Changing Plans: Ancillary Stories

by How-not-to-do-something

A side story to Changing Plans, because its a big world.

3. Around the World

Pacific Northwest, United States of America...

The McDaell Doglam Olympia factory, a sprawling facility located in the capital city of Washington state had a peculiar event taking place. Formerly the twenty seventh largest of its kind, forever envious of the Pennsylvania based McCormick plant and its forty world class assembly lines, it was suddenly thrust into the number one spot after the events of February Twenty Third, 2003. Its workload had increased exponentially, becoming the top supplier for the US Army's F-15E fleet, to keep abreast of the Tornado, Rafale, and Shiranui factories operated by their respective nations; in kind this scenic place near the foothills of Mount Rainier became a high priority target during the resulting bitter wars.

Now for the first time in months, all fifteen lines were silent; equipment was turned off, tools were set aside and each project sat idle and incomplete. The cause for this halt in production was exemplified by break room C in the plant's northwest corner, where dozens of second shift workers listened to an official broadcast originating from the USS Theodore Roosevelt, acting headquarters of the New United Nations. It was a short announcement, followed by a lengthy explanation of the bewildering circumstances.

When the broadcast ceased the various workers were deathly silent, processing the unbelievable news freely handed out. It lasted until one mechanic snorted in disbelief.

"What kind of bullshit is that?" was his incredulous reply. Chatter arose after his pronouncement, as the weathered and overworked people gossiped to make sense of it all.

"I dunno man, after the Day can't say this alternate Earth thing is too unbelievable. I mean, shit, you remember those giant worms last October? Who knew those monsters existed?"

"I'm still processing the evacuation part. Like, are we supposed to just uproot everything and move there?"

"Horseshit is what it is. We fought tooth and nail for this long, and we're supposed to just run away with our tails between our legs? I say we tell those Europeans where to shove it."

"Shut your trap Tiff. That last cold spell about killed the farms, and we have BETA out there gunning for us. Clocks ticking here."

"Fucking government lost its spine. We put our asses on the line, saved all those ungrateful Arabs and Euros and Asians for all these years, and for what? I lost my goddamn house because those pussies in office wanted to play nice with the Japs, letting 'em take over downtown Seattle. They fucking owe us, and this is what they decide on?"

"I say we march over there and show those weak bastards who's boss."

"Hear hear, screw those guys. I'm not going anywhere near that Bridge thingy."

"Huh? I thought we were going to space, like that colony fleet a few years back. Its only like six light years away, I was wondering why they didn't detect them earlier. The government would be real stupid if they missed that."

When an adjacent door opened to reveal a short elderly woman in dirty clothes, flanked by a uniformed soldier from the National Guard, talk came to an abrupt halt. Although grimy and ragged, she tipped her hardhat up to the few dozen men and women all peering towards her.

"Alright, everyone listen up." her surprisingly deep voice called out, silencing the remaining murmurs. "You heard the news, I'm here to tell you it's for real. Governor's office sent an order to shut down the plant. Nobody here is being laid off!" The manager yelled to overcome a sudden uproar of anger, and no small amount of fear. "First thing on the memo. Nobody's being fired or kicked out. Food rations for yourselves and your families aren't being slashed. Now this here is Lieutenant Ortega, he'll give you the rundown." she gestured to a young man in uniform, who cleared his throat.

"Right, basically this factory is being dismantled to be shipped over to the new world. It and everyone here are a high priority for evacuation. Because of that, the Guard detachment is being beefed up, and the Brass is gonna spare a hundred men to help with everything. If all goes well we'll send everything and everyone over in one go two months from now." he explained concisely.

"Including your families." The manager added, causing the closest workers to slump in relief. "Now I've talked with your other supervisors, we got a rough plan in place. First off, Lines Six, Seven, and Twelve: the F-15s you guys are working on need to be finished in ten days. Put 'em together and let the QC department take care of the rest. Everyone else, start taking apart the birds. Yes I know, but keep the parts intact as best you can." she said to quiet their frustrated murmurs. "We'll ship 'em off for spares, either for our boys or the Japs. Once you're done with that, start cataloging tools and equipment to pack up. Yes?"

A hardhat wearing supervisor stood up to roll his neck. "Line Three just sent their newest bird out the door this morning. They haven't even got all the parts for a fresh one yet."

"You guys start early then. Every drill, wrench, and welder is being shipped off, no exceptions. Heavy equipment will be brought in for the cranes and presses next week. Once your bays are clear I'll disperse you to other Lines who need the help. Now then, I'll preface all this with a personal note: be quick about it, but don't bust anything, and don't hurt yourselves. There hasn't been a major accident since last October, I don't wanna end the streak." she explained, deflating a little. "If all goes as planned, this time next year we'll be living the high life as far away from this shitshow as we can get."

Similar meetings played out from Seattle to Chicago, from the northern border to the edge of the Grey Zone (not exactly a solid line, merely labeling where a region tended to be livable more than not) in upper Missouri. Weary farmers, tired factory workers, and destitute technicians all responded to the news with unease rather than jubilation. Nationalism motivated plenty, distrust and disillusionment marked the rest. For the BETA were supposed to be stopped on the moon in 1967. They were meant to be destroyed at Kashgar in 1973. They were halted in 1974 through a judicious use of nuclear weapons on America's closest ally, forever turning Canada into an enemy. Palaiologos. Neptune. Swaraj. Lucifer.

Babylon.

Again and again the government proclaimed an end to this terrible war was near. Now few believed that their plan to simply run away would work. Too many bold declarations had been made, too many promises were broken. With the world ruined, the confident words from Boise (the United States' provisional capital after Washington D.C. was sterilized by vacuum) by the acting President was met with distrust instead of approval. But with the salt storms encroaching closer every month, the days getting colder and harsher, and the BETA recovering much faster than mankind ever would, what other choice was there?

