dirrell was a charmer, always had been no matter if it was through his looks, his intellect or his voice. He was a tycoon-kind of man, the man that reflected America's stereotyping of the Italian mafia with its many charming and passive-aggressive gangsters. Dirrell was compassionate and a great PR face with a deep voice and the charismatic talent of a proper salesman – he almost appeared to be born for the job of President and had been numerously named an Andrew Jackson, John Kennedy-type politician. He wasn't young but he youthful looks.
Among the onlookers, the Secret Service commander saluted the President as he went by. Dirrell subtly nodded back before disappearing out of sight with his Marine escort behind a pair of large hedges. Like many Americans, the President had his own personal commute every day though his was much more spectacular with a healthy fan base and plenty of fanfare. The President didn't travel kilometers, he traveled mere meters.
The West Wing was a two-story building made of marble and concrete and painted white similar to the rest of the estate – the building featured a small parking lot for Staffers, a secondary security fence, a guard tower and police box, and several prefab barriers – the kind used in active war zones. This was the President's workplace and the democratic temple from which laws were enforced and policies were developed.
The Marines quickly broke rank and file to form up on the doors and steps allowing the President to enter the West Wing complex in a timely manner. Their forms efficiently marched in line after the national head-of-state. Two Jarheads stopped at the double doors and waited at attention, the other two quickly broke off down a single hallway marked "Restrooms."
A small fart escaped the bathroom door as the men in white caps and black and blue ceremonial suits and shiny medals disappeared behind it. For a few moments, snuffled voices echoed from the Men's Room before twisting into silence.
"Crap."
"Damn it, Jason."
"It was an accident, Hunter! Leave me alone."
"Fine, pickle shit."
"Hey-."
The President walked alone down the long, drawn out hallways of the White House West Wing. The passages were devoid of people for the most part – it was early but the White House lunch rush had already occurred, every Staffer and their grandmother had gone off to get a meal before noon came and went. With the early work hours, it was a much more effective system for government employees in the DC to eat brunch.
There were a number of offices that marked the edges of the large office space. Private offices for the President's Cabinet and critical staff: the Press Secretary, the National Security Advisor, the Staff Secretary, Chief of Staff, etc. Most were still unoccupied with the lights off today, some were on lunch break, others were out of the country, and some others were on leave. Each and every individual served at the privilege of Dirrell.
Growls and angry curses were spitballing against the walls of the CIA's Advisory Officer, a Special Agent Syed Hampson. Dirrell stopped in front of the CIA Agent's office to find the man yelling away at an anonymous individual at the other end of a landline while the said Special Agent was stuffing his face hole with Meatball Sandwiches from Subway.
"Good morning, Hampson."
"Hmm? Goof Mourn in, Mister President." Hampson replied, looking up from his paperwork and phone line in a daze.
Dirrell grinned at the man. "Slow down, Syed – the meal can wait!"
"Hmm. Yes, Mr. President. Sir."
The man started to take slower bites and toned down his rant. The President quickly composed himself and continued on his commute to the Oval Office, just down the hall.
A pair of White House interns were arguing amongst themselves, nodding at the President as they passed.
"The app can accurately identify the humidity in the air with the camera! I just need to take a picture with the flash on and the app will analyze the water droplets in the air."
"Bullshit, Ricky. You said the same thing about that Health Advisor app that used the camera! It was just one of those rip off third-party apps that send your information to dating sites."
"No, I swear it works! Here let me show you!"
The one intern, Ricky stopped to take a photo of himself and the hall. There was quick chime suggesting that the phone had received its results.
"See it works fine. It isn't going to rain."
"You just took a picture of the inside of the building. That has no correlation to…"
There was a sudden roll of thunder and the crash of droplets pounding against the White House roof.
"…rain…there you go. I was right."
"That's bullshit," Ricky replied to his fellow intern.
"Sure it is."
"Language, kid." A manager ran by quickly passing the President before disappearing out of sight.
Dirrell stayed composed till he arrived in front of the desk of his secretary. Delilah, the crazy old hag – a woman who made how to make the President's day a living hell and an exciting adventure by keeping him on his toes.
