If Lucas said NO!

by Pascal in Quebec

Lucas knew full well that being sent out of the country on a military boat would only end up with him injured or dead, no matter what lies Lawrence spread around. So Lucas did the logical thing: he packed up and left in the dead of night, leaving behind in public forums incriminating evidence against his bastard father to keep him too busy to hunt him down. Arc-1 of the story.

8. Chapter 8

The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.

Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.

SeaQuest

Abstract

Lucas knew full well that being sent out of the country on a military boat would only end up with him injured or dead, no matter what lies Lawrence spread around. So Lucas did the logical thing: he packed up and left in the dead of night, leaving behind in public forums incriminating evidence against his bastard father to keep him too busy to hunt him down.

This story takes place before season 1, in the months before the SeaQuest is commissioned out to sea in the period when Lucas was ordered by his father to join the ship without any care for his opinion or general welfare.

This story is Alternate Universe, most characters are OOC and there are several mini-crossovers in the form of cameos and snapshots with the maritime-inspired series NCIS and JAG who are the most relevant to the situations facing Lucas and the casts of MacGyver (2016), NCIS and Bones will make large appearances. There is a lot of CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, Canadian Mounties and Coast Guard and other multi-varied organizations mentioned along the way. As such, given so many crossovers of equal proportions, I am again placing this in the general SeaQuest section of the fandom since it would not fit in a single sub-genre. My thanks for your tolerance of the situation.

Unlike my other story, "Justice for Lucas", this has absolutely no psionics, magicks or time engines involved even if such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons.

PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.

{ SQ } - { WARNINGS & NOTES } - { SQ }

All warnings at the beginning of Chapter 3 are repeated verbatim.

For this chapter, time stamps will have America's West & East coast hours.

WHAT IF LUCAS SAID 'NO'?

EIGHTH CHAPTER; Funeral dirge for human idiocy

NCIS aerial turbulence

(NCIS - NO – opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 01:40am

Western America; Saturday 19th of December, 2020; 22:40pm

US air force C-130; in flight

Airspace; Arizona, USA

The loud thrumming noise of the Lockheed C-130 Hercules' four turbo-propellers was sending constant rythmic vibrations through the airframe of the craft as it powered its way through nasty headwinds coming from the western seaboard due to the damnable windstorm in progress. The cold moisture filled air came from the northern Pacific, traveling down the coast from where Alaska and British Columbia met, passing over the shores of BC and Washington State, then inside Oregon and deeper across California, then doing a hard right even deeper inland across Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.

The two pilots of the plane were straining hard against their yokes to keep the massive metal beast aloft, occasionally wincing in sympathy with their ship as she groaned under the added stresses of high winds and the freezing water that was slowly accumulating over the hull until it was thick enough to sluice around and pool into patches of slick translucent ice. The two men weren't new to this type of climate, having flown their plane all over Montana, Wyoming and the Dakotas a few times in the peak of winter in the past five years. The pair had been together since being given the large cargo carrier and worked well through sunshine or hailstorms. But, this was actually their first time flying under hostile conditions of any sorts as they had always been assigned to fly domestic deliveries inside the USA mainland.

The fact the first war they experienced in their careers was at home truly didn't help their morale.

If there was one thing to be grateful for, it was that nobody had managed yet to takeover genuinely dangerous vehicles, so neither expected to be shot out of the air as they flew the mission. There had been some Hummer's, Bradley's or Striker's getting stolen and driven off-road to disappear in the wilderness, but nothing truly catastrophic like an Abrams tank or Apache helicopter. The worse they had heard about, and been confirmed true, was a civilian transportation contractor that lost a box truck full of ATK ammunition for pistols and assault rifles, out of Lake City in Missouri, getting hijacked on the road, but no actual weaponry systems. As if six tons of light ordnance could be thought of as 'not important' when you thought of the black market value if sold to gangs, and how much violence that could produce in the coming year.

Second-lieutenant Kerry Verdant was tapping a set of orders in the navigation computer to double check their heading and altitude, while his boss major Enrico Calderan held the plane on as straight a course as could be done in the harsh winds they faced. As Verdant verbally confirmed to his boss that their heading was true and stable, the comms beeped an alarm with the digital readout identifying the caller as the US air national guard central air traffic control's emergency frequency.

Activating the comms, S-L Verdant answered "This is flight ANG C130 – AW 207 ferrying technical personnel to the Los Angeles downtown John Wayne airfield. Copilot Verdant and main pilot Calderan on the horn and listening, over."

The line squeaked a bit then a voice was heard through both their headsets. "This is LA county ANGB – SOF calling on Em-Freq with an advisory of imminent threat. Repeat, this is the LA county Supervisor-of-flights broadcasting an important emergency ADVISORY OF THREAT. The air traffic control management for the extended area of Los Angeles county and joining suburbs has been compromised by enemy forces. Several control towers have been hijacked and set to automatically redirect traffic away from LA county. Physical security on the ground at all LA area airfields is compromised, graded from 'unknown situation' to 'avoid unless in distress' so you are to reroute all flights to other zones proven in the hands of ANG. Over."

Major Calderan pushed the comms button on his headset to take the line; "This is flight ANG C130 – AW 207 requesting instructions for alternate landing facilities. I repeat, this is AW 207 requesting new heading and conditions of approach. Over."

The voice from the comms responded "This is LA county ANGB – SOF back at you AW 207. The closest safe LZ to your destination is just in front of you at the Phoenix Goodyear Airport, call sign GYR. The runway can take your C-130 easily at is can receive & send out Boeing 747. It is located several miles south of Phoenix city and used to be called NAS Litchfield Park until it was closed in 1968 when it was bought by the city. The air national guard, under the 'Noah's Ark' protocol, has secretely rebuilt and equipped full military facilities in hardened underground bunkers beneath the existing obsolete and decrepit hangars. Those surface buildings were rebuilt and reinforced as well, to serve as storm shelters for civilian refugees, if it comes to that. Over."

Major Calderan replied "Copy that, NAGB – SOF. Over."

The air national guard base continued "Flight AW-207, also be advised that all air trafic control operations for the lower half of the US mainland's western seaboard have been centralized at that airfield since it wasn't on anybody's watchlist anymore. It is secure from any hostile forces, domestic or foreign, as only personnel cleared under NAP prerogatives were given access to the site. Your crew and passengers WILL be scanned and validated upon arrival before any other activities or access to the rest of the site. Over."

S-L Verdant swore under his breath before addressing his superior. "Hey, boss! The navy cops? What do we do about them?"

Toggling the comms again, major Calderan asked the controller "ANGB – SOF please advise; we have NCIS personnel from New Orleans en-route to Los Angeles as part of the 'Noah's Ark' redistribution of assets & capacities. What do I tell them? Over."

The reply came immediately "Receiving your question, flight AW-207. It will be processed by the national guard general staff at NAS Litchfield Park during your landing and processing. Your passengers should inform their own command structure if at all possible. We have too much comms traffic to handle with all the hundreds of airplanes still not safely down on the ground and air patrols to supervise. Normally, we'd do that call ourselves, but we haven't got all our tech staff inside the walls so we have to prioritize and delegate. Over."

"Copy that, ANGB – SOF. Over and out." major Calderan replied neutrally. Turning to his copilot, he told him simply "Get in the back, tell the navy cops the sit-rep and have one jack into the comms array to contact their bosses in LA to settle this. It ain't our problem, and it ain't gonna be."

{ SQ } - { Delays & waylays } - { SQ }

Second-lieutenant Verdant walked slowly into the cargo compartment of the C-130, passing alongside the pallet of freight that was being shipped along the 24 troops. Mostly preserved food like MRE's or powdered soup stocks, water filtration unit, portable generator & fuel, folded camp tents & cylinder stoves, etc... A full non-motorized occupational base-camp setup. The heavy weight had been set in the middle of the plane, with the passengers at the rear towards the boarding ramp to even out the weight around the aircraft. Landing with a tail-heavy Hercules was feasible, for some with experience, but taking off the ground with an unbalanced load at the rear was asking for trouble unless you had a long, well paved runway. Not something that was easy to find along the southern USA's landmass these days with Mother Nature hammering them the way she did.

Barely a few seconds were needed to reach the ingenious system they had taken onboard to ferry the passengers. It was a special pallet composed of a 6 inch thick steel box-base, 4 rows of 8 folding seats, steel framed back-rest locker & overhead netting for storage, a front-block composed of two self-contained wet bath cabins (dry toilet, ionic/sonic shower, water faucet), and a drinkable water tank with in-pipe heater cleverly built into the box-base so people could prepare a hot drink or MRE (Military Meal-Ready-to-Eat). This design would never win an "Airline comfort award" under any circumstances, but it was certainly better than what the old Hercules normally gave her passengers.

