Anyone fancy some Evil Con Carne?

Disclaimer : The city of Metropolis, the Black Dogs and most of the Keepers belong to me. The other characters belong to their respective creators.

His desk almost shrouded in darkness, a dim desk light doing little to perforate through the gloom, General E. Skarr looked forlornly at the map on his desk. The war had gone disastrously, as he'd always thought it would, and now they were slowly being surrounded. He and the other Keepers had total control of the city, that was true, but they were only a tiny city state. It was only a small band of loyal soldiers that were willing to fight for them. People like him and other high-ranking members of the Keepers had the power to make people vanish overnight, not just from their beds, but from existence itself. Once your personal records were destroyed, and they were in time if they thought you were a sufficient threat, you didn't officially exist. The vast majority of the population supported the Keepers purely through fear of the consequences of doing otherwise.

But day by day, they were slowly being penned in by the advancing forces of the Eurasian Federation. Their annexation of Vismund Cygnus three weeks ago had been political and military suicide. No sooner had they mobilised their minimal troops than the Eurasian Federation had caught wind of their plans and, having finally found the excuse to rid them of their weapons programme, launched an attack themselves. The programme was hardly secret anymore – the Eurasians had found out about it months ago and reserved fears over how far it could progress. The Eurasians were a selfish race in essence, a world superpower that operated under the misnomer of "freedom fighters". Their tireless battle for world justice and peace was a vicious masquerade – they acted only to save their own necks or remove any challenge to their superiority.

As general of the armed forces, he had the final say in what his troops did during wartime, but when it came to declaring war itself, he bore no influence at all. The final decision was made by the Inner Circle, the seven most powerful Party members, and although Skarr himself had attempted to sway them away from open warfare, his protests had been ignored. Many of them viewed themselves as Roman or Greek heroes, mighty warriors whose power rivalled that of the gods themselves. He personally saw himself as more of a Cassandra – cursed to always tell the truth, but to never be believed. Why did they not listen to him?...

The dim sounds of artillery fire boomed through the sky, and it depressed him to think of the hundreds of young men senselessly giving up their lives. He pictured them being equipped with their combat rifles, grinning with pride as they were led calmly and obediently to their slaughter like sheep in an abattoir. They had probably signed up in an instant when the war began, tempted into a Valley of Death by the honour of fighting and perhaps even dying for the Keepers. It had only been since they declared war on Vismund Cygnus that he truly realised how their influence had spread like a plague through the common people.

Standing at ease in front of the window, his one eye regarded the softly humming factory that was Metropolis. The Inner Circle was weakening, no doubt about that. The sharply increasing rate of state disappearances and executions was a sure sign of their paranoia and fear before the war had even begun. The infrastructure was being steadily weakened, and he believed that neither it nor their politics would survive an onslaught from the Eurasians. The more patriotic and jingoistic of the Party members rejected the slightest hint of surrender and maintained that the troops would fight to the last man, but these were senile, deluded old men who refused to realise the truth. They hadn't heeded his sage advice before, and they refused to do so even now. It wouldn't be long before his comrades discovered that when you play with fire, you soon get burned…

A noise from his intercom jarred him from his meditation, the voice of his assistant. "Apologies for disturbing you, general, but Chairman Strokov requests your presence."

"Immediately?" Skarr asked.

"He was very specific about that, sir."

"Very well." There was a quiet click and the intercom fell silent. No doubt the Chairman would ask him for an up-to-date report on the conflict, to which he'd almost certainly reply that their defences were taking on water like a sinking ship, and that the Eurasians were getting closer to the city itself. He might even attempt to sway the Chairman towards a ceasefire, but he wasn't overly confident that he would succeed. The man was too deep-rooted in his own interests to even consider such a proposal. He donned his military cap and walked out of his office.

Central Core, or #1 Gibson Square to civilians, was a huge building, a twisting, labyrinth of corridors that appeared to go on for miles. Skarr always had a weird sense of déjà vu whenever he came along here. Even the shade of light-green wallpaper was constant throughout. The only variations were in the portraits that hung from the walls, paintings specially commissioned by the Inner Circle. Most other art was banned inside Metropolis – the Keepers called it 'degenerate', a tag that Skarr didn't personally agree with. He'd seen such works of art that had been confiscated, and he failed to see the political threat which the Keepers said they posed. The only portrait ever made of him hung on his office wall, but as he walked along the corridor, the stern, silent faces of figures past and present stared back at him from their hooks. There was even one of Felix Dzerzhinsky somewhere along here, a ruthless man whose brainchild was eventually to become the old Soviet KGB. The old Defence Secretary considered him a true visionary, hence his portrait adorning a wall of Central Core.