Delilah was sipping her tea innocently, pretending not to notice the President's presence as she watched away at her computer console. Her hair was grayed and flopping in practically every direction and her clothes looked as aged as she was, almost reminiscent of soiled furniture. Though she was already sixty-three and approaching her retirement age, the woman could chew apart any lesser man to shreds with words and blackmail, she was in every definition of a misogynist.
"Mr. President." Delilah greeted without looking away from her monitor.
"Delilah," The President replied, "How was brunch?"
"It's better now that an intern owes me a twenty."
"Ricky?"
"Ricky."
The President and the Secretary chuckled together before quieting back down and reentering his business mode.
"I've completed the requisition for the carpet cleaning – the Pepsi is all gone. Next time you go hosting a barbecue for you're the business class of Chicago – don't do it in the Oval, that Eagle emblem was Ford's."
"Dully noted."
"Get back to your office, Anton."
The President stood still in a moment of defiance before wandering around her and off to his seat of power. If there was one person you didn't challenge in the White House that wasn't the President, it was his Secretary. The damn woman was too damn old.
The President stopped before the great white door to the Presidential Office and halted in a moment of internal consideration – a little meditation for the soul of an untamable leader.
Before Anton Dirrell had clinched victory in the Presidential election of 2024, he had been the Democratic Senator from Illinois to the US Senate. A billionaire in the tech industry with big contracts in China and South Korea. The four years of being the leader of the Free World had changed the man greatly as many President had been changed by the Office years before. From the unsure and simplistic businessman with political experience to a strong-arm, heavy-weight American leader. While his foreign policy was known for being primarily conservative but
In his past, Dirrell had been known as "Hardhat" or "Hardhead" for being involved in a number of high-profile construction and acquisition projects in Chicago and for being a shrewd business man that could not take no for an answer. He was a hard man that drove a hard bargain; that never changed. Only his confidence and his outgoing personality that allowed the man to be more charismatic and sell his ideas effectively to his people.
The President firmly grasped the handle of the door and pushed. There was the click of a turning fork and the door heaved forward with a light breeze. The blinds had been opened and the wall color exploded with gold-colored wallpaper. At the center of the room, the Presidential Seal and Crest with the image of a guarded Bald Eagle that spoke the ideals of the Office of the President and the ideals of the United States of America. The chairs were made of a silky satin or oiled leather couches. The President's desk, taken from the storage of a deceased West Point professor of Foreign Policy, sat in the back of the room toward the windows and marked by shiny gloss and the heavy live oak from which the desk was built – the same material that made old American warships impenetrable for outdated cannons so many centuries ago.
There were expensive panels cut into the walls near the embedded white shelves of the office that played stills from impactful moments in American history. Dirrell was a history hobbyist, collecting old gimmicks and odd items from the past. Some of the more notable images that transitioned into focus was an image of President Truman showing off an error-filled edition of the Chicago Tribune stating, "Dewey defeats Truman!" The President actually had a framed copy of one of those old newspapers but it was hidden somewhere at Camp David under a pile of other historical pieces.
Quickly stepping into the room and closing the door quietly behind him, Anton Dirrell marched his way over to the center of the room and opened up a hatch in the middle of the floor and pulled out a rolled-back television display.
The President grabbed his television remote off the top of his desk and turned on the television. He quickly swapped the channel to CNN before grabbing a water bottle from the mini fridge hidden behind the Presidential desk.
The footage that jumped out at him made him drop the water bottle just as quick as he picked it up.
The headline: "Attack on Ginza? Tokyo Ablaze?" CNN was reporting on a sudden attack or incident in the Japanese capital – fast-moving, crumbly images from security cameras showed blurry four-legged creatures in armor and cloth. Humanoid beings charging at scrambling civilian crowds.
There were images of motionless victims numbered in the hundreds. The bodies, the dead. Blood in the streets.
The commentator, a young Sikh-looking woman, spoke in Australian-English. "We are receiving CCTV feed from Tokyo, Japan…oh my… there is a developing situation in the streets. People are reporting flying monsters, aliens, and men on horseback. Japanese shoppers are being gunned down in droves by what appear to be swords and archers. The streets of the Ginza district are chaotic and leave us with only these horrifying images. May God help these poor souls? We will keep you posted as more information comes in. Please stay tuned for this developing crisis."