Originally designed as purely cargo with 2 flight crew, the ship's structural elements had been pared down so much at conception that there were only four 'small' folding seats for passengers just next to the cockpit's door. Anybody else had to stand or sit on the floor, unless special accommodations were brought aboard to carry more people. And having more persons in this flying coffin was NEVER the recommendation of the USAF since the aircraft did not have – ANY – necessities for maintaining human life other than the climate control devices. That meant no toilet, no sink, no microwave oven, nothing at all, not even an actual trashcan in the cockpit. The only amenities granted were the two massive piloting chairs with individualized breathing apparatus and wired comms lines but nothing else, especially not for passengers.

Somebody a few years back had thought about just how stupid that actually was. In the case of a crisis that needed to ferry a large number of ready-for-action soldiers to a mission spot, the Pentagon's plan had been limited to 'order' some civilian airlines into an emergency lease of several airplanes until the mess was resolved. This included forcibly assigning flight and cabin crew to the planes under this lease, regardless of the normal ways the airlines and unions attributed jobs and schedules. The man who had the realization of just how stupid that thought-process was decided to not sit on his hands like a twit; he called a company called amusingly enough 'Force Provider' that was already an established partner of the Pentagon. Their specialty was in fact the palletization or containerization of mobile machineries and services for military and civil security purposes. They had kitchens, infirmaries, garages, armories, electricity generators, water treatment plants, climate-controlled personnel dormitories, and so on, built inside articulated extensible steel shipping containers.

With a quick agreement to buy the man's idea for a few tens of thousand dollars, Force Provider Inc. rapidly designed and produced this simple but efficient way to convert the venerable but user-unfriendly plane into something a group of humans could find livable for a few hours. The entire system was prepped in the airbase hangar, filled with fresh water, toilet paper, large enamel mugs, cheap coffee grinds with dry powdered condiments, a can of bulk tomato/veg soup mix, and a pack of redundantly linked industrial rechargeable batteries that lit the emergency satellite phone and lights. The whole thing was picked up by a huge forklift that drove it into the cargo hold of the plane as-is. Tie down a few chains to the airframe's floor and 'voilà!' instant passenger section for 32 'large' persons wearing body armor with a rifle, duffel bag and carry-on.

Verdant smirked as he thought of all the generals and admirals that bitched like little ninnies every time they had to travel on a C-130 without the passenger kit. Having to go out of view behind the crates of payload to crouch down while holding a plastic bag under their ass to relieve themselves (and make a sloshy smelly mess) was a sure-fire way to make even the brass less uppity towards the flight crews.

Snort!

If the cheap civilian elected buffoons from back in the sixties had decided to pay for a good people-friendly design, they'd have their precious water commodes and coffee pots, and the rest of the military would get to enjoy them too, when caught aboard the flying fat barges. Chuckling at the thought of the many unhappy civilian politos that he had flown around on "Get to know the air national guard" junkets organized by the Pentagon to drum up a better budget, the lieutenant was in a much better mood as he approached the two navy cops.

Looking at setup the NCIS agents had, Verdant was reminded no so subtly that many things don't change easily, even in the midst of a civil war exploding all around their ears. The two cops were in the left-hand row of chairs, facing each other, at the very end of the seating pallet while the 24 guardsmen were all bunched together in the front rows near the sanitation block. That left one full row of empty chairs between the cops and the soldiers, with the extra pair on the right hand being used by the NCIS agents to stow their own portable base-camp & winter gear. Shaking his head at the clear delimitation between the persons, and the almost paranoid separation of the soldiers from the police as if they were guilty of something they were hiding, the copilot steadied himself on the left bulkhead against a few seconds of turbulence then marched on, his message needing to be delivered no matter what.

Delivering the bad news wasn't going to go over easily, though. Both federal agents were dressed in dark blue BDU's with flak vests with many pockets integrated, heavy combat boots, fingerless gloves with visible steel plating and reinforced ball caps with a front light and comms built-in, all bearing a large colored NCIS logo. Brand new equipment being field tested on-the-go under real-life conditions alongside the tested & true Sig Sauer P228 pistols fitted with lights, laser pointer and optics for medium-range shots and a pair of Colt M4A1 assault rifles with extended 60 shot mags, 6" bayonet, M203 grenade launchers, flashlights, Barrett Vari-Scope and laser pointer. These two were carrying enough hard steel to be confounded for extra guardsmen or SWAT on their way to a situation.

Maybe that was why the NG's stayed separate? Cuz they wuz scared? Eh eh eh!

"Agents!" he shouted over the loud bass thrumming of the four propeller engines, "We have a situation in progress that you need to know about."

Verdant waited to make certain they both looked at him and could hear him enough. He decided though, to sit in the chair next to the male policeman, near the center of the arrangement since there was just a bit less noise away from the outer hull so his voice would be better heard without screaming his head off like a loon.

"Okay; here's the sit-rep! About ten minutes ago, we were contacted by the ANG - SOF out of Phoenix at Litchfield Park AFB with news that all the airfields around Los Angels county have been sabotaged with the air traffic personnel in place assassinated and the servers hijacked to deviate flights away from LA. That means that right now, they don't have anybody in towers to guide in airplanes to land safely so the Brass decided to keep on sending flights elsewhere until his lot here gets in place."

The female agent, Tammy Gregorio, passed roughly a weary hand through her long brown hair, setting behind her ear as she asked "I gather the ANG has already given you an alternative landing zone? We'll need to get some ground transport to LA to reach our mission group, no matter what. I don't see director Vance or EAD Mosley canceling this job for anything. Were you informed about this?"

"Yes ma'am. We were told that you would now get on the comms to call your Boss and hash it out with them. However, just so you know; the airport we're landing at used to be the 'Litchfield Park AFB' during WW-II until it was shuttered in the sixties and bought by the city that renamed it Phoenix Goodyear Airport. Now, because of the 'Noah's Ark' protocols the entire old military part of the base has been secretly refurbished, and even the decrepit surface buildings aren't what they seem. I'm sure our Brass has trucks ready to roll to LA overnight. After all, they have this lousy bunch to get there to take over the airport security and basic functions anyways, so... You'll probably just be hitching a ride with us that way too."

The male agent spoke up then "Thanks for the heads-up. We'll call our two managers and see what happens from there. Our next trip was with a heavy MD-11C out of JWA, but if the tower isn't operational at that point, we're gonna need options. Can you just give us the procedure to jack into your comms? We'll do the rest from there."

The Lt. Showed them the power, comms and network sockets on the outer bulkhead, then gave them verbally the user name & password that would give them access during the flight. He specified to them that these changed each time the plane landed or took off to avoid getting hacked because they had the same access login too long. With how many careless civilians they ferried in a year, plus the number of fools with nothing to do but hack into the army's network, they had no choice but to be this stringent with their onboard electronics or risk getting a crypto-locker virus mid-flight.

Sebastian Lund got his laptop situated with the appropriate wires to connect with the planes powerful comms array to contact NOLA and LA together to get their directives. No matter the circumstances, it wasn't their call to make; the Bosses would decide if they continued or turned back.

DXS - NCIS bad news for the night

(NCIS - NO – opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 02:10am

Western America; Saturday 19th of December, 2020; 23:10pm

Deeks House

Los Angeles, California, USA

The nine persons present in the building were sitting calmly in the large stately home's ground floor living room, at the front of the edifice, overlooking the completely dark, empty street. With all the streetlights not lighting up tonight for reasons unknown, there was only pale sickly light from the weak moon above. In forlorn places, a few stray rays of artificial brightness peeked out from the cracks in the blinds or curtains of those houses that were occupied. Even then, the rare properties with living people inside were thoroughly locked up, or even barricaded like the Deeks family had done.

If the windows had been opened, the people assembled in the room could have heard the low winds carrying across the neighborhood the vague sounds of scared residents banging hammers, cutting materials with powers saws, or using power drills to screw odds and ends. Those new installs typically related to plywood panels or corrugated steel sheets as window shutters, security cameras and raising existing backyard fences, sometimes with metal points or barbed wire. All these panicked, last minute modifications were being done under the cover of darkness, in the hopes of avoiding hostile scrutiny from potential thieves, or worse. Roberta and Julia had seen during the day two of the neighbors drive home, rather unsafely in their haste, and get out of their cars with long thin cardboard boxes that were imprinted with the brand-names of hunting gun manufacturers.

