The musky light from the warehouse windows blinds me as I recline in a cheap folding chair, pizza box on my exhausted lap. Nothing left but crumbs. I sigh, feeling defeated.
There must be more to life than eating pizza. Hell, I'm living in a world where this is a luxury. Really. I haven't seen a single pizza since I got here. Come to think of it, pizza would make for a really big hit around here. In Gamindustri. Maybe I ought to follow Falcom's advice. You know. Disappear. Start a new life. No one knows who I am, no one knows that I'm not one of the rest. It could actually be pretty easy.
I hold the empty pizza box out in front of me. Pizza Hut. Typically known as the pizza for the 'forever alone', many years ago when rage comics were still a thing. Jeez… It's 2017! Hard to believe it's been so long. Hard to believe so much could change in such a short amount of time. But it did, and that kinda goes to show that anything can happen.
With a gentle flick of the wrist, I fling the pizza box across the floor. It slides for a while with a muffled swoosh, slowing to a stop. Then it's quiet again.
I get that there's a whole world outside those doors. I get that there's a whole land full of adventure, waiting for me behind the heavy, ominous doors of the warehouse. All good things, right? I just can't seem to get myself off my ass. I don't know why. I hate myself. The reasons I give for it aren't good, and I can rebuke each one I throw at myself in an instant.
It shakes me to my core. It surrounds me like storm clouds over Berlin. It ties me down to the chair with the weight of a thousand dead dreams.
I take a deep breath, and the air smells like a toothpick factory. Woody, dusty and stale.
I never really figured out how to get rid of these stupid feelings. My mom, before she passed, always told me that everything would be fine eventually, that I shouldn't think too hard on anything. My best friend, Owen, told me to just ignore it. He was tough, tougher than I was. Tougher than I am. But not tough enough for IF's fist. Even now, with all these guns and training and hardening, I can't do jack shit.
I did kill those men yesterday. I killed them for real, my hand, my wrist, my fingers my knife. Their blood. Their faces, scared, angry, disbelief. My face, a stone. My face, full of controlled aggression. Each movement to kill, to silence, to end. I still feel my finger on the trigger, my grip on the knife, and now it still feels surreal. If this is the army, if this is my world now, I want no part of it. But I don't get a choice.
Another sigh, and I rest my chin on my right palm. I reassure myself by saying that everything was out of my control. And it really was. Nothing that I could've done would've saved my mother. Nothing that I could've done would've saved Owen.
For the future, for the future things can be better. Next time I meet IF, things will be different. Things won't be the same. And she will be enlightened.
I'm not afraid. Not anymore.
At least, that's what I think.
On my left, sitting calmly on the stone floor, lies the drone. It's a black quadcopter with a little ball beneath the center for the camera.
That drone has a purpose. Not specifically for spying or taking pictures, but for today's objective. Or rather, my job for the next week or two.
The folks back home mentioned a big project a few days ago, but I didn't realize how big until now. Last night, when they ordered me to start up Operation Vigilante Belligerence, I vehemently disagreed- mentally. The creation of Radio Free America. A news program with a dumb name, made just for Gamindustri. Run by the US government. I don't see how anything could go wrong here. And yes, I'm being sarcastic to myself.
I didn't get any real guidelines on paper or anything. Rather, they just told me to tell the truth and nothing more. Win the hearts and minds of all of Gamindustri. Which is good, don't get me wrong. But to do so I need to override all the damn radio waves in the city. And I don't see myself as much of a charmer. In the end, Operation Vigilante Belligerence would just really jump start the operation to take me down.
Despite the education given to me in Psywar, this feels absurd. No, this is absurd. I'm alone with no experience, and I'm not even a real soldier. At least I don't consider myself to be one.
But orders are orders. That's what they want me to do, and if that's the best thing I can do here, so be it. They know more than I do about the grand strategy situation, and it's not my place to disagree.