The President threw his remote at his desk, attempting to put it back as the CNN report went to commercials. There was now a subtle dent in the wood itself.
The President looked around briskly, noting the closed door where Delilah was still sitting. Dirrell yanked open the door and called for Delilah. "Delilah! Get the staff together now! We got a big problem!"
Dirrell turned over to look out the window of the Oval Office as rain splashed against the building with dull pops. There was a Marine in his Dress uniform and a large overcoat braving the weather.
Slamming open the door, even as rain entered the Office and quickly ruined the President's suit and further scrambled his hair in the breeze and loose water droplets, Dirrell pointed at the man, demanding.
"Get me the Secretary of Defense and find out where the Joint Chief of Staff is – I need the War Room prepared now."
The Marine quickly saluted his Commander-in-Chief and rushed off into the West Wing to proceed with the orders; the Jarhead's footsteps were methodical and quick like a heartbeat. No one knew what Dirrell had seen but they knew when something was wrong – the President didn't know all the details yet but he needed to get a focus group together as fast as humanly possible – they were now working against the clock.
Rushing back to his desk and slamming the door, the now damp Anton Dirrell grabbed his landline and dialed up a specific number. America was now on a war footing. They had to act quickly.
"This is the President. I need you to look at any of the major news networks right now. Preferably CNN. I'll be right back with you, I need to make another call."
Dirrell quickly placed the caller at Line One before switching to Line Two and hit speed dial four. The sound of a connecting line was quickly met with the voice of a gruff sounding man. "Yes?"
"Get me a line to the Tokyo Embassy and the Japanese government and bring DEFCON from Five to Level Three. Action Order: Breach Knox. Chieftain-Actual, authenticate. Alpha. November. Tango. November. Dash-Delta. India. Romeo. Lima."
The line remained silent for a moment before a female voice replied with a simple, "Roger Chieftain" and ended with a quick click reporting that the line had been terminated. The message had been received and accepted. Washington D.C, the United States, and the world was now tuning their televisions to their major news networks as the greatest single attack on a sovereign nation since Nine-Eleven occurred and took the lives of many people, Japanese and foreigners.
In the wake of spent blood, an American cried bloody murder.
…
"There never was a good war or a bad peace." – Benjamin Franklin, United States Founding Father and inventor, written in a newspaper under a pseudo-name
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"We are live in…three seconds and counting. Two. One-."
The studio lights intensified, the camera shutters were lifted and the designation light glowed green. The caption scroll flipped on.
The studio was live as the morning news jingle absorbed another fifteen seconds of screen time. There was silence and the camera operator gestured to the pair of news anchors on screen – they were officially live.
"Good morning, Tokyo City! I am Hanae Maki." The middle-aged, female news anchor smiled showing whitened teeth to her audience.
"And I am Nori Akiyama." The younger male news anchor added in with a cheerful wave and a minimal grin.
"Today is the Eighth of August, Twenty twenty-eight!" Akiyama informed the camera, reading the teleprompter.
"Today's weather is sky blue and cloudless. We have some lively news from around the city today – our first piece goes to the Chou Ward along the Bay Waterfront. Doujinshi has landed once again in Tokyo in a big way." Maki added.
"The biannual event, Comiket has arrived at the Chou Ward Exhibition Center and is open to the public today with a very large visiting population from around the world." The back panel behind Akiyama swapped to a picture of Tokyo Bay overlooking the Chou Ward.
"Among the attendees are prominent Web stars, amateur authors and artists, avid readers and plenty of cosplayers going around."
"According to the announcement, Comiket is completely open to the public for free for today only. The rest of the week will require paid admission. If you are interested in acquiring any self-published works at the convention – this is the time because they are being sold out fast. Our reporter on the scene tells us that there are currently some several thousand participants at the convention. Comiket is the largest doujinshi event in Tokyo and one of the largest gatherings in the world. We go live to our reporter, Hikari Hayashi at the Event Center overlooking the Bay. Hikari?" Hanae introduced her on-scene correspondent.