Saiga shotguns seemed all the raging fashion in these dreary days.

Marty was sitting comfortably with Kensi nestled besides him on the small couch (3 seats) located centrally near the fireplace, while observing Riley and Diane who sat on the other small couch across the card-&-games table. Mac and Bozer were seated in peaceful contemplation together on the far large couch (4 seats) that was near the two women they knew. Roberta and Julia had opted to sit in another large couch near their family, quietly sipping some warm tea as they watched just how close and in-love their two adult children had become over the last year. Jack Dalton walked in from his aside to the powder room, going to sit at the card table, nearest to Diane so he could listen in to the conversation she had with her daughter about coming events.

The two teams of professionals were enjoying a few last minutes of quietude with their loved ones before hitting the road for a very uncertain trip to a foreign country. Their all too short moment to gather some inner strength was rudely interrupted by a sudden, strident alarm sounding around the entire house. Both Marty and Kensi groaned in dismay together, raising their faces to the ceiling in tandem.

"Damn!" Kensi griped angrily, "What did they do this time?" she asked nobody in particular as she rubbed her hands down her face.

"No use crying about it now." Marty said despondently as he stood up and extended his arm to help his fiancée up from her own comfortable, warm position in the crook of the couch nearest the fire. "Come on sweetie, the Boss Lady wants us on the horn pronto. It wouldn't ring that tone if it weren't an emergency."

Grabbing the offered arm, Kensi pulled to help herself to her feet and out of her funk in one single fluid movement, still grumbling about bad luck and worse planning in the same breath.

The DXS team stood up to follow without being told, as it was pretty sure that any mess involving the NCIS crew would impact their entire mission, not just the trip to Vancouver. It was THEIR plane they were using after all, if it still functioned. They needed to know what was going on, which would be faster and simpler if they heard it all from the original source instead of being told an abstract later on, possibly missing details critical for DXS operations.

The six concerned people filed into the ground floor office so Kensi could log into the NCIS comms server to see what the newest problem to curse them happened to be. Opening the glass panel and letting the security scanner read her thumb print took barely a few seconds followed by manually typing in the VPN password to activate the ciphered linkup, and they were online with the Spanish House, the ancient dilapidated building that was home to NCIS – OSP in Los Angeles.

"Oh, hey guys! Glad to see you aren't on the road yet!" exclaimed Nell Jones the moment the image stabilized at both ends. "We have a bit of a pickle in progress, if you'll allow me the expression." Smiling quickly at them, much more peppy than the hour should allow for, she stepped aside to leave some space in the view for Executive Assistant Director (Pacific) Mosley to take over the conversation.

"Agent Blye, detective Deeks, DXS agents, I wish I were calling with better news." the black skinned woman spoke in strong steady tones. "I need to inform you that we are having an unforeseen delay in getting the NOLA agents over to Los Angeles on schedule due to several acts of assassination and sabotage at multiple crucial airports around the area of LA county. It looks like an organized group is trying to blockade the national guard from accessing the zone they had targeted to deploy their ground troops for the pacification of civil unrest. The hack at John Wayne airport wasn't an isolated incident. We have reports of six other airfields, public and private, getting hit in the same fashion in the last 5 hours. That means that the entire county is now short on available, competent, air traffic personnel and therefore they are now – legitimately – routing incoming flights elsewhere unless they are proven to be in distress and no longer airworthy."

"Damn." Kensi deadpanned, "What does that mean for our trip? Can we still leave by air?"

Mosley answered calmly "Yes, the mission goes on. The young doctor Wolenczak happens to be critical for too many reasons of national interest to be allowed to simply fade away in Canada's snow banks." Smirking a bit, the mature woman quipped "Given his pasty skin complexion, I do hope you get to him before he takes a sightseeing stroll in the forest, otherwise finding him won't be an easy task for you."

Studiously ignoring the wide-eyed open-mouthed faces made by Nell and Kensi who couldn't believe the top boss had made such a 'funny' during a public meeting, Mosley pursued her conference, quite satisfied at the reactions, especially given the smirk Marty wore as he winked at her through to monitor.

"Well, now, the national guard C-130 was forced to land somewhat – outside – the LA county zone. They touched down in Phoenix, in Arizona, about twenty minutes ago." the director deadpanned in neutral words. "The guard commandment decided that it would be safer to disembark their troops at an airfield that they knew was securely in friendly hands rather than risk arriving at an installation devoid of air traffic crew. The threat of potential insurgents laying in wait to shoot at the planes as they commit final approach was not ignored either. The guard felt it was better, and safer, to ferry their men over ground for the time being, until they can establish permanent control of the situation and facilities. As such, agents Gregorio and Lund will be arriving directly at JWA in about 6 hours."

Mosley's stance changed minutely as she continued the briefing. "I was assured by the national guard brass at Litchfield Park AFB that they had buses and trucks ready to take the entire load from the C-130, to bring it here in respectable time. Therefore, you might want to take a short nap before heading to the airport, to be refreshed and more energetic. Also, and not incidentally, this would keep you all out of the hair of the detachment of marines that are supposed to be reclaiming control of the tower and control station over there. I would prefer it if you didn't arrive on site before 05:00am, just to be on the safe side of things. Let's not give the jar-heads an excuse for some unfriendly fire 'accidents' between agencies, shall we?"

It was Jack who asked out loud "Excuse me Ma'am, but are you saying you think that the marines can't be trusted anymore? As in, the entire corps is compromised or something?"

"No, mister Dalton, I do not believe the US Marines are compromised as an institution. However, it is a well known fact, for several decades in truth, that there are active neo-nazi and skinhead supporters inside ALL branches of the USA military, police and governance. The 'Papal Lord' didn't materialize out of the clear blue sky like a miracle, no matter what he may want to make the populace believe. The deplorable truth is that, just like the ugly exfiltration missions of this morning, all the directors of all the law enforcement, intelligence and military institutions of the country are finding out just how many moles, spies, and saboteurs, we have been harboring and training in the methods by which they are now attempting to betray and destroy us. This is not a good period for honest people, agent Dalton, and those who wear a badge in the name of the real Law of America should be weary of their surroundings at all times. Especially if other humans with badges and guns are present."

Marty Deeks asked "In the event that the DXS team's plane is grounded by circumstances, what do we do then? Do we call in or skip straight to plans B, C, and D, etc... until we hit something that will transport us all up north?"

Mosley seemed to think for a few seconds then responded slowly, as she wasn't certain she wanted to proceed to far beyond a certain effort for this mission. "Normally, I would prefer being informed of any major changes in mission parameters. That includes the method of transport because I will have to coordinate with the customs agencies of both USA and Canada to obtain your passage and safe, legal arrival into our northern neighbor's land. Let us never forget people, that Canada may be foreign territory, and must be treated as such, but is not in any ways a hostile enemy. Respecting the process isn't just a nicety, it will allow you to walk the streets and intervene openly as agents of the US government without getting shot as terrorists or spies. Plus, if you need new transport, NCIS – LA could have a few strings to pull that make things faster, or at least easier. Hetty would certainly have a few 'old friends' owing her favors that could be put to contribution, if needs be."

Kensi gave the people in the office around her a look then said "Okay. We'll take a four hour lie-down then call in at around 04:30am to get sit-rep on the airfield to make sure we aren't driving into an ambush."

Mosley gave them all a bland smile (#2; day job - enigmatic boss) then moved out of the screen, leaving them with Nell to finish the conversation. The still surprised young intel analyst quickly gave them the new VPN passwords and indicated which cipher key to use during the coming 24 hours until it changed at midnight tomorrow.

NCIS dark hours of the night

(NCIS - NO – opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 02:45am

Western America; Saturday 19th of December, 2020; 23:45pm

Western side of the state

Arizona, USA

Standing idly just outside the massive front doors of above-ground Hangar #4 of the rebuilt Litchfield Park Air Force Base, the thin wiry young man waited alone besides the two inert dark blue SUV's bearing US National Guard plates and decals. Despite the freezing temperature, the howling winds and falling rain, he stood in open air with his hands deep in his cold weather coat's pockets, it's hood pulled over his head to keep dry. Right now, with the thoughts swirling chaotically inside his aching head, it was better to be out of doors than stuck inside with the ceaseless hum of neon tube lighting and stale recycled atmosphere that would eventually make him nauseous.