In the interior of a USN Wasp class assault ship based at Seattle, a greasy hand tucked away a stray lock of golden hair, so its owner could resume her careful ratcheting. Another few centimeters and she sat up, her stained beige fatigues wrinkling from an open panel.

"That good?" probed First Lieutenant Lilia Kjellberg, leader of the USMC VMF-318 squadron Black Knives. Her expectant gaze morphed into a scowl when she saw her mechanic fixated on a small civilian radio set nearby, rather than working.

"Uh, oh sorry. Just, wow, can you believe this stuff?" she set his circuit tester down to flash an incredulous look.

"I know, a whole 'nother world. Shits crazy." drawled a man in blue fatigues, poking up from inside a narrow hatch. He crawled out of the joint casing gingerly, helped along by Kjellberg's extended grip to clamber on top of the cobalt painted surface, plopping down to wipe his hands on a rag. "People there never fought BETA? My heads spinnin just thinkin bout it."

From below their perch yelled another crewman. "Hey, those new parts came in!"

Coughing into his elbow, the first mechanic leaned over the slanted armor plating to peer down. "Any Block Seventeen joint bracers!?"

"No, Eighteens!"

"Perfect, just what we need!" she leaned back to sit down, sighing when she turned to the rising Naval crewman. "Thanks for the help Jeff."

"Anytime Kate, just 'member what I said bout that jump unit hydraulic casin. If you screw up drillin new holes you'll have to steal from an Army depot." he flashed a smile and a thumbs up before hopping off the shoulder armor, landing onto a gantry to stretch himself. That accomplished he left for the berths further down, where the USN Steel Spiders flight was currently based.

"Score one for parts commonality." Kjellberg groaned before standing, rubbing her hands after her fingers were pinched a half dozen times. Only one had broken the skin; she frowned unhappily at her screwup. She still preferred it over waiting around, fretting over dispatching her unit's second flight instead of her.

"So boss, what do you think about all this stuff?" the mechanic asked as she strolled across the hull towards an open hatch.

"Would've been great ten years ago." was Kjellberg's flat reply when she stepped into her Super Hornet's cockpit, beginning the startup sequence to test her machine's repairs. Her expression was cool and lifeless, ever since she figured out the eggheads hadn't figured a way to exterminate the BETA. Instead they had decided to run away. It was an attitude that earned a worried look from her mechanic, who feared for her wellbeing.

The United States was aware that similar yet much more bitter debates occurred just over the border. Ottawa was beset by several concurrent demonstrations against the American led plan, angry citizens protesting their nation's compliance so soon after losing the war. To many it reeked of collaborationism, and they responded with words and violence. Quebec City skipped the former within hours; the French sense of disillusionment wasn't as deeply rooted as Americans, but they were far quicker to turn on the Sixth Republic's founders. Those leaders declared vengeance against America for destroying the world, they promised safe havens deeper into the continent, they claimed a brighter future was in arms reach. After a costly war for little gain followed by cooperating with their foes, to save the US no less, France's remaining citizens were furious. Reason had little purchase on these frustrated and tired souls, dealt a cruel hand by life with no option but to accept it.

Meanwhile in a former hotel in Honolulu, repurposed as the acting capital building for the Empire of Japan, a conference between military and government officials was taking place. Armed guards made sure protestors didn't swarm the building during this meeting, wary at the discontented chanting facing them at the front steps. Inside a gathering of three individuals met today to decide the fate of their exiled nation.

"She did what!?" exclaimed an Admiral of the Imperial Japanese Navy, acting head of the now erroneously named Mainland Defense Force. A tired old man in a wrinkle free blue uniform, he bolted from his chair at the news.

The Prime Minister grimaced, the deep lines on her face seemingly darkening with her sigh. Being so new to her job was doing a number on her stress levels. "It was her Highness's personal request. Her words were, and I quote, 'I must personally ensure our nation's well being.' She refused my offer to go in her place."

"Its insanity." shaking his head, the Admiral paced in the small office. "Dispatching the Tashio should've been enough to demonstrate our commitment, why did her Highness insist on going? Tell me she took some protection."

"Six members of the Royal Guard." she told him, the way his lip curled wasn't overlooked. "And in addition to the Tashio's existing security, the Canadians provided a squad of their JTF-2 counter-terrorism unit for the envoy's safety."

"Trusting them is foolish. You should've told the Shogun to stay here." the Admiral snapped.

"You think I didn't try Shinuchi?" the prime minister replied in kind, brow wrinkling. "The only reason I didn't physically drag her into my office was because Tsukuyomi almost broke my arm when I reached."

Both officials ceased when the last participant in their meeting stood from his chair, straightening out his flawless blue and gold lined Royal Guard Uniform. Appearing as a crisp thirty years old and unusually well groomed, he brushed a lone bang out of his vision before turning away, heading towards the door.

"Lord Ikaruga, what are you doing?" demanded the prime minister, rising from her seat.

"Leaving. I have business to attend to." replied the man named Takatsugu Ikaruga, head of his regent house; officially one of the most powerful men left in Japan, and unofficially much more. His tone dripped with boredom, stride unbroken until he met the exit.

"We aren't done talking yet." the Admiral growled.

"Correct. You're not done." Ikaruga punctuated his lackluster inflection by swinging the thick wooden door shut behind him.

He paid zero attention to their blubbering he left behind, just as he ignored the frequent guards saluting him along the way to his private office. Ikaruga strode without fear, the leaky security of this building was thoroughly dismantled once he was done. Its walls were proofed, its entrances sealed or watched, and the personnel were replaced or guided to his side. A few captured infiltrators provided some interesting yet irrelevant data to his network. Near the main lobby he could almost hear protestors with their irrational pleas; so long as they didn't do anything stupid, he ignored their existence.

Inside his posh office, one of his top lieutenants gave a perfunctory acknowledgement on his way to his desk, Ikaruga returning the gesture thoughtlessly. Once seated, he glanced at the red uniformed Royal Guard with an expectant brow lift.