The main visual switched to the profile of another young media hostess standing in front of a large glass-covered building with Tokyo Bay in the far background of the setting.
"Good morning, Hanae – Nori," Hikari said, addressing directly to the camera. The hostess appeared to be standing on an indoor balcony.
"Morning!" The desk anchors replied off screen.
"I'm currently visiting a nearby coffeehouse overlooking the art celebrating event here in Ginza with a cup of Ryokucha Green Tea in hand, as you can see. With today's rare, blue skies and a nice Easterly gust out toward the Bay, there is a lack of pollution in the air. Today's weather is nearly perfect with near flawless vision. As you heard early, our Weather Report removed the Air Quality warning for the first time in two weeks. There are birds chirping nearby and the streets are crowded as everyone in the city seems to want to get in on this perfect day!"
"How's Ginza?" Nori Akiyama asked out of curiosity.
"Very crowded. It was nearly impossible to get here with our news van, there was a backup in nearby Kyobashi Ward Freeway. By far, the Tokyo traffic – mostly vacationers or teenagers attempting to enter the city from the suburbs or for families to escape to vacation resorts out in the countryside. Most Convention goers have managed to arrive in the Chou Ward arrived by alternative means like the Underground, Public Bus, Carpool, and Electric Tram."
"Have you been to the Convention yet?" Maki asked to get the segment going.
"Yes, I have Hanae. The people there are very friendly. There were much lesser known fictional characters walking the streets, brought to life, around the Convention Center and the shopping centers nearby. It has gotten so surreal that some of the visitors have described the event as 'entering a fantasy world.' Many fans are cosplaying as their favorite characters and much more are here to purchase their favorite doujinshi before they run out. The lines are thick with fans and much of the crowd has spilled out into the streets and the courtyard. Ward Police have closed off most of the street to vehicle traffic to prevent pedestrian endangerment and congestion among busy shoppers and the novel fans that have worked hard to bring their favorite stories to life." The camera quickly panned to the street below where crowds of fans and shoppers rushed about their day.
Hikari addressed the setting she was currently filming from. "To emphasize the huge number of fans and visitors today, I would like to introduce you to a few of our friends in the shop. Everyone, say hello!" The camera turned to face the interior of the coffee shop dominated by a busy crowd. The shop was accented by polished wooden floors, large glass panels, granite tables and desks, and a small waterfall display in the corner with artificial bamboo plants.
The crowd, mostly Comiket visitors easily identified by their tourist shirts or elaborate costumes.
"Ohayo! Good morning!" The enormous crowd of convention goers yelled to the camera and its audience.
The coffee shop was located on the third floor of the Mall of Ginza and sat across the hall from an expensive clothing store and a pair of escalators sitting between the two consumer establishments.
The two news anchors replied, off screen. "Good morning everyone! Have fun!" The camera quickly panned back toward Hikari.
"According to many of the convention organizers, this event has garnered more popularity than it has in over the last few events. Tickets sold out fast, within the first two days and are designed to last the entirety of admission for the entire event which will occur over the course of a week or so. Today is a rare day for Comiket because of free admission to the public allows just about anyone to enter the event."
"Tell us a bit about the convention itself, Hikari-san," Maki stated politely, off-camera.
"We actually have a pre-recorded segment with one of the major convention organizers, Nana Kazumi, a thirty-four-year-old who helped explain to us the reason for the increased participation and popularity of the event. The rest of the segment will be available on our network website following this broadcast."
Nana Kazumi's face quickly replaced Hikari's as the recording began to play. A microphone moved in front of the convention organizer.
"Tell me, how many expected participants do you have and how many people actually showed up today, Mrs. Kazumi?" Hikari asked the older woman from off camera.