He needed this short-lived period of solitude as he was trying real hard to remember just how his placid, peaceful, and well-ordered lonely little life had taken such a tailspin into the Twilight Zone as of late. Passing a weary hand over his short, well groomed brown beard, he contemplated the fact that at 39 years old he was, in fact, still a 'young person' since he hadn't officially reached the 'middle age' part of his life. Why then, did he feel like a worn out old man?

He should have stayed just a forensic tech, safely ensconced inside the laboratory with nothing more dangerous than live reagents in the freezer and four closets full of poisonous chemicals. Those things, he could understand and deal with easily enough to no longer panic at their sight, or worry about them at odd hours anymore. Habit, familiarity or desensitization, take your pick of which term you preferred, he'd finally managed it with his basic work environment. Then he got weird on himself and went willingly for a full-out change of everything.

Rampaging fanatical thugs with guns and knives were a mystery to him. He could hunt and arrest them, even shoot them easily enough, but he could never enter their minds like Dwayne Pride and Christopher Lasalle could, when the needs of the case were dire. Even their female agents Sonja Percy and his current mission partner Tammy Gregorio could do a rather evolved psychological profile on the fly, while he still labored to match motives and emotions with material evidence that didn't always want to calmly stay still inside a petri dish.

Dwayne told him he was overthinking the situation, that he would evolve as he took in life, experience and the several hundreds of cases necessary before reaching the levels of instinct that he and Chris had taken decades through several different law enforcement jobs to obtain. This was both logical and true, just simply his damnable bad habit of doubting himself and his hard-earned capacities that kept rearing its ugly head every other week, no matter how much encouragements his team gave him.

Panning squinted green eyes across the vast expanse of the – supposedly – abandoned military sector of the Phoenix Goodyear Airport, Sebastian had to admit that some people had taken the execution of preparations for the 'Noah's Ark' protocols far more seriously than the NCIS-NOLA team had done. The forensics specialist still wondered about WHY exactly that was. He could easily remember the reasons that Dwayne Pride had given them each year, when the time to do a prep review had come, but the scientist was having problems reconciling the known facts and with the justifications. If his doubts were true, then the person he thought of as a good friend was either a traitor who supported a religious nutcase, or he had simply been unconvinced of the necessities spoken by director Vance and chosen to ignore the domestic emergency response plans. Honestly, Sebastian wanted that Pride simply hadn't had the time or resources to put in place physically reinforced fall-back locations and provisions,especially with the FBI investigation and internal audit that happened in the last 2 years. The alternative cause for not preparing to this level didn't bear thinking aloud.

Movement in the corner of his eye made him turn around quickly, his hands going to the Sig Sauer pistol and combat knife sheathed to the belt he wore over his long winterized trench coat. The walking figure made a vague hand gesture of her own, setting him at ease with recognition. His partner had finally finished sending their report to their NOLA, LA and Washington DC offices over the national guard's secure lines and they could now leave the area to reach Los Angeles.

"Hey, Seb!" agent Gregorio called out in a tired but friendly tone. "We need to wait a few minutes for the grunts to finish loading their kits in the pair of deuce's they're using for the convoy then we can roll out of this place for good. Just another 10 to 15 minutes, max. So, if you need the can or a hot coffee for the trip, go get it. I don't know if the NG's will stop anywhere on the way to eat or take care of other stuff."

Looking over at the SUV's again, agent Lund stepped closer to his partner to answer in a normal voice despite the pounding rain that was creating a haze in the air all around them. The weather along the southern areas of the USA was truly execrable at this time of year.

"No, I'm good. I used the restroom when they had us in their waiting area to pass the ID checks. And I already made sure the truck would have a few things in it to keep us fed and awake for the road. There's a half-gallon thermal carafe of fresh black coffee with brown sugar cubes & powdered cream aside. I grabbed us some granola & fruit bars to munch on if we can't stop for a decent meal, but the kitchen guys gave us a plastic box with a mix of tuna, ham and chicken sandwiches so we had something solid to start the trip with. Unfortunately, no side dishes and nothing hot besides the coffee. The trucks aren't set up as campers so they don't have a powerful enough electrical system to have a microwave oven and not enough space to put one anyways. Same for anything with propane, not enough place to do it safely. So we're going to have to tough it out on cold limited rations until LA. Sorry about that."

Giving her male friend a shallow, tired smile in understanding, Tammy shook her head, saying aloud "No, man... That's already a lot better than I expected. Truly, I thought we'd have to live off rainwater gathered through the car's windows on the roll and nothing else, so this is very good. I'm glad you're a worrywart; it comes in handy on emergency red-eye trips like this."

Responding to her compliment and good sentiments with a simple nod of the head, he did have a question to voice though; "Are we together in one truck or do we drive separately? There are two cars here, ready to go, and I saw the NG's prep both for immediate departure. Do you know the convoy protocols the guard are putting in place?"

Using her hands to make certain her long brown hair stayed safely inside her hood, away from the bone-chilling rain, Tammy answered "Yeah, about that. We're sharing one with a pair of NG's that will be the driver and shotgun. The second car will have a pair of Military CID (Criminal Investigative Division) agents that are going over to LA as extra manpower for the regular NCIS operations around the container port. They had a spate of sailors that abandoned post, stealing data or equipment as they did. In the comms room downstairs, I was told about something involving a Bradley fighting vehicle running amok... Anyways, we're shacking up in this one, and the jar-heads are in the other. Our duffel's and mission gear are already all in place."

An uninvited guest

(NCIS-LA - opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 05:18am

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 02:18am

Dovecote; Hetty Lange's house

Los Angeles, California, USA

The unlit houses, all as dark as the depth of the night they were in, passed by slowly as the shiny silver car rolled towards it destination in a way that could be called arrogant nonchalance, if inert machinery could be lent emotions and attitude. In this case, it was mostly due to the diminutive driver's justly proportioned sense of self-importance and realistic evaluation of her passengers' capacity for self-defense. If anybody tried to stop this car to steal from them, or kidnap them, they would be getting the shock of their lives, and not live long enough to cry about it.

Hetty Lange had been surprised, but not that much, by the extensive preparations for the 'Noah's Ark' protocols committed by EAD Mosley behind everybody's backs. Saturday evening, after agent Blye and detective Deeks had left, the Pacific Region manager had gathered the OSP sector heads in the conference room next to the Operations Suite to divulge the numerous buildings, facilities and services she had managed to 'discretely' procure and set aside for a rainy day, such as now befell them all. The woman had been at it since she became EAD-PAC five years ago. She had discretely used the visits she had to do at all US Navy installations to scout the base or local NCIS building, find new emplacements, and then set construction plans to fortify everything for a prolonged siege during an insurrection when nobody would send them help.

Several agents were greatly relieved to see just how competent, how foreseeing the mature woman had proven to be, and the assiduity she had demonstrated in creating the best prepared network of safe-houses and enclaves in the entire NCIS organization. Others however, those much closer to Hetty from the start of their implication in NCIS, had been blindsided quite badly by the news and had frozen stiff, unable to decide what emotion dominated their mind at the time. At least, they hadn't made a scene with ill-conceived accusations of dishonesty or treason. Harley Hidoko reminding everyone pointedly that the orders for 'Noah' came from the top career (non-elected) chairs in DOD & DOJ, along with orders of discretion and non-disclosure unless the protocols were engaged, did calm a lot of spirits in a judicious manner.

The rest of Saturday evening had not been easy inside the Spanish House; there were palpable tensions between Sam Hanna, Grisha Callen, Eric Beale and Nell Jones on one side, and Mosley, Hidoko, and pretty much everybody else in the building on the other side. Hetty wound up the proverbial pillock stuck in the middle of the killing field with both sides wanting a piece of her hide on a stake.

She should have stayed retired when she had a chance, last year after returning from Vietnam.

But no. She was a career intelligence officer, a dedicated federal law enforcement agent, and she knew from her many contacts around the country – and planet – that her services were yet needed in earnest, especially given the queer symptoms emanating from the White House since the 2016 election. There had been signs and symptoms since 2008, of course there were, but not from the C-I-C being an incompetent, criminalized, whack-job the way this one was. And the 2020 elections last November had been a complete bust of unmitigated proportions. Some 47% of the inscribed electors had been filmed and manually counted at the polling office doors, but the numbers of votes recorded by the machines was around 30% over that for a supposed 62% turnout! Somebody had hacked the polling systems and guaranteed that Trump would be elected again, regardless of legal or social woes in progress.

The Russians had done it; just to keep things clear and simple.

Not.