"My lord." greeted Lieutenant Colonel Makabe Sukerokurou, his old friend and most loyal subordinate. "I have the list you asked for here."

Sukerokurou handed over a clipboard, crossing arms behind his back as Ikaruga scanned the rather short list of names. He remained impassive when his lord hummed thoughtfully.

"Only three."

"There was a fourth candidate, but after some research I determined her claim to be too weak for our purposes. None of these options are ideal I admit." he explained.

"Better than nothing." Ikaruga set down the list, leaning back in his seat. "What matters is we have a replacement Shogun lined up should something happen to her Highness."

His lip curled at the last part, a tell he only allowed here and with a select few. Where he was anywhere else, Sukerokurou would have reacted with outrage to such disrespect, but in this place, he permitted a small smile.

Taking back the clipboard, he held it under his arm. "There are still plenty of fall groups we can pin the blame on, although several risk reigniting war with the French-"

"No."

Sukerokurou paused, confusion ghosting across his expression at the heavy lidded stare Ikaruga shot him.

"If Shogun Koubuin is to die, it absolutely cannot be our fault. Her supporters are few but intensely loyal; they'll place blame on me, even if I were innocent." he told him darkly.

"But surely you're not worried about a handful of fools. She made a blatant power grab, you're not going to allow it." Sukerokurou protested.

"I will, and I have. I admit it was a well executed move by her part." Ikaruga spun in his seat to peer out his tinted window to downtown Honolulu, overlooking the desolate city that served as Japan's de facto capital. It was a cramped little town compared to long gone Kyoto, filled with refugees from across East Asia, from China to Australia and everywhere in between. No matter the nation, all shared the same forlorn depression at the loss of their homelands. Beyond was the shimmering ocean, although the otherwise picturesque view was marred by a pale line far off in the distance. The beginning of the lifeless desert that went for thousands of kilometers, stretching across vast swathes of the planet.

Even in his safe bunker Ikaruga tasted salt in the air, the water, a contamination which killed off countless numbers of refugees in the past two years. It was a reminder of doomsday haunting every human, and he was not an exception.

"Negotiating to evacuate this world is ultimately the best long term solution. The Kouzuki report was quite clear on the later effects of Operation Babylon, even discounting the supposed Ice Age the Canadians warned of, or the BETA re-emerging from the Hives we failed to destroy." he narrowed his eyes at the sight.

Ikaruga of course knew about the results of that climactic operation. Great winds from the warped atmosphere spread salty dust far and wide, lapping around the South American death zone towards the vastly expanded Australian continent, scouring what little life that remained. Here and there bizarre anomalies persisted, whether they be inexplicable pockets of vacuum, or areas beset by titanic storms which refused to dissipate. Hanging overhead was the tattered corpse of the ozone layer, sputtering its last after decades of rampant environmental abuse for war production's sake, even before it was thrashed by their self inflicted apocalypse. Japan's hydroponic food plant facilities ameliorated the lack of habitable territory, and America guarded its remaining farmland with desperate fierceness, but neither would last the next three decades even at their pitiful numbers. All this led to one inescapable conclusion.

"Earth as we know it is doomed." he finished with an air of finality.

"But my lord..." he grimaced.

"Preventing this affair from going forward will do far more harm than good. Our people won't allow a chance at survival to pass, and neither will the other nations. If it means she gains a boost in prestige, then so be it. We'll simply have to exploit this opportunity." unseen by him, Ikaruga smiled dangerously.

"How? We'll be pawns of the Europeans, while our homeland is colonized by the Britannian Empire." Sukerokurou pointed out.

"Yes, it is. Japan's government is in exile or dissolved. Whereas we have a legitimate claim, and the will to seize back our home. You see tragedy, I see a rallying cry for our people, even if it takes a decade or two." under his breath he chuckled darkly. "For now, we'll go along with this venture. Begin making preparations to evacuate Hawaii. Prioritize Japan of course, but don't neglect the other refugees. In particular watch the Chinese and Soviet remnants, they've been chafing under our administration for a while now."

He searched his desk a moment to relocate his tiny safe, containing his single most precious document, one that saved his nation from annihilation. For a moment he considered destroying the report, but he reigned in the impulse. It could yet prove useful, although this new development by the Americans, who were desperate enough to seek aid from Canada mere weeks after war between them ended, certainly wasn't predicted in its pages. Yuuko Kouzuki's final gift to an undeserving human race would have mentioned such a thing.

But what if she left it out? Ikaruga wondered disquietly. But aloud he said, "Our people, and everyone else still breathing in this world, depend on our success."

000

"Our top story tonight, a Union address by President Laval. We take you live to Parliament Chamber front steps for this special event, with our very own Oscuro Neri on the scene. Os?"

"Thanks Auch. I'm here at Parliament, and as you can see behind me it's crowded by people wondering what's going on. This unscheduled speech has been the talk around Paris for several days now, and folk I've spoken to worry about the unprecedented speed of the government's actions. Sources have been unable to confirm what the speech is about, which has- Hang on, President Laval is coming onto the podium now. He's joined by Prime Minister Bērzinš and several Councilors."

On the television screen, a man in his forties sporting a thin mustache halted in front of a lectern, under a cloudy sky hanging over Paris. His appearance was flawless, from the cut of his suit to the pearly white teeth when he rarely smiled, keeping from doing anything unseemly like straightening his jacket or dusting his hands. Lessons from his beloved sister ensured a perfect facade, helpful when he entered politics and she did not. His subordinate at his flank was the same way, Bērzinš kept his arms clasped behind his back with a neutral expression. Only the barest hint of hesitation flashed the eyes of Philippe Laval, named for his father's ever bickering friend after he passed away, when he looked towards the cameras.

"Fellow Europeans. I come here today with extraordinary news, the likes of which I could scarcely imagine before a short time ago. What I am going to tell you is unbelievable, but I assure you it is the truth." he began in a full tone.