Eventually he reached the office doors of Chairman Vladimir Strokov, a frail old man rapidly approaching eighty. When he'd led the coup twenty years in true Leninist style, he was a man who, despite his age, refused to let adversity dampen his ardour. Now, although his passion had hardly subsided, like the rest of the Keepers, he had become gripped more and more by paranoia, demanding the arrest of anyone he saw fit.

The young woman at the desk stood up and saluted him. He acknowledged it with a nod and said, "Comrade Strokov requested my presence."

"He's waiting inside for you, General."

"Thank you." He parted the doors and walked inside the office.

Strokov's sunken features regarded him from the opposite end of the room. "Good afternoon, Comrade General," he murmured.

Skarr saluted. "Comrade Chairman."

"Have you news from the front?"

"Regretfully so, Chairman," Skarr replied, standing at ease. "I have received numerous dispatches from troops on the outskirts of the city. They say the Eurasians have broken through our lines, and they are mere steps away from reaching the city. At this rate, sir, within twelve hours…they will have taken it." Strokov pondered this for a moment. Skarr had cast his bait – now it time to reel in his catch. "Sir, may I urge you at this point to contact the Eurasians and broker a ceasefire? At this rate, there'll be nothing left for the Eurasians to conquer."

"A ceasefire will not be necessary, General," Strokov said. "There is a back-up plan, a battalion swooping in from the west. They'll catch the Eurasians totally unawares."

"With all due respect, sir –" Skarr wiped the sweat from his brow. " – to even attempt to withstand the Eurasians any further is madness. Steiner, among other commanders, has sent me a dispatch asking what to do next. I cannot grant them as I must ratify them with you, but to keep them out there makes no sense at all. The indication is clear that we have no chance of victory."

"I am sorry to hear of your distrust in your fellow commanders," Strokov said, coldly regarding him through his ivory-rimmed glasses. "It appears that honour is not among your highest priorities. One cannot attain honour through surrender."

"For me it is no longer a question of honour or dishonour," Skarr said. "It's a question of who lives to see the sun rise tomorrow. The lives of countless soldiers have been wasted in vain. There's possibility for heavy civilian casualties if – "

"The civilians have brought destruction upon themselves," Strokov interrupted him.

"Pardon me?"

"They have proved themselves too weak, and it is only a law of nature that they will be exterminated. I shall shed no tears if that becomes necessary."

"This is insane," Skarr spat, marching up to the desk. Damn it, why wouldn't this senile old fool open his eyes? "These aren't traitors like the Black Dogs, they are civilians! You are their leader, they look to you for guidance! You can't expect to forsake them when they need it most!"

"In wars like this, there are no civilians. Either they fight, or they die." Strokov paused to take a sip from his glass of water. "Send a dispatch to Steiner, and the other commanders. Tell them to hold their positions."

"Comrade Chairman, you can't possibly expect me to tell these men to simply await their death?"

"We will fight back against the Eurasians. The battalion from the west will wipe them out. Once that happens, we will march on towards the future."

"The only thing we are marching towards is a trap!" Skarr yelled at him, pounding his fist on the table. "We are not strong enough, they will crush us! Can you not see that?"

"Are you questioning my orders, General?" Strokov asked venomously. "I believe I have made myself perfectly clear. Send dispatches to the front line. Tell the divisions to hold their positions."

Skarr stayed silent for a few seconds, in case his next statement landed him in front of a firing squad. "As you wish," he said, and saluted before turning around and exiting the room. When he returned to his own office and sat himself down in his chair, he considered the available options. One was to deliver the orders as Comrade Strokov had dictated them, the other to secure a ceasefire. Deep down, he knew for sure that it was the only way out, but to do it, he'd have to operate behind the backs of his colleagues. He was tempting fate here, but he could see no other option. He resolved to meet with the Commander-in-Chief of the Eurasian army and plead his case.

Another artillery blast made his window rattle in its frame. Silently, he sat back in his chair and began to plan it in his head.