NOTHING was ever clear, let alone simple, when the quagmire of Russia's politics, military planning and oligarchs got involved in anybody's country. The USA wouldn't fare any better or understand more of the plans in motions than Europe or China did when they were on the receiving end of the Kremlin's 'special friendship' gifts and attention. Especially since such gifts were poisonous, and the attention was that of a stalker that wanted you alone in a dark, locked room to ravage your virtue, health and sanity out of you. Such nice people, the GRU were. Nothing like the old KGB had been. SNORT!

And so Hetty was, after a prolonged day of miserable, execrable news and commotions, driving her silver Mercedes-Benz back home, with a full load of passengers and cargo. Her luxury car had been stuffed like the station-wagon of a soccer-mom taking her kids camping for the weekend. If only! Kids would be making a racket in the car with their music, games and complaints, not staying morosely silent out of depression and anxiety while glaring out the windows with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, just in case.

When Mosley had announced the activation of the NCIS Redoubt in the sector of old decrepit warehouses and manufactures near the city's massive container port, dozens had accepted eagerly to move their family and dependents over to the large complex. Others like Deeks had a large heavily reinforced house that could serve as a detached outpost so they weren't moving into the NCIS enclave, while others still preferred to create their own fortified emplacements, farther away from the boss to keep some of their independence from her direct authority.

Hence, Hetty now had mister Callen and Miss Kolchek as house-guests for the foreseeable future. There was even a good chance that she would be hosting mister Beale and miss Jones later on, as they both lived in rather ordinary, not very secure, apartment buildings and they both needed far better surveillance and maintenance than being left alone after their work shift. The conditions these days really meant that no one was safe alone anymore; the best surety was in numbers, even if some of those numbered may not be up to snuff yet. It was better to keep the couple near her heart than let them loose in the wind to lose them to the hazards of civil war and the unfettered criminality that was spreading across the country.

The elderly woman was brought out of her musings by the sight of her large tall manor house, and the large black SUV parked in the driveway, a little to the right-hand side of the lane to allow access to the garage door. The closed, inert vehicle had rather conspicuous US DOD plates and decals with a phone number and website to contact if the car was found damaged or abandoned without officers/agents nearby.

As the 10 foot tall wrought-iron fence open automatically to let in the silver Mercedes-Benz, the old woman was left to wonder just how that vehicle had entered her property without setting off the multitude of alarms that had been added in the last three years, following the spate of break-ins, kidnapping plots and assassination attempts. Not to mention she had used Dovecote as a witness safe-house twice in that time, for miss Kolchek and her father Arkady, and for an old friend from the Agency that needed a bolthole in preparation for a silent getaway out of the country because an operation inside the US mainland had gone bad.

Hetty had no idea who that was that came to pay her a visit, but the number of enemies she had made during her 40 year CIA career had been quite impressive by both the quantity and sheer diversity of people she pissed off enough that killing her became a personal crusade. Given the political and religious climate in Washington DC, and the fact she was a part Slav – part Romani midget with a nastier disposition than a basket of well-shook african bees... Let's just say the elderly woman had valid reasons to think this was a hit on her, carried out during the civil unrest specifically to mask the evidence under the ongoing chaos that would allow the assassin's trail to go cold by inaction since nobody would bother with investigating anything in these times.

"Prepare yourselves for a hot exfil, people! We have company that I didn't invite!" she called out to her stressed passengers.

"I'll take the kitchen patio doors." Callen replied, shoving the car door open to jump out as the Benz slowed to 5mph to coast into its usual outside parking spot. The man quickly ran out and around the corner of the mansion house, Sig in one hand, knife in the other.

"I'll take the main entrance while you go in through the garage and mud room. Be safe, Henrietta! Father would mourn your passing." The female DEA agent said quietly as she opened and closed her door with nary a sound, being discrete out of habit despite the car's engine noise would already have alerted the perps inside the house to Hetty's arrival. At this point, all three were hoping the enemy hadn't put watchers in the windows or taken over the extensive security system. If either situation had occurred, then the opposition already knew how many and who they were, as well as how they were coming in. This could get ugly real fast.

Hetty finished parking the luxury car and made as if to enter through the small personnel door on the right-hand of the garage door that led to the internal 6-place parking and the controls for the doors and garden sprinkler system. As she walked almost to the front of the car, preparing to turn right or duck and roll out of enemy fire, the house's main entrance door opened to reveal, backlit from the house's inside illumination, a tall brown haired man wearing the standard dark blue 3-piece suit of government agents and a badge hanging from his waistcoat pocket. The man greeted Anna with his hands in front of him, showing clearly he wasn't a threat, thus causing the young woman to gesture at the elderly woman to join her.

Griping about clusterfucks in progress all the ways, Hetty marched to the main door, carrying her briefcase on a bandoleer at her left side to free her hands. She used the few seconds of walk to discretely check the two Glock 26 pistols in holsters under each arm, and the two NAA .22 Magnum mini revolvers mounted to wrist-rigs on each forearm. A slight wiggle of the hips made sure she could confirm the position of her knives around her pants' waistline since she could always feel those strapped to her ankles with the extra Glock magazines. Arriving abreast of the very 'obvious' G-man, she gazed at his credentials to behold the titles for combined US Navy Intel / UEO Navy posting.

Damn. The idiotic 'internationals' had just landed in her patch.

As if Mosley wasn't enough to deal with already.

Wasn't the team of cracked-pots from the CIA two years ago enough shite to drop on them? And Vietnam? Need she recount anew the harrowing tales of Vietnamese mafia torture from last year to get some understanding and peace at home?

Ah, bother!

The elderly agent saw the man was about the same age as detective Deeks, but far better shaven and coiffed, although he did seem to be as athletic. He only had one sidearm visible in the regulation under-arm holster at his left side, but Hetty wouldn't bet on him not having a drop-piece and knives. In this day and age, even the pacifists seemed to understand the value of carrying heavy & plenty to stay safe. While the old woman didn't distrust him on first sight per se, he was the one standing inside the portico of her own domain, acting as if he was doing them a favor by allowing them in. The nerve of the man!

"Madam Lange, agent Kolchek, I am sorry to intrude on your privacy at this hour but our 'principal' insisted that she would be welcome at all times and to skip on finding a hotel. We didn't have much time to do much else than land the plane and drive here, since reaching LA. I do hope this does not inconvenience you." the bodyguard spoke out in bland monotone words. His lack of care for the situation couldn't be more clear unless he was carrying a placard with pink fluo text to say so.

Hetty glared at him for a good five seconds before he got the message – belatedly – and let the two females pass inside the house proper. As soon as she passed the vestibule, Hetty had her nose in the air, an odd odor grabbing her attention and triggering her defensive instincts at the same time. Who was it that dared to install themselves in her kitchen enough to be cooking those sorts of complicated meals?

Guiding the now befuddled Anna Kolchek and a silently amused escort through the ground floor into the eating area, they passed the formal dining room, butler's pantry and the informal breakfast nook to enter the actual kitchen.

Just in time to see Grisha Callen sitting at the large island's bar with a napkin stuck in the neckline of his T-shirt as he dug into a meal of roast turkey with trimmings, sides and cranberry sauce.

Henrietta stood there like the proverbial spare prick, mouth open as she tried to understand the picture until movement in the corner of her left eye caught her attention. She turned around just in time to see a short (but still taller than her by a foot, dammit!) plump elderly woman with lush silvery hair and puffed pink cheeks dressed in casual cream-colored slacks and blouse with discrete tasteful jewelry that clashed horribly with the stained full-set apron she wore. Said cheap vinyl apron was old, frayed and creased by decades of usage, bearing on the chest portion a detailed rendering of a red horned devil with spiked tail and small bat wings that was busy poking at something inside a large cauldron resting on glowing blue flames.

Recognizing easily the Hell-spawned creature of damnation that was even now proffering a baking sheet full of warm fresh-from-the-oven custard tartlets to an amused Anna Kolchek, Henrietta could only come up with one intelligible thought to articulate through her disquieted mind.

"Oh, bugger it all! Wasn't the blasted civil war enough offal to wade through already?"

DXS – NCIS road to the airport

(MacGyver – 1985 opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 07:40am

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 04:40am

All over town

Los Angeles, California, USA

Jack Dalton yawned as wide as his home state, scratching at a few itches at the same time, as he did the final check on the cargo compartment on his SUV. The two teams had gotten four hours of sleep and a quick shower afterwards to help them wake up, but after the day they had lived, it was barely enough to be functional. Everybody hoped the plane would be safe so they could have another nap in flight.