"We were originally expecting about 250 thousand participants in the reflection of last year's bad weather between the wind and rains but it turns out with the weather today is much more beautiful and with all the prominent authors here we've really seen an increase in the number of our visitors. We, the convention managers, actually had about 150 thousand fans come down so far and expect 550 thousand by the end of the week; we believe it's because of the extended coverage of the event and the neighboring events here today in Ginza that we had such a huge and positive, supporting crowd. We haven't had this many visitors in quite some time due to a decline in the number of prominent doujinshi, however, with the support and coordination with nearby events we've seen more gamers and mainstream entertainment fans come down and enjoy the festivities and quench a bit of their youthful curiosity. We really appreciate all the support the community has given us through the years and we hope we can only continue to grow the popularity of our amateur novel market." Kazumi explained as the ambient noise of the convention goers traveled through the halls of the large convention center.
"That is a lot of people Kazumi-san! How did you manage to get so many people into such a small part of Greater Tokyo? The coordination would have been impossible."
"Well Hikari, it was difficult but we managed. With the help of the regular shops and tourist stops in this area of Ginza, given its tourist and shopping value on the ocean view, we found ways to keep people constantly moving and prevent pedestrian traffic. The Precinct Police provided several officers and patrol cars to lock down major intersections and divert vehicles to allow more free movement of event goers. The nearby Combat Arms Simulation Tournament helped to promote our event and theirs in kind through us so we have many convention goers traveling between the two events and the Ginza Mall. There are even more viewers tuning into the different convention events – this is the second year in a row where we've managed to double our microphone and camera count to increase viewership abroad. We are fast approaching carrying capacity so the ability for us to stream our event to the world helps to lower the load a bit as people from all over the world can tune in and participate as if in person. There are even a few body cameras going around to all streamers to view the floor."
"For our audience, when do you think will be the next event?"
"We set it up properly to happen twice a year, the next event will be in December. Truth be told, we tend to get fewer visitors around that time of the year due to the temperature but it is a much better time to get novels and our products because there is less competition."
"Well thank you for having us Mrs. Kazumi."
"Thank you for taking the time to visit your event!" The organizer replied in a cheerful nod of her head.
"You're very welcome, it has been a very friendly event. I hope you enjoy your time as well Kazumi-san." Hikari replied, shaking the hand of the woman on the television screen.
"You have a good day!"
"Domo arigato!"
The video of the interview quickly faded back into blackness before returning back to the face of Hikari.
"That sounds like a lot of fun, Hikari! Nori, are you a doujinshi fan?" Maki asked off camera to her cohost.
"No, but I have to agree, that seems like a very fun event. Hikari, you have a fun time and we'll see you back in the studio later!" Akiyama stated to his coworker.
A general announcement over the Mall intercom halted the news channel conversation, "We expect heavy crowds today due to an event in progress. Please follow the direction of the officials on duty."
"Thank you, Akiyama! I'll see you two—."
There was a sudden crash from behind Hikari causing a slight commotion and cut off the reporter. The camera tilted to face the outside of the coffee shop.
A young man dressed in an orange brand tee shirt and cargo shorts had collapsed to the ground near the escalators. He was noticeably twitching on the ground with a support beam laying in front of him. It was easy to assume that he had not been paying attention to where he was walking.
Hikari asked out loud as she clamped her mouth, "Is he alright?"
The man quickly got back up and held his head – it seemed he was doing just fine. Just a bit clumsy.
Turning back to the camera, Hikari grinned sheepishly. "Don't worry about him. He'll be fine."
The camera flipped back to the faces of the two co-hosts of the news network.
"Good to hear, Hikari. Now, remember Comiket will not be open for much longer to the public – today is the day to get involved." Akiyama explained to the audience.
"We have one more speaker before we move to commercials. An anime fan even in his political career and older age, Mr. Tarou Kanou, our dear Minister of Defense."
The camera swapped once again from the main camera and to a prerecorded video of an older man.
The Defense Minister was dressed in a standard suit and tie and he had some defining features to his face, some scraggly looking skin and flipped back hair, there were large bags under his eyes from sleepless nights. Kanou was a major fan of Japanese entertainment, video games, manga, and anime – it was a well-known fact among the Japanese population and it made him more amicable to the younger generation.
"Sir? Tell us a bit about yourself. What made you become a fan of anime?"
Before the Defense Minister was bloated out by a sudden transition from the pre-recorded video.