"I hate when he says that." Muttered an accountant in Barcelona, earning displeased glances from his coworkers. "It's a cheap trick to seem more friendly for the upcoming election. I'm not voting for this prick."

"After putting all those tariffs on our Moscow branch, me neither. Goddamnit, what are we supposed to do for oil, squeeze the Sudanese more? It's already dangerous to even walk around Khartoum now." a woman beside him complained.

"Would both of you shut up?" a third snapped.

Laval paused at the murmurs emanating from the crowd. An uptick of his lips was all the indecision he allowed to show.

"Three weeks ago, our soldiers holding the line in North Africa encountered an unknown warship scouting the Mediterranean sea. After we opened a line of communication, we determined that, despite outward appearances, they were not Britannian. Nor any other nation we know of. The truth was shocking: they are humans not of this world."

A thousand observers went silent for a long moment, before erupting into confused and even angry demands. Laval held firm under the deluge of countless voices here and throughout Europe. And beyond, to every corner of the world.

"What the hell? Another world?" a floored lumberjack demanded of his radio, speaking for his crew at a remote corner of Karelia.

"What does that mean?" a foreman glanced at his coworkers on their construction site, clumping around a television like most of Patras.

"But if they're not from here, then where?" a housewife in Košice raised a brow at her TV, right before her infant son wailed from the kitchen.

"They didn't travel here from the stars, I have personally verified this with my scientific advisors. Such an arrival would have been detected years ago. Instead this extraordinary event was made possible by what they call a portal, a hole in the fabric of space and time. From this creation they came from Earth, but not our world. It is a place with many similarities, but many differences as well. An alternate timeline if you will."

"So, multiverse theory is real." From a physics lab located in downtown Munich, several interns and assistants glanced at the twenty five year old university professor, who smiled as he rubbed his chin. Staring at the screen without seeing it, Haie Bindl chuckled in glee. "I wish Hiars and Karl were here, I wanna celebrate."

"While how this event occurred is fascinating, the reason behind it is far more intriguing. Although these people arrived here bearing arms, they came in peace. They have only one goal: refuge." Laval went on, for a moment causing the ruckus to increase.

"Spit it out you idiot!" a thick bodied manager demanded, earning multiple hushes from other patrons. His tone almost caused the mustached bartender of the Biergarten to shut down his television, but upon remembering how slow business in Regensberg had been lately, he sighed dejectedly and went back to cleaning glasses.

"While the dichotomy between these facts seems contradictory, this technological marvel is both new and poorly understood. It would not be used if not for desperate circumstances. That Earth is scoured to ruin, it is no longer capable of supporting human life."

Laval glanced to an aide, a cue for several men to set up a fluttering tarp screen nearby his lectern, as well as a holographic projector; the machine was a high quality product, the sun could be unreasonably bright and its images would still be crisp. But with what he wanted to show the world, that called for some old fashioned measures.

One minute of puzzled murmuring passed before they were ready, ducking out of sight. Clicking a remote created a wash of colors on the background, materializing into a plain map of the world, its geographic details appearing subdued in this light. A two dimensional image was an utter waste of the hologram, but this was all his tech teams could make in what little time they had. Reportedly they could barely get their computers to even talk to each other. At the moment however Laval gazed over the watchers, ensuring their eyes were on the display.

"Forty years ago, this alternate Earth discovered something on the Moon. It was not mechanical, nor was it terrestrial. It was unmistakably Alien Life." His introduction again silenced people, bubbling up into now utterly disbelieving chatter. "As strange as it sounds, this is what occurred. And more importantly what followed. For thirty years ago, those aliens made landfall on their world."

A dot appeared in the middle of Asia, accompanied by a small line and a marker identifying the location. Not many Europeans knew the location before the words came on screen: Kashgar.

"The aliens were designated BETA, Beings of Extraterrestrial origin which are an Adversary of human race." Laval grimaced at the english words, a sentiment shared by many onlookers. "These creatures proved to be relentless and single-minded, unwilling or unable to peacefully coexist with mankind. In battle, they proved unstoppable."

A red mass grew from the first marker, expanding and heading west into Persia. Another marker popped up there, labeled Masshad, continuing towards Anatolia while also surging north. The Black Sea, the many mountains in that region, nothing slowed the expansion. Another marker appeared, Uralsk. Then another, Velsk. And another, Minsk. In the corner of the screen a small number counted upwards every few seconds; now it started clicking faster.

In ten years that tiny dot grew to encompass a third of Eurasia. Anatolia, half of the Arabian peninsula, most of Russia, everything west of the Pakistan territory, to Central Europe as far as the Alps, what many keen yet shocked viewers noted to be nearby the Oder-Neisse rivers. One tick later and the cancerous mass surged over Germany, swallowing Italy and the rest of Scandinavia as an afterthought. Yelps and cries emanated from the crowd at the flood lapping at France, giving little thought to massive thrusts into India and Nepal. This slowly died down upon the continued growth, taking the entire subcontinent, then Iberia, China, Korea, and Siberia to the Kamchatka peninsula, and then southwards, consuming Indochina and going as far as Malaysia.

In the corner the timer paused, showing the disturbing sight of all of Eurasia taken by this unknown foe. The spectators could scarcely believe what they saw, particularly when more icons popped up with names and locations, numbering twenty six in total. This was where Laval ended part one of the presentation, exhaling slowly.

An office not far from Parliament's steps hummed with air conditioning, creating a background noise for a fifty five year old Major General to watch his news feed, leaning up in his chair. While he already knew most of the details, how much more the president would reveal to the public left him interested.

"What will you do I wonder?" pondered Gene Smilas in a quiet tone, his contempt for those selfish politicians lessened for the moment. His monitor gave him an answer.

"Footage from their armed forces was provided for verification as well. My experts have determined that if it's a forgery, it's beyond our ability to detect. What you are about to see is not appropriate for younger viewers, audience discretion is advised." Laval warned.