While the professional soldier looked over the equipment, Riley, Mac and agent Blye were in the office again to get sit-rep on the airport's condition and call in to the plane to get positive confirmation on the aircraft's viability for action. Bozer and Deeks were in the basement bunkers getting extra stuff for a longer mission and the possibility they would get stuck north of the border until things in the USA stabilized.

Sighing tiredly, Jack puttered around the back of his truck to verify all the basic clothing and winter gear for several weeks, survival & camping gear, guns & ammo, a spare bag of tech assembled by Riley in case hers was destroyed or lost, etc... After closing the back hatch, he checked on the two large thermoplastic fuel canisters attached on the rollover bars that protected the rear door from impacts. Both cans were still full so they wouldn't have to stop anywhere on the road. MacGyver had created the automated refueling system just after Patricia Thornton had betrayed them and having a plan for active escape from LA became a priority. A small pump between the protected tanks would pull liquid fuel from the two canisters and send it to the vehicle's regular fuel tank under the chassis. That tank had been modified and reinforced as well during the full-truck upgrades, but it still wasn't a humvee or MRAP truck by any stretch of the imagination.

Not seeing anything wrong or missing from their kit, the ex Delta-Forces soldier walked around the garage towards the wall away from the house to look at the masonry wall that housed yet another small wood burning fireplace as back-up light and heat in case of outages. Looking over the way the cast iron inset was built into the masonry, Jack couldn't help but think the person who designed this house had lived in much colder climates than South California to put so many damned fire pots all over the place. Weren't they afraid of burning down the place, at some point? Not to mention all that wood had to be gotten somewhere. There wasn't a wood splitter or portable saw mill anywhere in sight, so they must get their wood already cut & split from a timber yard.

Mulling inane things idly as he walked back to the main house with his hands in his pockets, Jack was happy to see Diane come into the garage carrying a large thermal carafe full of coffee for their trip. Smiling kindly at the man she had loved once, thirteen years ago, the mature woman walked with a grace and balance that belied her age and the hard life she had lived.

"Hey there, cowboy!" she called out playfully, "I hear tell somebody's going on the trails without having a proper send-off. Now, that just won't do! So here; fence post syrup, extra black, no nothing in it but more black." she handed the carafe over to her friend then made a shooing motion with her hands to send him away. "Alright, alright! You've had your send-off, so don't get mushy mister, and leave before we both say stuff we'll regret not saying ages back."

Jack ignored her request, setting the metal carafe on the hood of his dark blue SUV besides them so he could wrap Diane in a long caring hug, letting his simple gesture speak for him everything that really should have been told over a decade back. Both of them had suspiciously wet eyes when they pulled apart but said nothing more as Deeks came in with Bozer to add more survival gear and a tech bag to the truck that the two NCIS agent would drive to the airport.

With six people moving all at once, the sheer amount of clothing, necessities, survival gear and weaponry meant that they could not simply pile up in the largest truck; that would mean a choice between passengers and the needed stuff. And using a trailer behind the SUV wasn't an option either, since exposing materials to public view was just telling people to come steal from them. Also, with the high chance of being attacked on the road, it was necessary to have two motorized vehicles to be able to escape the situation if one car was shot-out since no outside help would be coming to their rescue.

Not paying attention to the two older adults at the front, Marty and Wilt juggled their boxes and bags directly to the SUV's tail gate to dump everything inside and do a quick reorganization of the truck's contents so things were packed in a stable way to avoid shifting and spilling during the road. After completing the packing chore, they went back inside the house to meet everybody in the dining room for the final gear-up.

{ SQ } - { Taking the low road in life } - { SQ }

It was barely passed 05:00am when the garage doors swiveled up to let out the two heavy cars for their fatidic trip down to Orange County and an uncertain situation at JWA. The sit-rep they got from the marines on site indicated they had re-taken the airfield and control buildings without a single shot being fired. However, they had found two more portable hack modules in place, hijacking the air traffic control systems and keeping the airfield surveillance protocols under the commands of enemies.

Somebody certainly wanted to keep the entire thing secret for now. Normally, terrorists and supremacy groups wanted as much public fear and submission as they could get so they broadcast their actions and results to all winds. This silent approach to destabilizing the entire LA county aerial management was a novelty, and not a welcome one. It meant there was somebody out there with different goals and playbook than everyday normal criminals was in the game. This level of resources, efficiency, and truly silent, cloaked operations could only be a foreign government getting their hands bloody in America's private mess.

The choices for such a situation weren't good; Trump's primitive schoolyard bully style had created many enemies who would want to destroy the country, while others just wanted them taken down a handful of pegs from their damned 'american exceptionalism' religion-based idiocy that had been creeping through the government for four decades now. On top of the traditional problems with Russia, China, and the new Montagnard Federation due to their communism, plus the islamic fanaticism of Iran, Somalia, Yemen and many others now integrated into the Pan-African Confederation, many in Canada and Europe had gotten sick of US bullying on the planetary scene. This attempt to sabotage the airspace management around LA could have come from frankly anywhere, with the lead suspects numbering in the dozen already. This was not a situation that would be getting any better anytime soon.

Regardless of the subjacent problems inferred by the ongoing mess, the two SUV's rolled quickly at just over 60 miles an hour, even in tight residential streets, not giving anyone a good chance to see their contents or have a clear shot as they passed by. They shared a comms frequency so that the signal repeaters in the trucks could link the earbuds each person wore to speak and hear the entire group easily. Given how dangerous the day was going to be, all had dressed in dark kit; cargo pants, multi-pocketed button shirt, heavy combat boots and flack jacket with knives, pistols, extra mags and a walkie-talkie with their long-guns in hand's reach near each person. This cumbersome equipment wasn't the usual for Riley or Bozer, and even MacGyver was having trouble getting accustomed again to wearing body armor and guns the way he had back in his EOD field days.

Given their street-to-street combat experience and greater practice with close-in weaponry, Kensi was driving with Marty in the first truck so they could get out to examine problems if they had to stop for any reason that could crop up along the way. Jack was driving the second truck with Mac at his right, Riley and Bozer as passengers behind them, with Angus and Wilt as designated backup soldiers in case they had to get out to intervene. This was the best configuration to survive hostile encounters, especially if somebody planted IED's along the road to stop their convoy for a quick grab & snatch at their gear.

They were lucky so far.

Not like many of the decayed corpses they saw, rotting away slowly in the early rays of dawn, marred by the fangs and claws of the wild dogs, cats, rats and raccoons that eke out a meager subsistence from scrounging trash cans or tearing out garbage bags left outside over night. For animals, rancid leftover steak or rotten human carcass was edible meat all the same.

Riley closed her watery brown eyes as she came to realize that the streets of her hometown looked like a scene out of an apocalypse film or some video game in the 'Duke Nukem' style of shoot everything and never ask questions about anybody for anything. In fact, the semi-abandoned, slightly damaged appearance of the buildings and cars with an occasional corpse reminded her of scenes from the TV series 'The walking dead' since they also had mostly intact edifices but no detectable human presence.

"Great!" the young female hacker thought morosely as they crossed the halfway point of their trip. "That's all we need right now; a damned disease or chemical that turns everybody into zombies so we can have a cheesy scenario like 'Aryan Ku-Klux-Klan undead troopers from Carolina' or some such shite." she silently hoped some moronic biologist hadn't left his freezer unlocked as her musings turned less funny when she considered the possible mutations a toxic poison could do. Looking over at the tense black male on her left, she shook her head negatively, deciding to keep her gallows humor for later, once they were aboard the plane. Maybe then the team would be able to unwind enough that she could crack an off-color joke without getting kicked out of the moving vehicle with an order to walk the rest of the way.

"Want some coffee, Jack? You guys?" Asked Angus as he took the carafe to serve himself a small cup, mostly to do something with the unused nervous energy roiling inside of him that came out as ticks and trembling in his hands.

Jack shook his head, answering "Nahn, I'm good. I had me a cup while Riley was in the shower since she had to wash-up first to be on the horn with the two HQ's."

"I'll have me some" Bozer spoke wearily as he gazed out the side window. "I was too nervous after wake-up to eat anything but some buttered soda crackers to sponge off the acid in my gut. Now though, I could use some warm joe in me." Turning forward to look at the two men in front, he commented "I was sure glad to hear that Matty pulled out okay, during the check-up this morning. Other agencies weren't that lucky with their bosses and colleagues."

Keeping a steady gaze on the road ahead, Dalton replied to that "Aren't we all! We lost enough people to madmen like Murdoch and his merry hirelings or the damned 'Organization' and its moles. If we lost somebody as high as Mathilda... I don't rightly know how Phoenix would survive that. Not today, not with the country the stinking mess it's become."