The words on the screen were strange but sudden. Even a bit worrying.
"Developing Situation in Ginza, Tokyo."
It had only been seconds ago when everything had been doing fine, even great.
For those at the epicenter, a war on innocents had begun as monsters escaped the darkness of a great Pantheon at Ginza, Fourth Street.
Death from another world.
…
"We shall defend our island whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender." – Former Prime Minister Winston Churchill, 1942, Days into the Battle for Britain and the Blitz
…
Today was a day of many firsts. That day, in August 2028, armed foot soldiers dressed like Romans had marched into midtown Tokyo in an attempt to claim it in the name of conquest, and, for the first time in its brief history, the Japanese Self-Defense Force engaged in urban warfare within a fractured but thriving metropolis, its own capital city. A bloody morass defined by a gray overcast, the smell of gun smoke, and the deep liquid red running through the streets between these Roman bodies and armor mixed with the decimated thousand corpses that they slaughtered – the entrance would have pot marked a fantasy novel.
For Colonel Chigurh Baxa Andrade of the United States Air Force, a man into the latter half of his first century, it was another bloody start to a new bloody war. The Colonel was due for a promotion any day now, this was the first day he had ridden into a combat zone in a Black Hawk helicopter. Yokota was on fire, metaphorically, as the Marine regiment there and the Seventh Marine Expeditionary Unit posted on the USS Normandy Beach in the bay were plunged into DEFCON One and sent out for battle a mere mile away from where they were: into the streets of Tokyo.
Andrade was a man of brown curly hair and a well-built form. Even after the years he had been in the service and aged so much, he still looked too young to be a …an uncle.
It had been the first day in a long time, he had been expected at that post to gear up for combat; today was the first day he had ever landed on top of a Command Post, the Seiko building in the Ginza District. It was the first time he'd seen combat take place literally underneath his nose with an MCR in his arms; in the case of a foreign assault on the CP, the rifle would be his ticket to safety and his ticket to defense.
The Colonel was the voice of the United States Forces Japan, a veteran commander who had known war through Desert Storm – the 1991 invasion of Iraq, Enduring Freedom – a walk into that hellhole called Afghanistan, Open Wind – the harbinger of collapse in the Middle East, and every American and NATO conflict fought since the advent of the 21st century. With the arrival of this new enemy who came to Ginza with conquest in their eyes, they met resistance at every turn - a resistance that found its command underneath a controversial colonel, an OG Crip, a man bathed in blood, from Bompton – the bloody streets of Compton. Andrade was currently the highest and most veteran American officer in the field with his hands deep in the situation that the world would come to know as the Ginza Incident.
He was dressed now, more as a foot soldier rather than a flag officer from the USAF, and he was drenched all the same as he stood before the stone foot of the black vehicle known as an LAV, an American Light-Armored Vehicle, and what felt like a million Marines swarming the ground for undead enemies. The dead scattered as the Marines skewered through the bisected corpses, some torn apart by explosives and others eliminated by lead like producing Swiss cheese. The enemy was given the least respect, especially after being responsible for the murder of thousands – white tarps containing the remains of Japanese citizens lined the sidewalks, removed from the asphalt where they had fallen during the massacre and where their blood had been spilled by the gallon-load. The enemy bodies were everywhere and they bleed just as much as their victims – to think thousands of them had come out of that dark void, from within that wormhole that looked so much like an Ancient Roman or Greek Pantheon.
Why was the Colonel here in this nightmare-filled city block? He wasn't here to fight against these Romans personally, of course, but he was an American on Japanese ground, and the Japanese needed someone to talk to. The young enterprising Army Ranger which he had recognized as the first responder to this fiasco had things well in hand anyway: acting as an officer above his stripes in the heat of conflict for, as far as he knew, his first day in combat. In all honesty, it was a spectacle to be a witness to the Ranger's commanding demeanor.
"This is Hitman Actual to all responding Marine Fireteams. We have confirmed hostiles in the Sony Building across from the Subway Station. Do we have confirmation of units tasked with clearing both the Metro and the Sony Building, over?"