The map was replaced by grainy footage. It paused a moment before playing; a blur of stubby buildings swam below a pair of dangling legs, with two rifle bearing arms moving into sight. In seconds the blur ceased with the machine's hard landing, the camera swinging to its side to reveal a man shaped construct, similar but not quite like a Britannian Knightmare they were familiar with. New murmurs arose at the sight.

On screen both machines opened up with full automatic fire, four streams of bullets hitting a squiggling mass nearby. Red splashes flung up from every impact, yet the things weren't slowed. Many thought it was because they were tough, but after a moment it dawned on people that their relentlessness was due to sheer numbers. There were so many that the two machines simply couldn't make a dent. One gun abruptly stopped, jerking upwards as if it had run dry. It was then that a rectangle marker on its broad shoulder armor was shown clearly: the tricolor flag denoting France, what served as the European Union's banner for over a hundred years.

Gasps ripped through the crowd when a creature leapt on the second machine's chest, throwing it to the side to let a much larger crablike monster skitter closer, its thick claws bashing apart the mech's boosters to ground it. The perspective machine swiveled one gun towards his partner, holding fire as more creatures swarmed to bring it to the ground. It was nauseatingly clear that those things were devouring the mech even as it struggled. Seconds later the weapon thumped, putting a round through his partner's armored chest.

When it took flight to escape one lucky monster jumped onto this machine's leg, letting the audience recoil at the red colored abomination crawling with its many limbs towards the camera, its disturbingly humanlike maw slathering open in grim anticipation. Many people cried out when the pilot shoved his gun against its side to splatter red viscera across the hull.

The machine swiveled to fly away, gun chattering at more creatures swarming over now recognizable neighborhoods. A breathless silence settled over the area when the camera panned up to get a picturesque view of the Eiffel Tower, standing tall despite smoke radiating up from countless fires, haloed by distant machines and a great many light beams stabbing across the sky. Until it shuddered, swaying like no storm anyone had seen before its supports gave out, crumbling to the ground in a final silent crash.

Laval clicked off the gun camera footage. He waited for the horrified and disgusted audience to recover, knowing his popularity would take a hit for this. But he stayed to his decision; people would demand the truth, so he gave it to them. Now they needed to regain their senses, just like him.

"The BETA's goals were inscrutable, all mankind could determine was they did not surrender, and they never offered mercy. Despite this, forces from across the planet managed to stall their advance on every front for many years. Which led to this."

Another click put on an image of Western Europe, this one of much greater quality; France, Iberia, and the British Isles were in sight, devoid of national boundaries or artificial markers, although the mainland was a drab brown instead of grey or green. It was like a view from an airplane, but at a height no one had ever seen before. The sheer majesty helped distract the audience from the awful clip they witnessed. If only it lasted.

"Stunning." Commented a scientist in a facility somewhere in the hinterlands of France, realizing what it meant. She turned to the side and barked, "Wise, they beat us to it."

The projector's quality let people see the Atlantic tremble, rippling like a tiny pond beset by insects. Growing wider yet a bit higher, the ripples flowed eastwards at a sedate pace, but a timer in the corner revealed the illusion of time; a twenty four clock surged at a fast pace, yet not so fast as to be unreadable. It slowed when the waves reached a crescendo, surging to bury Western Europe underwater. Stark silence fell over the crowd, numbly watching a followup swell finish what the first started, then see an assembled compilation of other regions suffering their end.

Africa rocked back and forth before sinking. All of Europe to the Ural's submerged in a rolling wave. Water receded from a rapidly whitening Australia to overrun the Oceanic islands, taking Indonesia and Malaysia without hesitation. Area Eleven was destroyed by a single tidal wave. Next the entire Indian subcontinent crumbled into the sea. As an afterthought Korea and Kamchatka sank, along with Alaska joining them, leaving outlines of shallow undersea mountains. The entire South American continent jutted upwards once and went dark, lights and green snuffed out in a single frame. And the Britannian homeland, all the coasts were swamped by waves that swiftly receded after smashing everything for a thousand kilometers inland, with great winds scattering unpleasant white streaks across the continent. The only regions that seemed undamaged were a patch in the Pacific Northwest and some bands around the Great Lakes, surrounded by pale death in every direction.

"This apocalypse was henceforth named the Day. It was a disastrous event the likes of which hasn't been witnessed since the dawn of Earth. Now a sliver of mankind survives on that dying planet, and by incredible risk, they found our world. Through an organized body called the New United Nations, that planet's four remaining countries sent a message to Paris to arrange a meeting. Prime Minister Bērzinš elected to lead the EU delegation."

Laval observed the crowd's reactions, his expression neutral at the horror they displayed. As well as the clear sympathy beginning to overcome the people; just what he hoped for, he needed that pity to have them accept his next announcement.

"Representatives of those survivors arrived at Mallorca Naval Base two weeks ago for formal negotiations. Their sole desire was safe refuge for their remaining population, numbering approximately two point two to two point three million citizens. All are starving and destitute at the destruction of their world."

An upswell of chatter rose at the pronouncement, further confused yet very supportive to his explanation.

"Housing this many people is no small task, even disregarding the unusual circumstances to which they arrived here. But to ease the transition, a request was made to join the European Union." Laval stated, discreetly checking the clock. He was almost finished. "The best of the EU's diplomats are hard at work trying to find out all we can, but until a satisfactory response can be crafted, I have drafted a presidential order to lend as much humanitarian aid as possible. There shall be no more unnecessary suffering if I can help it."

Laval said a few more words and then dismissed himself, letting Councilor Klose take over for the followup press conference; the media had literally a million questions he would need to handle. Bērzinš strode at his flank when they reentered the building, joining him with a small grin. While not the total knockout they planned, the presentation went as well as they hoped, gaining public support for the government's new direction. With luck it would see them through the next election. That only left the question of where to house the refugees, but Laval thought plenty about unused real estate in southern Algeria. Mainland Europe already had too many useless mouths to feed.