As he passed a pair of warm steaming mugs over to Wilt and Riley, Angus spoke softly, his worry and despondency audible in his tone. "Yeah, with the States collapsing into civil unrest and anarchy so hard and so fast, I don't think anybody would give us any help or directions, let alone the people in DC. If Matty or others in our group falls, it'll be up to us to insure continuity and find replacements. And I don't have a clue how to do that right now."

Smirking at her friend as she took the hot mug, Riley quipped "You could stand on the sidewalk dressed in tight spandex T-shirt and bike shorts with that dimpled smile of yours. I'm sure you'd have people coming at you in droves to be hired. Especially women. And queers. And old grannies wanting to adopt you like the little lost puppy you look like when you make that sad forlorn face of yours."

Mac's indignant "Hey! I'm not some man-whore to bait people into service like that!" was drowned out by the laughter from the other two men.

His cause certainly wasn't helped when Jack snorted aloud, pointing out "I think we all heard that you didn't say aloud you'd refuse being adopted by an old granny who'd take you home like a stray mutt! Was that an oversight or an admission? Cuz, you know, with them three mature, lively ladies we left over at the Deeks house, I already have me one picked out and I think the two navy cops would like to know if you got eyes on their mamas!"

Giving his three car-share partners a glare, Mac stayed silent as he poured himself some coffee. With this bunch in tight quarters with him for the next 40 minutes or so, he really needed the liquid courage. Some friends they were! Why exactly did he like them, again?

{ SQ } - { Arrivals } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 08:48am

Western America; 05:48am

Just a few minutes past six the two vehicles managed to arrive at the John Wayne Airport. They had to stop at the hastily erected barricade manned by a pair of marines to show their credentials and flight orders. The soldiers didn't care one whit for who they were, where they were going, or what the ultimate mission objectives were. All they cared was that their ID cards and DXS documents were genuine so they could get moved along into the compound to allow passage for the two oncoming army trucks carrying infantrymen to establish a permanent garrison at the airfield to have a secure landing strip directly in the heart of LA metro area.

Without any elaborate ceremonies to slow them down, the two cars sped their way across the fenced terrain, heading straight for the DXS's private (secret) hangar. They drove along the fronts of the line of commercial structures, manufactures and airplane hangars, the tarmac to their right, until they reached the one bearing the appropriate identifying logo and name for the shell company they were using as cover to move around the planet unimpeded. The huge aircraft doors were ajar just enough to permit the passage of a heavy SUV but not an actual truck or armored vehicle. As they rolled right into the hangar to stop in the parking zone away from the sizable MD-11C refit aircraft, they saw that another dark blue SUV's carrying US National Guard plates and decals was parked and empty.

While the six persons got out of their cars with their rifles or shotguns in hand, their principal pilot, agent Sampson, came out of the plane to greet them. He walked halfway down the rear cargo ramp, waving both arms at them, giving them the agreed set of signals to indicate everything inside was clear and safe to board. Putting a hand to his ear to activate the earbud inside, he commed them.

"Forget your bags for a while and get yourselves inside! The moron-in-chief is about to start up another mess in DC! He's got some 'low mass' thingie he wants to put up for the whole planet to see!"

Kensi snarked aloud "Oh, yeah! We were trying to forget about that! Thanks a bundle for reminding us!" - snort! - "Not!"

"Kenz!" Marty mock scolded her lightly as he jogged besides her. "Give the poor guy a chance! It's the first time he's met you! He can't know just how non-religious you are. It's an easy mistake to understand."

"Shush, you!" Kensi replied amused as they moved. "And for the record," she told agent Sampson as she arrived near him on the ramp, "I might be engaged to the big lug, but he doesn't know me that well."

"Oh, the pain! The agony!" Deeks wailed theatrically as he held his heart with both hands in a fake swoon. "Wounded me to the quick, she did! How cruel women are, to us defenseless men!" he laid on thick, causing the four DXS following them to burst out in laughter.

Pilot Sampson shook his head at the bunch of crazies he had just let aboard his plane. The original four were bad enough, but the new ones didn't seem any better. Oh, well... He just flew the plane, he didn't have to live with them.

"The other two agents from NCIS New Orleans have arrived just a quarter hour ago. They barely got their kit situated in their bunks for the trip. They're in the main living area, warming up the giant TV while my copilot is getting some basic breakfast stuff ready. Nothing fancy, just some toasted bread, some pre-cooked bacon slices warming in the oven and a block of cheddar cheese. Plenty of peanut butter and jams for those who want a bit more substance. And coffee! God knows his green Earth wouldn't be livable without the stuff flowing like water from public fountains!"

Kensi replied with feeling "Amen to that! I could use a large mug of warmth that doesn't come with a side-serve of snark right about now" she quipped at her fiancé with a smirk.

Inside the large aircraft, the six arrivals had walked passed the small propane powered forklift and 12 seat medical minibus to enter the actual personnel sector. They filed through the infirmary, bunkie, communal washroom and galley kitchen where they took up the waiting food trays then finally reached the main work/living area. The two NCIS agents from the Gulf Coast were already setting up the case files and mission briefs on the low coffee table between the large 5-seat couches while the flex-screen giant TV had been unfurled from the ceiling so everybody could see what new depravity the morons in Washington DC had come up with during the night.

"Sssshht!" waved off the female of the pair. "We'll do the intros later on, after we get our appetites wrecked by the bozo-in-chief."

The new arrivals agreed quickly, the scent of hot food having given them incentive enough all on its own. All six were rapidly seated with a plate, mug and flatware to fix their meals as the news program began playing the despicable new 'crusade anthem' the Papal Lord Amerikus had chosen to replace the old one to make certain everybody knew just how religious and pure they now were.

Eghellum; Americana Aquila Imperis

(Imperial March – Star Wars)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 09:00am

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 06:00am

White House; Rose Garden

Washington DC, Maryland, USA

It was a dreary whitish-gray sky, charged with alternating sleet and snow that hung over the Washington DC area this day, unloading its nasty cocktail of mixed precipitations down unto the helpless population below. This nor'easter storm had been climbing up the eastern seaboard for three days already, and it was now centered on the nation's capital at least for the next 24 hours. Not that it would stop the happening of further calamities and depravities in this town; no it would not.

Said helpless population was walking around in the damned slush, already inches deep, huddled in their winter coats, scarves and hats to ward off the bitter cold, or drove around slowly with their doors locked and windows rolled all the way up to avoid being begged or carjacked when stalled in the gridlocked traffic since the police would not be able to come in time to help. DC was moving on the handbrakes this morning; the innumerable police, FBI and national guard road stations had everyone outside acting fearfully about what could happen to them at the next step, whilst the people that stayed home were glued to their Internex monitors to see what would happen now, in following with the depraved announcements from last evening.

As the early morning news reported the violent clashes of the precedent day and night, showing clearly that the country was quickly descending into uncontrolled chaos, the diverse news outlets also began warning the population of the country that another 'mandatory' public address by the White House was imminent. The Papal Lord Amerikus wanted to conduct Low Mass from the Rose Garden to offer what he bombastically called 'uplifting moral guidance' unto the ecclesiastes, soldiers and worshipers of the American Christian Cult.

Fox News had been granted special 'privileged' access to the White House grounds all through the night to witness the massive, ingenious transformations going on. The network was gormless enough to show the poor unwitting populace, right on the breakfast hour when kids were eating and watching TV with their parents, the rows upon rows of severed heads mounted to the fences and wooden rakes that now ornated the seat of governance for the country.

The elderly news anchor was someone brand new that had never been seen before anywhere in media; he had wrinkled disease-pocked off-white skin with a long bushy beard that disappeared under the table he was sitting at and a long braid of hair, both gray so pale it looked white. He was dressed in archaically styled white cotton and leather clothing, with small wooden replicas of the Flagged Crucifer and lit lampions on both sides of the news desk.

As the flying drone's camera showed the ice encrusted decomposing heads, the geriatric crone waxed poetic on the final, justly deserved, shameful ends of turncoats, traitors, and relapsed heretics that dared to doubt America's Godly Exceptional Greatness. The announcer then started a commentary on the long line of people dressed in all-white cowled cloaks, trudging through the slushy foot paths around the White House grounds, from the front entry towards the rear and the Rose Garden. The comments spoken by the news anchor about the old men shown in the drone's close-ups were more in line with useless mundane gossip or childishly vengeful schoolyard snipes, not bringing anything new, educational, or constructive, about the identities, careers, or new social stations of these participants in Trump's deluded follies.