I stand up, briskly brushing the pizza crumbs off of my blue jacket. After a moment of hesitation, I pick up the drone. It's pretty damn big, but light for it's size. It should connect with my cell phone with the handy-dandy app graciously provided.
I pat my right pocket to reassure myself that my phone is still there. And it is, much to my delight.
The physical requirements are all here. And as for the stuff that I'll be saying, I guess I'll wing it. Start off with the local weather, maybe move on to the weather across the States, then I can get onto bigger and better things. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.
And as for today's mission? I should find a good antenna, a strong one with enough power to fuck up everyone's connection across the world. That in itself will be a challenge.
I set the drone back down on the ground. My stuff should be safe here, after all, who the hell is going to break into an abandoned warehouse?
Just to be safe, I stuff my chair, backpack and drone into the corner of the building, behind a collection of misshapen boxes.
Now, for my scouting mission.
The sun hangs high in the sky, high above the suburban buildings and city skyscrapers. The Basilicom taunts me in the background, the tip of the spire glaring daggers everywhere I go. Kinda like that evil glowing eye from The Lord of the Rings. Ominous as hell.
To begin my journey, I climbed to the top of the warehouse. It was a bit chilly up there, and my bare hands stung when I used them to pull myself up a metal ladder. The view was pretty great, and from the edge of the building I could see an ocean of industry- warehouses, smokestacks, steam bellowing up into the sky. A building two blocks to my right was a game console factory, and during the daylight hours I can see trucks loaded with the finished product drive into the inner city, seeking their retail outlets.
I didn't see any big antennas or radio towers from there, except for one. There was a single massive antenna atop the roof of a behemoth of a skyscraper. That building was silver with multicolored highlights, and the sunlight shone brightly off it's gleaming windows.
With no other target in mind, it seems like that will be my base for Operation Vigilante Belligerence.
With the wind at my back, I set off for the skyscraper.
How the hell am I going to get up there?
The American Midwest is a quiet place. You never hear about it in the news all that much.
Even now, in the middle of foreign invasion, things are very quiet. The tide of conflict has yet to reach the breadbasket of America, but that could change as easily as the wind. And the people of Kansas knew it.
A small homestead on the prairie housed the Kempton family. A family of five- husband, wife, son and daughter. And grandpa. But grandpa lives in the shed next to the big barn, and no one really gives grandpa much attention.
Mr. Kempton was a simple man. He and his family kept to themselves in a small farming community, where they raised pigs and grew corn. Today was fairly cold, as it was January, and the planting season wouldn't start for another couple of weeks. Life was as normal as it could be, with the pleasant exception that food was much more valuable because of the fighting going on in the coasts. The agriculture business was booming, and Mr. Kempton liked it.
His wife was out of town right now, and his kids were playing out with the neighborhood kids. He had the house all to himself- grandpa never really left the shed.
But today was different.
Today, Mr. Kempton was reclining in the living room with a beer in hand. He hadn't had much time to relax recently because of the kids, and this moment of solitude was just what he needed.
But then he heard the back door crash open. Coupled with the firm stomps of leather boots on the hardwood floor, Mr. Kempton knew grandpa had come inside.
"What's going on, dad?" The bulky man shouted, taking a sip from his beverage.
"My boy, you won't believe it!" Grandpa stumbled into the living room, babbling nonsense. "The pigs have gone crazy! I checked it out of course, but I couldn't make heads or tails of any of it… get the gun, get the gun!" Grandpa shuffled to the window, drawing open the curtain and peering out to the barn.
Mr. Kempton was not happy to be roused from his alone time. And he had just cracked open this one, to boot!
The man begrudgingly got out of his chair, and set his beer down on the armrest. He shouldn't be up for long, grandpa is going senile after all. That's not always a good thing, but the kids think it's a bit funny, and Mr. Kempton is fine with it.
With a sigh, the man walked to the mantlepiece to pick up the family shotgun. Pump action, 12 gauge. Kept the coyotes away for years, making it a keeper of a weapon.
