I couldn't keep myself away from the work for long, so here's the in-between one-shot collab that can explain a few loose ends from Military Science. Don't think of this as a sequel, but more of as... DVD bonus videos. Unfortunately, as these are simply mini-sodes, so to speak, don't expect the Afterthought crew to appear at the end of each episode. Enjoy!

PS: Note that in my story, all political incidences are the same but the people involved in them are different, due to my sincere belief that the NSA is everywhere and that if I make even one comment against the government, I will be abducted and brainwashed. Just like 1984!

Military Science: The Lost Episodes

Produced by: Imperial Fiction (formerly Naraku's Reincarnation)

Chapter 1:

Time Never Stops

Disclaimer: I do not own Jimmy Neutron. Period. Now, pretend that this little message existed in every chapter after this so I don't have to write it again.

"It doesn't matter how special or important you are, time waits for no one. Kids will still grow up, the old will still die, people will have birthdays, and people will miss you each day that you are gone, going on with their normal lives nonetheless." --Alex Fanson, F-74

While a giant spacecraft drifted into the Earth's atmosphere, attempting to land somewhere in the deserted city of Retroville, one particular news story was on the front page of every rushed copy of the Chicago Herald, New York Times, and USA Today along with every other major newspaper and news station in the world.

The President of the United States of America sat in the Oval Office, drinking a cup of fresh-squeezed orange juice for his early breakfast. Before the cup even reached his lips, his Secretary of State Arnold Typhon burst into the room, a manilla folder in hand and several aides following behind him.

"What the Hell just climbed up your ass and died, Arnie?" the President asked as he put down his orange juice.

Typhon picked up a remote control from off of the President's desk and pointed it at a TV, all the while flinging the manila folder at him frantically. He pressed the numbers for CCTV, the Chinese equivalent of CNN, and set the subtitles for English. "An asteroid just hit China."

The President nearly choked on his OJ which he had tried to drink again. "Say what?!"

"Just watch the TV, Mr. President," the Secretary of State muttered as he sat in a nearby chair and rubbed his temples.

A lady in a pink dress and disshelved hair spoke in rapidfire Chinese as the English subtitles translated for her:

"-now just tuning in, there have been reports of an asteroid about the size of a van crashed into the Shangrila Buddhist Monastery. Along with the desctruction of the monastery and all monks within, the impact of the crash sent large amounts of debris into the air and has turned much of the southeastern part of Zhejiang province into inhospitable wasteland. There are no exact numbers on the casualties, but it has been estimated that along with the 400 monks in the monastery, the debris has spread far enough and was dense enough to lead our government to believe that the death toll is now around 1500 people and rising."

"A division of the People's Liberation Army has been dispatched to help resettle civillians and aide in the evacuation effort. Prime Minister Fa Taigong has ordered that all civillians in Zhejiang, Fujian, Anhui, and Jiangxi Provinces are to remain in their homes and wear damp cloth over their mouth to prevent them from inhaling any debris. They are to remain in their homes until further notice or until a People's Liberation Armt soldier tells them they need to evacuate. They are to do so without arguement and bring only preserved food if possible."

"More on this tragic story as it develops."

The President joined Typhon in rubbing his temples as he set his orange juice aside. "This is going to devastate the Chinese economy."

Typon nodded. "Which means it'll devastate our economy, too."

The President thought for a moment. "Send the Peace Corps out to Je-, um... Je-"

"Zhejiang, sir?" the Secretary of State completed.

The President nodded. "Right, there. Send the Peace Corps there and have them help the PLA relocate the civillians and whatnot. Telegram the Chinese premeir; tell him that I'm sorry for the incident and that the United States of America will do anything it can to help our ally. Use those exact words, Typhon."

"Yes sir, Mr. President," Typon said. "Anything else, sir?"

The President nodded. "Have Air Force One ready for lift-off in about a week. I want to go check on Premeir Fa to see how he's doing, you know, keep PR up and Foreign Relations positive, especially with China. We need their economy and the world needs ours."