"Request, sure." Captain Wayne Avery sat back in his seat, crossing his arms inside his quarters. His few guests he invited for a meeting watched the television silently, with the aid of a translator program; the Lexington was still docked at its borrowed port in Mallorca, its crew taking the chance to enact some much needed repairs.

"Uh, sir. What happens now?" asked the heavily accented voice of Lieutenant Tatsunami Hibiki, standing at attention in his fatigues. He swept his young gaze from the trio of Americans, flashing an indignant grimace at their far greater height.

Cracking his neck with his fleshy hand, Commander Hamill sent him and the Marine leaning on the door a morose glance. "A pony show is what's next. Lieutenants Chen and Hibiki, you're gonna go for a flyby around the island just like I said earlier. These guys' press are gonna wanna see what we have to offer."

"Understood sir." replied Zach Chen in a flat tone, deflating a little. The twenty seven year old Marine groaned when he stood up, peering at his much shorter japanese counterpart. "Alright little man, time to show off."

"Hey!"

From inside the IJN ship docked nearby its USN counterpart, Marimo slumped at her bench in the cafeteria, sighing while crewmen started gossiping around a television that was brought in. No matter what she did the anxiety haunting her refused to go away. Knowing the Shogun shared her worries should've made her feel not so forlorn, but the end result only made things worse. How else was she supposed to react to being alone with her highness, offering a shoulder for Japan's leader to cry on; over her tearful stammering she said that she knew this was a catastrophic mistake, yet accepting a new foreign ruler was the only option that lead to their survival. The lack of any other paths tore her up just as much as the other representatives, no matter how well they disguised their harrowed despair.

With a sigh she lifted a fork to poke at the Europeans' 'gift' to the American and Japanese warships: their standard issue rations. Banal stuff that was immeasurably better than the protein bars and processed algae she'd been subsisting off of for years now.

"Least the foods nice." she murmured, although she thought differently when she bit into the wheat bread. As much as she hated to admit it, this was fantastic grub.

Chewing thoughtfully, she wondered how the rest of this world was reacting to the news.

000

"Intriguing." Murmured the Russian premier, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Outside his window was a photo perfect view of the Kremlin, standing out against the modernizing skyline of Moscow. A darker one than six months ago with soldiers in the streets and an evening curfew in effect.

Beside his desk, the secretary of state gritted his teeth. "This will cut off external aid that we badly need."

"Screw the Europeans, they're not worth shit." snapped a young Colonel, serving at the fourth man's advisor. "Paris is already cutting down arms shipments and food deliveries. Moscow and Saint Petersburg are facing shortages when winter rolls around, and those assholes are demanding border revisions. It's intolerable!"

"What else can we do? The Britannians keep advancing, and you fools lost a whole division last week after Krasnoyarsk fell. The Chinese are selling us their entire old weapons stockpiles, but none of it's enough." The secretary shot back.

"Maybe if you government pricks hadn't kneeled to those treaty obligations we'd be in a far better position."

"Idiot child! Our economy is in the dumpster and the Euros would march on Moscow long before your magic buildup would be ready."

"Enough." both fell silent at the fourth man speaking, before the Premier could do it himself. Although elderly and sagging in his nondescript uniform, his beady gaze was still as sharp as ever, fixated on the television from his chair.

"General Zhukov?" the Premier asked carefully, shooting both men a glance before they could interrupt him.

General Georgy Zhukov, brought out of retirement when the Britannians landed an army in Vladivostok, spared a thoughtful frown. "I wish to hear what Paris has to say. It could be a waste of time, or the most important event of the century. This may affect war plans to liberate our nation."

"You think so?" the secretary asked warily, heedless of the Colonel sending him a hostile look.

"I do. Those populists have to feel confident to broadcast this news to the whole world. It could change everything." even with Zhukov's tired inflection, all three could see the unease in his tone.

Mombassa was quieter today than usual, owing to a public holiday for a spring European festival. One the many locals outside of the so called 'Deutschedorf' district chose not to, or couldn't, celebrate. For a poor neighborhood of factory workers, like many others throughout the East African Confederacy, itself one of a dozen consolidated governments littering the continent, the news from Paris was viewed with trepidation. A cluster of young men and women in dirty outfits exchanged looks around the radio in their break room, sparing a peek outside in case of police.

"Perhaps, we won't need to ask them for help." mused a young man in the corner ignoring their chatting. He thought of a rumor about a Kenyan Liberation Army agent in town, one trying to stir up discontent against European rule. Rumors also claimed the KLA had affiliations with Britannian intelligence, but he didn't know for sure. Whatever the case, he felt he needed to revise his life aspirations; maybe this would be the change Africa needed to see its future.

Paranoia afflicted a dozen men in a Baghdad suburb, with one peeking through a curtain at a Britannian military patrol rumbling past their hideout. A dozen men, two trucks, and a Knightmare made up this unit, within their capabilities to destroy; assuming this cell was comfortable with bringing down the rest of the army's wrath, who had already wiped out many small towns just in the Iraqi provinces. The Britannians weren't tolerating resistance from Numbers lightly. They were determined to stamp out violence in Area Eighteen, no matter the cost on locals.

When they passed the fighter leaned back to nod to his leader, who sighed in relief. Older and with a thick beard underneath his turban, he once again resumed speaking with his guest, clad in robes just like them. The Middle Eastern Federation's occupiers would have to be keen to tell this man wasn't Arabic.

"Mister Zolfaghari, have your superiors gain any information about this New United Nations group?" he asked carefully.

Zolfaghari shook his head, his closely shaven features wrinkled in sorrow. "I am sorry, but there is little to share. We know for sure that Paris is telling the truth, and there is a suspicion this Day event they spoke of was man made. But beyond that, Peace Mark knows little."

The leader nodded grimly to his Persian contact. "Unfortunate, but not unexpected."

"I swear by Allah that when I know more, I will share with you. Everyone here." he vowed.