Mr. Kempton then made his way to grandpa, who stood impatiently by the door.
"Well, pops?" The adult sighed. "What's it this time?"
"This is bad news bears," the old man pushed the door open and stepped into the backyard, proceeding to guide his son to the barn. "Pigs got some new parasite or something- you won't believe this- big blue bug blobs."
As the man stepped outside, he shook his head. "Pops, I don't need this nonsense."
"But it's true!" Grandpa pleaded, tugging on Mr. Kempton's wrist. "I heard them oinking like crazy last night, and this mornin' I saw them blue blob bugs staring me down like I was a platter o' home cooked supper!"
"Alright, alright," The younger man shrugged off the elderly man with ease, holding the shotgun with a single hand. "Let me take a look." He sighed, stepping into the open doors of the barn.
"Watch the walls!" Gramps called out. "They're in the walls!"
Whatever. Mr. Kempton thought. Must be those damn beavers from down the river.
The barn stunk like pig. Disgusting pig manure, pig food, pig slop and all other nasty pig smell. It was a dark barn, and the only light for the building came in through the entrance or through holes in the ceiling.
Mr. Kempton dragged his feet across the stale hay covering the cement floor, and the barn was silent. He stepped over to a nearby wall to try and turn the lights on, but they didn't work no matter how many times he flipped the switch. Strange. Rats must've chewed out the cords.
But the barn was silent. No pig noises. There was always some sort of pig noise going on. How peculiar.
Mr. Kempton frowned. Something really wasn't right. Maybe grandpa was right about the blue blob bugs. But if he was, he should be seeing the blue blob bugs, right?
The man held his shotgun with both hands as he stepped further into the dark.
"Hello?!" He called into the darkness. "If someone is in here, come on out! I'm not afraid to utilize mah second amendment rights!"
No answer. So there isn't a burglar. It could be the kids, they always mess aroun-
A streak of movement in the rafters above the Kansas man caught his eye. What was that?
He leveled the shotgun towards the ceiling.
No scurrying noises, but he could hear footsteps behind him. Wait, footsteps?
"THEY'RE COMING OUT OF THE WALLS!" Grandpa, who stood behind his son, holding an M1911 pistol, shouted at the top of his aging lungs.
And the adult jolted his weapon around, trying to get a bead on the sudden swarm of blue slithering across each and every surface.
"DIE ASSHOLES!" Gramps aimed his pistol at the wall and fired twice. Something blue and slimy was struck, and fell to the ground. It's body was like that of a bean-bag, and it had dog like features all over it.
Grandpa shot it a third time, and it splattered into shards of color. No physical body remained except for the goo it trailed behind.
"Dogoo! Dogoo!"
"Pops, what are these things!" Kempton asked, trailing a blue blob with his gun. But in that moment he recognized them from the newspaper. They were Dogoos, some alien monster hell-bent on killing people, especially women.
"AHHHHH!" Grandpa screamed, shooting and missing another one as it scampered across the rafters. "KILLEM ALL, BOY!"
The adult didn't hesitate to fire his weapon at a group of three darting across the farm floor. Two instantly shattered into pixels, while the last one jumped at grandpa.
"MOTHER OF GOD!" He croaked, dropping the pistol as the Dogoo latched onto his left arm. "Jesus CHRIST son of a BITCH this HU-"
Panicking, Mr. Kempton fired his gun at the Dogoo. The slime monster died, but so did grandpa's arm.
"Shit shit shit!" He cried out, almost dropping his shotgun. "D- Dad, get inside and all the cops!"
"I can't HEAR YOU!" Grandpa replied, clutching his bloodied arm. "Speak LOUDER!"
"CALL THE COPS!"
"Fuck!" The old man agreed, leaving a trail of blood as he hurried inside.