He was still out there, leading his reinforcements and fighting in his regular civilian clothing – jeans, sneakers, and a tee shirt and armed with nothing but what he had collected from those that heeded his call to battle – scavenged gear and equipment from the Police, the Defense Force, and his own Ranger outfit.
His Ranger team platoon was with him, out in that mess. They had been the first out of Yokota after nearly hijacking a Black Hawk and demanding to be flown to assist their Platoon Leader – it was like something out of a Marvel movie.
They had been at the forefront of the fighting with the JSDF first responders; they helped establish a perimeter around Ginza as best they could as the dragons and wyverns ruled the sky and fireworks and cheap firearms from citizen-fighters attempted to shoot them down.
The Colonel knew the Rangers, or, at least, Lieutenant Emerson and his chalk.
He would have to thank him later, in some cynical sense, for ruining his boots as he looked at how distinctly red the streets ran. The JSDF Cobras and the Seventh MEU's air assets had torn the enemy asunder. Pieces of flesh, steel, and bone littered the street in a sickening display. Animals of the very real and fantastical sort were strewn about, being kicked or towed into piles for later sorting.
The bodies of the assumed-Romans and their armor had climbed and climbed into such horrible monuments of towering bodies in respect to the efficient killer that was modern warfare. Even the flies didn't dare disturb these mounds of dead. Every once and a while, a body would emerge to be alive within the stack; they would be drenched in the blood of his fellow soldiers, muttering in a foreign tongue. Those that survived, that surrendered or were subdued, were taken to the docks of the Tokyo Bay to be processed, and slowly, ever slowly, the defeated, obliterated enemy force of the day was revealed.
And no matter what happened, no matter how history had viewed this day, Andrade knew, the JSDF could commit no wrong, for this was their land, and their blood had been spilled.
Another day, another war, and for that day the entire world for him had centered on Ginza.
Nothing about China's decade-long and continuous intrusion into Japanese and Vietnamese oceanic territory, nothing about the US involvement in Mexico's ever-heightening Cartel War, nothing about the day-to-day tribulations of an America forever entrenched in the Middle East. Today was a day focused solely on the Battle of Ginza, and as that day ended, the Colonel became a guilty victor, standing before another mystery.
His personal guard had been ever alert and yet, there was no need when they found themselves conquerors of this dark heart of a city. Marines from the Seventh along with some M1A5s tanks, airlifted in by the Seventh's Stork Quadcopters, had locked Ginza down from the inside out.
If anything else came, the Marines would come and they would see – and they, the enemy, would be conquered.
The gateway, shaped like a hall to fallen Gods, had hummed like the sound of Space, like the Universe Background Noise; it was a promise that something existed beyond the black, beyond the visible darkness.
For nearly a hundred years the United States had known its enemies, inside and out. They had been in their element – fighting wars they might not have won holistically but understood well enough – this situation was a new case. From the advent of international espionage and a battle space dominated by Cyberwarfare, every iota of data and information was at the fingertips of America's most senior and prestigious military planners backed by the combined efforts of leadership and resources taken from the nation's own houses of men-in-black or the intelligence centers of allies the world over.
But that could only pertain to the enemies on Earth.
Where the enemy came from beyond the Earth, taken from a place beyond the realm of possibility and that of the Universe. They were unknown, but not enough to be alien.
To think about what was happening now would've driven Andrade, and indeed most people, insane. So he, and by extension, most people didn't. They didn't think about the fact that a portal had opened up in Ginza by a method unknown to anyone that could only be described as magic, and from this gateway, an army of storybook-legions from the Roman Empire spilled forth into the modern era.
This fairytale was not so. Not when those legions came to kill the innocent. This was no fantasy, this was a dark reality.
"It fucking never rains in Compton." Andrade spat as he threw a poncho over his head as he felt the rain, the tears of the Earth on this sad scene. There was work to be done, wet or dry.
The only other curiosity was found in the weather. It was cloudless this morning, how did this storm just suddenly appear? Had it been spontaneous, a terrible miracle? Had it been destiny?
That death on an epic scale would bring the rains of mourning upon the dead, the dying, and the vengeful. The coming of rain to set the mood and to begin the drumbeats of war.