Typhon nodded once more. "Yes sir, I'll make it happen, sir."

After Typhon left the room, the President of the United States pressed the intercom for his executive assistant. "Clara, get me Vice President Nicoleson."

"He just call, Mr. President, says he lost his car keys at home and that he'll be a little late."

The President furrowed his eyebrows. "Alright, thanks Clara." He hung up. "Idiot."

"You know, it's not nice talking about your VP like, that, Mr. President."

The President looked up and saw nothing. He scanned the room, then out of his peripheral vision, he saw a figure dressed entirely in black; black one-piece tac suit, black ski mask, and black gloves. In his right hand he held a manila folder with a seal stamped on the front. The seal contained the image of the Earth with angel wings on either side of it. A thunderbolt ran down the middle of the Earth and underneath the Earth read the words, Pro Deus Nos Pugna. The President, whom had taken Remedial Latin in his senior year of high school, translated it into the words: For God we fight.

Before the President could say a word, the man, about his 24-year-old son's size, put a hand over the President's mouth. "Shh, I'm not hear to hurt you, Mr. President," the man said. "Just keep quiet." Then, the man removed his hand from the President's mouth slightly, enough so that he could talk with him.

The President shot back quietly, "Who the Hell are you? A terrorist?"

"Not even close, Mr. President," the man replied.

"Well you're obviously not a part of our Special Forces," the President retorted. "So who are you?"

The man sighed as he placed the manila folder on a chair in front of the President. He then set a small, square device in front of the door leading out of the oval office and it pulsed blue before all of the walls of the oval office were engulfed in a light blue aura. The man said in a louder voice, "The room is secure now, soundproof too. Now, let's talk, shall we Mr. President?"

The President glared daggers at the man before nodding. "Fine, fine. Now, answer my question. Who are you? Who do you work for?"

The man took a seat in front of the President's desk after removing the manila folder from it. He took off his ski mask to reveal a young, 25-year-old Caucasion man. "My name is Brandon Evercrest. I was born in Green Bay, Wisconsin, but not the Green Bay you know about."

"What are you talking about?" the President asked, now confused more than ever.

The man held up his hand. "If you would let me finish, sir." He cleared his throat. "Simply put, I am an Enforcer. I work for God."

The President raised a disbelieving eyebrow. He said in a droll tone, "You're an emissary from God?"

The man, Brandon, shrugged. "More of a soldier, but in this situation, yes, an emissary."

"You're deranged," the President replied.

Brandon smirked. "Am I? God, and all subordinate gods under him, can provide His Enforcers with anything they need to complete a mission. I've been sent from the leader of another universe to assist the leader of this one, and to do that, I must talk to you."

"'Another universe?'" the President echoed. "Enforcers, what the Hell's going on here?"

Brandon shook his head. "You'll learn later, Mr. President." He coughed. "Ahem, now, as I was saying. It's apparent that you don't believe me. Well, God knows all, as you know as a devout Catholic, so God has given me these interesting bits of information you never thought anyone would know about."

The President continued to glare at Brandon. "You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Brandon replied calmly as he opened the manila folder. "You didn't stop wetting the bed until you were 12."

"A lot of people have that problem," the President replied coolly.

"Your had your first girlfriend when you were 15 and she was a rather homely-looking chick named Ashley Wessen. You broke up with her not because you needed more space but because you were afraid she might get drunk and eat your cat, Mr. Whiskers."

The President began to sweat a little. "You could've read my journal from my high school years."

"Which you burned when you went to high school because you kept writing embarassing and sometimes perverted love letters in them to your first wife Heather Kramer, whom you married at age 30," Brandon replied. "Still not convinced?"

The President was stiff for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I believe you. So what does the good Lord want with me anyhow?"

Brandon smirked as he stood up and took out the more important contents of the manila folder and spreading them out over the President's desk. "Well, first let me tell you about the Enforcers before I tell you what I need you to do for the Enforcers..."