What a trooper, not even caring that half his arm is gon-
Mr. Kempton was pulled out of his internal dialogue when he spotted a duo of dogoos start to rush him from the left.
He briskly pumped his weapon and fired once, then twice. Both dead, and now there were two puddles of slime on the wall.
This place isn't safe. Not now, not earlier. He's gotta get out of here!
"Daddy, what's going on?" Mr. Kempton's son walked into the backyard, his sister behind him.
"Get your sister and grab as many guns as you can, put them on the table right now!"
The young boy's eyes widened. "Even the big ones in the hallway?"
"Yes! All of them!"
"The little ones in my room too?" Mr. Kempton's 6 year old daughter asked.
"All seventeen, put them all on the table!"
The children nodded, rushing inside with glee.
Mr. Kempton turned around, pumping his shotgun.
He could hear them, those dogoos, out in the barn.
"GET OFF MAH PROPERTY!" He shouted, raising his weapon.
When the sheriff pulled up at the Kempton residence, he was ready for anything. He knew what a dogoo infestation meant- somewhere nearby those Gamindustrians had landed. These monsters aren't natural, and only come over to Earth by hitching a ride with the enemy.
And taking the proper precautions, the sheriff had called the national guard, the mayor, and the governor. The army would be here in minutes, at most twenty. The Army is always ready in wartime, that was the president's promise starting last week.
The sheriff pulled up in front of the Kempton house to the sound of gunshots. Machine guns, heavy caliber rifles and shotguns along with the sound of a chainsaw?
The sheriff rushed out of his car seeing how urgent the situation was. He didn't dare forget his shiny revolver or plain M4 rifle.
The law enforcer sprinted to the house after successfully hopping the white picket fence, and turned the corner at once, dashing to the backyard.
The sight of the backyard of terrible. Blue goo stained the once green grass, smearing the lawn in a shade of disgusting purple. A few windows had a dozen weapons pointing out of it- mainly rifles and shotguns, but the sherif spotted a Browning 50. Cal heavy machine gun firing in bursts.
This was way over his pay grade, but stepped into the fray anyway. Skirting along the house, he ducked down beside a window.
This window had the 50. Cal sticking out of it, and manning it was a very young girl. Maybe in elementary school or even kindergarten. But that didn't matter to the sheriff right now, not while his adrenaline rushed through his heart to the beat of heavy metal.
The girl stopped firing as soon as the sheriff poked his head up to the window.
"Excuse me miss, do you know where I can speak to your father?" He asked kindly.
"Umm… daddy says not to talk to strangers." She responded gently.
"I'm a policeman, not a stranger."
"Daddy says to be careful of policemen and tyrannical government figures."
The sheriff scoffed, smiled, then looked up at the girl again.
"I think your grandfather called for me, he said he got hurt bad."
"Oh, grandpa? He's lying on the couch."
"Okay, thank you…" The sheriff trailed off as he stood up, heading for the back door.
It would be a while before the ambulance arrived to help out grandpa as the hospital was almost thirty minutes away. The sheriff was decent at treating wounds, and as a first responder, it was his job to help the public in any way he could.
The back door turned out to be locked, so he clambered back to the little girl, who was back to shooting into the barn.
He waved at her, and she stopped shooting.
"I need to get inside, can you go unlock the back door or is it okay if I climb through here?" He didn't want to spook the child because she has a gun.
"Umm…" She didn't respond. Doesn't look like she's very good with words or giving orders.
"I'll just climb in through here, can you scoot a little?"
"Okay…" The girl got out of the way, and the moment that she did, the sheriff climbed in through the window.
The sheriff thanked the girl for her support before moving seeping into the building. The living room was right in front of him, and there was grandpa, lying on the couch.
A couple kitchen towels were tied up around his left arm, soaking up blood. A few were already full of the sickly red liquid and sat on the ground.
When the sheriff kneeled down beside the couch, he instantly knew that grandpa would not be living for much longer.
What could he do?