"Including the Zionists?" he guessed, sending a sharp look at the scowls on his men. When they glanced away he sighed. "I apologize for that. The bad blood between our peoples is old, even this occupation doesn't change things. It is a minor miracle the ceasefire between all our factions is still holding."

"I understand. It's regrettable, but understandable. I pray that one day we will all move pasts our old feuds as we did before, but until then..." Zolfaghari shook his head.

"We will make do. The MEF will rise again. However, there is another matter." the leader reached into his robes to withdraw a sheaf of papers, handing them over to the frowning guest. "Habeed's cell asked me to pass this along to you. Britannian convoys are moving vast amounts of supplies and construction equipment out of Muscat's ports, destined to somewhere near Tehran. All we know for sure is that they are not army regulars."

Taking the grainy photographs to inspect, Zolfaghari raised a brow. "What could they be up to?"

Such questions didn't occur to a circle of high ranking men deep in the center of Luoyang. The leaders of the Chinese Federation had better things to do than to wonder what an OSI detachment was doing in the Middle East, at least if they knew about either them or their covert deliveries over the border to the middle of the Taklamakan desert. For a dozen men arrayed in a U-shaped table around a large screen, they scoffed once the speech was over.

"Unbelievable." dismissed an interior minister.

"They've lost their minds. I always knew Europeans loved their populists, but this is a whole new level." an army general rolled his eyes.

"I believe it." said a finance minister, arms crossed and eyes closed. He was blind to the hostile glances his counterparts shot, exhaling slowly from a desire to smoke; he sorely needed his nicotine fix to deal with this group.

"Why? It's madness." a bureaucrat protested.

"That's exactly the reason. European leaders have traditionally been cautious to keep their public support. Their very livelihood depends on it. To discard that, especially while they're losing ground in a war, is less unbelievable than admitting this alternate earth business is real." he opened his eyes to send them a dry stare. For the sixty seven year old Zhuang Bao, he cared little for court frivolities anymore.

The general hummed. "I'm not sure I share your logic, but I can see where you're coming from."

"Someone sees reason." muttered a lower ranking officer standing beside the table, his sharp features calm despite the irate glance from his superior. At that he merely bowed. "My apologies."

"To bring this meeting back on track, what shall we do about this development? Not you Commander Xingke, you already stated your opinion." the prime minister stated from the head of the table, his sharp gaze causing the man to curtsey without sincerity.

"I for one recommend we try to extend diplomatic ties to these New United Nations people. They did try contacting us already through our embassy in Paris." the foreign minister offered.

"Doubt they'll agree to anything, not if they're speaking through the Euros." the general added a quiet curse in his native Korean, what earned some mistrustful looks.

"Gentlemen, it might be prudent to activate the provincial militias in our western territories." The speaker was oddly high pitched, clad in elaborate yellow robes of his office. His very presence caused restrained grimaces throughout every man in the room, each one having similar (negative) opinions on him that they dared not show. Legally he was but an advisor, having authority to make suggestions and little else; in reality this Eunuch was unquestionably the most powerful man here.

The prime minister cleared his throat. "With respect your grace, I can't agree. Not so soon after the latest Kashmir uprising. That said, mobilizing the Fifth Regional Army should tell Paris we won't be bullied."

"I concur. We should have done so after getting the Second Army in Mongolia running. I'm irritated at the numerous Britannians 'getting off course' while taking our northern border." Zhuang Bao shook his head without moving anything else, adding a tiny nod so as not to be entirely disrespectful.

"Oh? And why is that?" asked High Eunuch Gao Hai in a flippant tone.

"So we do not become a colonial plaything again." Li Xingke spoke again, this time earning sour glares from multiple officials. "We fought tooth and nail to dislodge the Europeans, the Russians, and the Japanese from conquering us. The scars of Nanjing still have yet to heal. Why should we permit-"

A loud stomp silenced him, the General exhaling slowly from relaxing his foot. "Please accept my pardons for my subordinate's rudeness. Commander Xingke is imperious, politics does not suit him."

"It is alright. Your heart is in the right place." Gao Hai smiled at Xingke's stony expression. "I will make a recommendation to the Empress to begin a wider mobilization, as well as extending diplomacy to these newcomers. Do you men require anything for this task?"

"Perhaps we should move up our plans for Sawasaki. While Britannia is distracted by Europe's move, we would have a greater window to take Area Eleven." the interior minister suggested.

In Pendragon, a white gloved hand tapped on a desk. The owner stared at his monitor without seeing it, engrossed in thought while his aide stood beside him, waiting patiently.

"Fascinating." Murmured Schneizel el Britannia at last, his sharp gaze unfocused. He leaned back to cross his arms, his crisp Royal tunic wrinkling ever so slightly. "A development none of us foresaw. Simply fascinating."

The root of his interest lied with the new footage hitting the airwaves, from the Mediterranean this time; dozens of cameras tracked two bipedal machines stepping onto an aircraft carrier's deck, similar yet distinctly separate designs. One was a plain grey and spindly limbed, its rounded forehead gleaming in the sunlight as its hip mounted jets moved from each step, with a red circle prominently displayed on its wide shoulder armor. The second was bulkier by far, with ribbed armor that was much narrower than its partner, lacking extra fins on its forearms in exchange for sizable knee spokes, all painted a deep blue. In in the same place as its partner was a red, white, and blue flag that tickled at Schniziel's memory.

As he watched both pseudo Knightmares rise into the air upon their jets, haloed against the ship's conn tower. There he was able to guess their size, making an estimate of somewhere between fifteen to twenty meters apiece. Much bigger than any KMF Britannia fielded, but that didn't stop both from swiveling towards the shoreline and taking off, the spindlier one quickly boosting away from its blocky partner, slowing down after a moment so they could catch up; intuition claimed the second was purposely being easy on his acceleration.