The sheriff looked around him for anything he could use to slow the bleeding, but there was nothing. All the rags were already draped over the arm.
"Hey grandpa," the sheriff said. "How you feeling?"
"Eh," He responded angrily, "I felt worse back in 'Nam."
"Geez, I'd love to know about that. You were in Vietnam?"
They talked for a while, the beat of gunfire draping a suitable backdrop of the two. It had been a long while since grandpa had anyone to talk to, and it's been ages since he had anyone interested in him start up a conversation. For once, for the first time since he last saw the smile of his mother, he was truly happy. Ironic, the sheriff thought, for one of his happiest times to be his last.
Grandpa bled out before people were finished with lunch in the town next door.
The sheriff let go of Grandpa's right hand, not even knowing he had taken hold of it in the first place.
It felt funny. Not a good funny funny but a strange kind of funny.
But everything was like that now, wasn't it?
It's almost eight at night now. The streetlights have long since flickered to life, and the endless fields of wheat and corn are dipped in the early light of the moon. Several hours have passed since the barn was locked down by the national guard- an armor brigade.
If there really was a dogoo infestation, it had to be shut down before it could spread any further. Whole cities in Europe had fallen to the monsters, who had spread so rapidly no one could hope to contain them.
And that wasn't the biggest threat. At least the monsters were an enemy both Gamindustrians and the people of Earth fought.
But if there were dogoos, there had to be an invasion or incursion nearby.
But why here? Why now? There was nothing of strategic importance in Kansas, there was nothing of tactical value.
But there was a large deposit of precious minerals nearby.
The big shots in the Pentagon would look into the reasons why. Captain Christopher Chappell was a little occupied at the moment, scanning the distant countryside with thermal vision in his AC-130 gunship.
He was given the green light to engage anything that wasn't of Earth origin in the area, and whatever constituted as alien was up to him to decide.
"Hey, check right about 45 degrees, I'm getting a thermal spike along the side of the hill." His assistant said, tapping Chris on the back.
Captain Chappell panned the screen to the location his assistant designated. And sure enough, there was something along the tree line.
A black-cold group of entities was moving slowly towards the north, where the Kempton property stood.
It definitely didn't look human. It didn't move like animals should.
That thought process was all that was needed.
"I'm going to engage the group of unknowns with the 25mm. Looks like dogoos."
"Affirmative…" Chris's assistant hummed, jotting down the time that the engagement started on his computer.
Captain Chappell lined up his weapon with the cluster of black dots. He was certain these weren't human.
He squeezed the trigger of his stick tightly for two seconds. A stream of death streaked at blistering speeds into the dogoos in the dirt. Trees, goo and stones were chewed up like trash, and then the ground was silent.
Bits of dogoo sat in the mud, a shower of pixels leaping into the sky.
"Good hit on that one, I see nothing left." The assistant complimented. "Hold up, one sec."
The assistant flipped on his radio headset, and spoke with the man on the other end.
The hum of the gunship's engines was comforting to Chris. He felt at home up in the sky as opposed to the ground, where everyone was merely a speck of white in someone's crosshairs, if not his.
"Alright," The Captain's assistant pulled himself over to Chris. "We're going to be flying angels fifteen at bearing 200 now, I'm adjusting scan range to accommodate… now."
"Ground forces want us as eyes in the sky, they think they found the enemy command ship." The assistant continued. "If it is, it's going to be guarded with everything they've got. That's why we have two platoons of Abrams tanks spearheading the IFVs behind them deploying infantry and clearing it out. In short, watch for friendlies."
"All good, I got it." Chris nodded, stretching his back in his seat.
They flew for ten minutes, ten minutes where the enemy dug in and the stars came out. Armored vehicles raced across the endless fields of grain, churning up lines of fertile soil. And the jet-black gunship slowly descended into a holding pattern around the site. And sure enough, a long, elaborately designed hovercraft sat itself down in a grove of trees, creating a massive clearing around it.
"Alright, I've got the friendlies to tag themselves with with IR strobes, you should be able to identify them by their shape to begin with but hey, anything to make your life easier." The assistant cleared his throat. "Anyways, Cavalry Scouts just spotted an overwhelming number of enemy armor moving to intercept our boys. Looks like Lastation tanks judging by the design."
"Yeah, I can tell." Chris said, noticing the distinct double-cannon armament Lastation was known and feared for. "I'm going to stop them here- I think I see infantry dug in foxholes by the woods as well. Confirm this for me as I engage."
"I hear ya," The assistant smirked, typing on his computer. "You're already clear to-"
A devastating blast of the 105mm cannon rocked the aircraft, almost throwing the assistant off balance.
"Damn, I get that I talk a lot... but that's just rude."
Chris just smiled as his shot landed directly atop the lead enemy tank, crushing it immediately and kicking up massive clouds of dust.
He swapped to the 40mm and aligned his sights on another Lastation tank. These things are tough nuts to crack, tanking almost ten shots before finally being disabled.
He fired the gun, each shot delivering a powerful recoil to the aircraft. They collided with a second tank, it's crew helpless to do anything in return. Once five shots were expended, he switched to the 25mm to finish off the tank.
The group of enemy armor started to scatter, reacting poorly to the AC-130's sudden appearance.
"Hey Chris, priority target, enemy mobile AA to the west just showed up, it's on the road beside that cluster of houses-"
"I see it," The Captain fired the 105 howitzer at the threat, and before it could fire a single shot it erupted in a sea of flames. "Gone."
"Nice work, go check back now, our armor is in contact with the enemy."
Chris Chappell panned the camera back to the fight. And a fight it was: the flat ground and patches of trees make for the perfect ground for a tank skirmish.
But this wouldn't be a fair battle. Not when Chris was in the sky, and the enemy were but white dots.
He turned the 105mm cannon on his first target.
It's getting close to midnight in Boston. Snowfall had ceased long ago, but the debris and bodies were still covered in white. A blanket of purity and innocence, that's what Noire saw it as.
The Goddess of Lastation sat with her legs cross on a bench in the Boston common. Around her neck was a fluffy white scarf, and in each one of her hands was a black tail. Her eyes were locked on the frozen lake in front of her, deep in thought.
The world was drenched in darkness, but the streetlights illuminated much of the park, even now.
What would this place look like, what would it look like if we were never here? Could I see people, walking hand in hand, as if life had just gone on? Did I make a mistake?
Jeez. I shouldn't have to think about this. This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be a war of liberation, to bring Gamindustri into a new age and these… are they really savages? No. These people into a new age. At least, that's what I thought.
A hurried pair of feet broke the silence, crushing snow underfoot as the sound of footsteps got louder and louder.
"Lady Black Heart, I have an urgent message-"
"What are you standing around for?" Noire snapped, then took a deep breath. "Please give it to me."
The woman, who was a ranking soldier, handed Noire the letter before swiftly departing.
Disheartened, the CPU cut open the envelope. It was from Uni. Uni, of all people. Why couldn't she just call?
She pulled the letter out of the envelope, curious and worried at the same time. Even before she started reading, she knew something was wrong. The handwriting was not right. More scribbles than words, Noire read on.
Dear Sis,
I don't want to say anything to your face, not after everything I've seen. I don't really know how to say this, but I'm done. Please don't be angry with me or anything, but I just can't handle what we're doing anymore.
The handwriting got worse.
I'll come back later, I just need some
Time - -
Time to think.
If I end up doing something you and the country would hate me for, please understand, please. I'm not working against other humans anymore.
Love, Uni
Noire let her arms drop to her legs. The letter hung loosely in her fingertips, the gentle wind threatening to rip it away at a moment's notice.
It's cold.
Cold and lonely.
Maybe… maybe I need some time to think as well.