"Type Ninety Four and Eff Eighteen." he softly read the new caption, mentally translating the french words with ease. "Two different countries built those, but they seem to have a common ancestor. Akin to how a Sutherland and a Gun Ru are both derived from the Ganymede. I must know more."

"What do you command your highness?" asked Kanon Maldini, his aide and most trusted confidant. The closest thing to a friend the Second Prince was still, his tone neutral.

Schniziel's fingers curled. "My designs are threatened by these people's arrival. Whether for good or ill, plans will need to be changed. Contact the military attache in China, we'll try to enter into talks first."

"Yes my lord." Kanon saluted by placing a fist across his chest.

"We'll ask the OSI to dig up information on the New United Nations as well, everything they can find." he added next. The whole time he spoke, his eyes didn't leave the screen. Kanon started to move away, but then he paused.

"Your highness, if I may be so bold... Perhaps moving up some of your project schedules would be wise." he risked, drawing in on himself just in case.

Schniziel crossed his hands over his mouth instead of replying; that idea occurred to him already, ever since he read the field report from North Africa. He had several options to implement in the short term.

The Lancelot had borne fruit already despite its controversy in command circles, so much that he was certain its child model would be built en mass within a year. Already its startup production line was a success, nine of the first ten units earmarked for the Knights of the Round until their custom models were ready, and lesser Knight Orders were scrambling to reserve their own. Even with incomplete field data from the Z-01, the RPI-212 Vincent was prepared to be unleashed. The Blaze Luminous defense shield worked splendidly in the field, with upscale tests on many test platforms showing amazing results; its power requirements meant nothing smaller than a Knightmare could use it, but that was forecasted to change. The VARIS system was likewise progressing well, save for its absurd yet diminishing energy draw. Project Avalon was almost as far afield, undergoing its checkup flight trials in Texas at this moment, with a transoceanic flight due shortly. Thus far tests were very promising. With luck the simplified Caerleon-class and mighty Logres-Class airships would begin a general rollout a year from now.

On the other hand, the IFX-V3D1 was proving to be a deep well of headaches. The destructive Hadron cannons functioned but were effectively impossible to aim, beyond three hundred meters its beams diffused to uselessness. Its Float unit stabilizers refused to cooperate no matter what his team did. A tiny defect in the forging process meant half its tungsten alloyed composite armor had to be replaced. Its endurance on anything but specially made energy fillers was pathetic, a barrier to mass production that was unlikely to be overcome. Ironically only the highly complex Druid system supercomputer was working as planned. Many of these problems would be omitted on the successor models, but until the parent was fully operational, the Gawain would be a money sink. Like several of his experimental programs, which provided useful data but little else.

"Although..." he murmured, opening his computer. An email from his brother Odysseus was ignored; his meek elder brother no doubt wanted 'advice' from him, concerning public relations most likely. Kanon glanced apprehensively when he emitted a quiet yet undignified snort.

In a moment he had a list of discarded projects on screen. After cutting out non-operational units, he found his gaze drawn to an steel tinted Knightmare in prime condition. Originally earmarked for the Knight of Three, it was a rejected Vincent prototype with a innovative plasma jet thruster, a powerful invention which lost much of its éclat once the Float system moved past lab tests. It held more promise than many other one off models, such as a machine designated the Equus; he still couldn't believe he actually paid to build that equine jalopy, and even less that a former Knight of the Round ordered his own version.

The report from the first recorded confrontation in Algeria painted a vivid picture in his mind. Those infantrymen who evaded death or capture gave detailed descriptions of what attacked their unit, and from their testimony he could draft a counter to these super Knightmares, Tactical Surface Fighters he mentally corrected. But there wasn't enough there, he needed more data.

Schniziel had an idea how to fix that.

"Has Marrybell called me today?"

Kanon raised a brow. "I believe her highness did yes. She attempted to stop by in person yesterday, while you were, ahem, visiting Dallas."

"Fortunately I just returned from my trip. And I've reconsidered her request for aid on her crusade." Schniziel smiled, looking over the specs for the IFX-3F7 Bradford. If he knew his freshly redeemed sister, she would paint it red and gold.

For the residents of Tokyo, capital of Area Eleven, the news from overseas was viewed with far more variance than many other regions. Opinions were divided primarily by ethnic lines, but not entirely; a down on his luck reporter ceased his hunt for the story of the century, jaw hanging open and a long blond hair bang falling in his vision, while a solemn resistance leader read the translated french news silently, his grim stoicism muting the hope sparking in his army comrades.

The government bureau exemplified the latter, especially in a lavish office filled with frustration and deep sighs.

"Figures. Two weeks after I leave the front and this happens." groaned Cornelia Li Britannia, the new Viceroy of the Empire's most troublesome colony, leaning her head on a fist. "Alright, I'll need to get things here sorted out faster than planned. Looks like you'll be taking over my position sooner rather than later." she directed a wry smile to her side, which twitched when she saw her Sub-Viceroy jerk her head up.

"Oh, that's unfortunate." Euphemia Li Brittania nodded, only barely able to tear her eyes off her personal monitor. On screen was a ream of publicly released information about the NUN faction, some of it roughly translated, but much was far more professionally done. Her eyes were engrossed by the text, reading a history that never was.

Euphemia had no idea a King in waiting was doing the exact same thing, located in a dorm room at Ashford Academy a mere twenty kilometers away. Ignoring the witch splayed out on his bed, his beloved sister and their maid sleeping elsewhere in their dwelling, he scanned the information with great interest. He read all he could of a new world, leaning back in his seat to ponder what he absorbed. When he finished, his blank expression curled into a cold smirk, seeing the great movements in the world and sensing his chance.

Lelouch Lamprouge grinned. "Well then."

000

A/N: There we go, that took... way longer than it should've. The past couple months have been kinda hectic, to put it lightly. Very lightly.

Big shoutout to KisaragiKei, a beta (luckily not a BETA) writer who gave me much needed input this time around. You should go check out his stories, they're worth it.