Then the images changed perspective dramatically as the drone rose to 300 feet high over the Rose Garden, an outdoor space that had been lauded by photographs and diplomats alike over the last 125 years for its beauty and sobriety. During the cold stormy night, it had been butchered by soldiers wielding chainsaws and skid-steers to effectuate a garish transformation with an obvious purpose.

{ SQ } - { Circus tent for a depraved spectacle } - { SQ }

At this point, nobody could hide from themselves the fact that the Trump administration had been diseased with the insanities of religious delirium for a very long time. The steel columns, concrete statues, embroidered cloth hangings and multiple giant wooden Flagged Crucifers that were arrayed in a 'U' shape to enclose the area would have needed months to design, craft, then transport to DC to be stored somewhere until needed. There was no denying it anymore; they had elected a warped, twisted mind to sit in the Oval office four years ago, and been stupid enough to vote for him again last month.

What had once been an open, luminous outdoor space to host diplomats and medal ceremonies under a clear shining sun had been defaced into a dreary, dark parody of a gothic cathedral without walls. Tall blood-red steel beams and girders had been raised to form a skeletal framework that easily evoked the cruciform floor-plan of christian churches since the year 1,000AD. The vertical steel lattice formed virtual 'walls' with oblong arches as 'roof' overhead. Large, thick, glyph engraved horizontal girders seated atop the main posts kept them all straight while forming the connection support base upon which the ceiling arcs were jointed to the walls. Arced steel frames emulating door frames had been placed at the foot of the cross-shaped building to indicate the public entry just like a real church. A minimalist square tower rose on four quads of stilts, above the crossing between the central nave and the transepts, capped by a flat steel trellis floor. In the space between the vertical steel beams of the outer walls and ceiling ribs, the empty zones had been filled with thick, white, polyester cloth hangings heavily embroidered with highly romanticized scenes of 'glorious' crusades carried out by Templar Knights.

On the main floor of the simile-church's nave were placed four rows of twelve concrete benches, each wide enough for 5 people. These benches were composed of thin cement steles for end-sides and individual backrests, as if someone had used unmarked gravestones to assemble each seat.

At the front of the nave, before the newly replaced doors to the White House, a concrete slab had been installed, kept aloft 7 feet above the ground by concrete pillars that were deeply engraved with mythical figures of christian angels and saints dating back to before the viking period. Atop this platform were situated the 13 thrones of the new Papal Conclave of Bishops and a large master altar, all made of solid drab gray concrete engraved with effigies of the Flagged Crucifer and the American Imperial Eagle. At the back of the platform were two metal gangways that linked to the first floor balcony of the White House to allow passage directly from the offices to the ritual dais so the Exalted Bishops were not exposed to the crowd as they attended the ceremonies.

The transept left of the altar held a series of empty cages big enough for several large animals, while the right transept held eight steel cabinets that were the toilet/sink cubicles for the worshipers attending. Under the platform bearing the celebrants were four large concrete structures similar in aesthetics to a kitchen tableware buffet; these were the tabernacles for the church, holding all the paraphernalia needed during the diverse rituals and ceremonies they planned to accomplish in the 'sacred' site.

Outside the pseudo-chapel, a steel spiral staircase climbed up the central tower that rose well above the pseudo-roof, giving access to the two levels that had a trellis floor to stand upon. The first level, just inside the arcs of the canvas roof, served as media platform for the few invited news crews to stand without bothering the guests. These were limited to Fox News, the Christian News Network, the Christian Broadcasting Network, the Worthy Network News, the Christian Business Network, the Christian Science Monitor, the Eternal World Television Network, the Orthodox Network, and Trinity Broadcasting Network. The second level was the tower's flat roof, where sat an openly exposed firepot, already alight with blazing coals, and a small brass bell recovered from an american warship sunk during World War II near France.

{ SQ } - { Clowns to keep the animals at play } - { SQ }

It was nearing 09:15am when the drone's viewpoint faded to black, then switched to the official fixed cameras inside the cloth-paneled edifice. The viewers got a first look at the uniforms and tools of the newly instituted division of the armed services, the Grand Crusade Army of America, who were stationed inside the fake-church to stand guard over the proceedings. The men were all white skinned and young, above age 25 but younger than 35 years old. They all wore basic BDU's colored pure opaque white covered by long white polyester cloaks bearing a layer of gray kevlar on the outside as added protection. The BDU's were reinforced by solid kevlar plates and parts painted matte gray to emulate silver with sky-blue details that reminded of medieval half-plate armor. These 'crusaders' had full helmets with acrylic visors that could be closed, chest-plates with pauldrons, segmented gauntlets and visible plates clipped over their boots.

The ensemble was made even more complete by the large rectangular metal & kevlar shield they bore on their left arm and a halberd in the right hand. The pole weapon was composed of an eight foot long metal shaft, covered in kevlar insulation, with a version of the Flagged Crucifer that had all points and edges sharpened to weaponize the icon so it could serve as a real functional ax-head in combat. The 'crusaders' also carried on their thick leather belts a titanium-alloy Damascus pattern copy of a knight's broadsword, a brand new 9mm Colt AGCA-2020, an oak wood truncheon, a barbed leather scourge and an inch thick hemp rope already braided into a hanging noose.

Everything in the appearance was designed to remind of the imagery taught children about aristocratic knights, noble chivalry and pious servitude to the Church from Europe's period of the Christian Crusades and Inquisition. The costumes were clearly meant to signify that these soldiers had an exalted religious ranking on top of their basic military rank & functions. The weapons they carried were not just for pomp and ceremony, but clearly intended to be used in those circumstances of indocile children and women, runaway slaves and violent criminals as described by the Papal Lord last night. This demonstration of organized cruelty shook regular ordinary Americans to the core as they could now see how widespread the precepts, and acceptance, of torture, mutilation and murder were becoming in their land.

{ SQ } - { Spectators for the 3-ring event } - { SQ }

The fake church was slowly filling up with the marchers who had been shown earlier. As they removed their cowled cloaks, it was seen they were all dressed in white cotton and leather clothes, fashioned similarly to what Trump had worn yesterday for his 'speech' on TV, showing yet again that this had been under preparation for some time. Many of the persons in attendance were well known to America's viewing public at large, especially for any who followed political and financial news surrounding the electoral process.

What was surprising though, was the extent of the physical transformation some of these men had undergone in less than 24 hours. And it was only manly-men allowed inside; no women and no male under age 25 were allowed in the 'sacred' space that had been hastily erected during the frigid night, nor were any non-white permitted, quite obviously. Only the true and pure faithful worshipers of America's right to rule in God's Name had been invited this day. Most who had hair had tried some form of viking braid or, if capillarily challenged, gone for the monastic 'tonsure crown', while many had braided small jewels in what hair or beard they had to show off. Many effigies of the Flagged Crucifer or the American Crusade Flag were clearly visible as cape broaches or belt buckles, and every one had a medallion hanging from their neck representing Eghellum, the American Imperial Eagle.

The geriatric news presenter was now commenting with determined viciousness about the personal failings and character limitations of several attendees of the Low Mass in a manner that reminded vividly of Bill O'Reily's style of destroying an individual's reputation when he had no proven facts to talk about but needed to fill the airtime of a show. It became rapidly evident to watchers that those attacks were targeted specifically at those politicians or businessmen who were rich enough and influential enough to rival Trump's newly exalted status if they gave it a try. After barely five minutes of listening to the profanity and insults lacing the commentary, most watchers could understand this was a verbal whack-job on the names and lives of people the Papal Lord was afraid could manipulate or command the country's financial forces and social groups better than him. In an act of transparent fear and despair, the vain narcissist had ordered the public demeanment of his present 'allies' to try and secure his own feeble grasp on power.

This really bode ill omen for the present allies of the Republican Party, the US government, and for the entire country at large, that the head of state was already embroiled in internal warfare to keep a stranglehold on the tools and influence of the controlling apparatus so immediately after a dramatic regime change. It also gave a clearly obvious signal to all who watched the program that Trump himself was not in any ways assured of his own position and hold on power, a signal that rebels, predators and those loyal to the original American Constitution would jump on promptly.

At 09:23am the new heavily engraved steel armored doors that blocked access to the White House's first story opened to let out the 12 members of the Papal Conclave of Bishops, escorting the Papal Lord Amerikus who was the central chair and 13th member of the group. They walked across the steel gangways at the back of the raised concrete platform, taking their assigned thrones to wait until the appointed hour.

{ SQ } - { Low Mass for the lowest of humans } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 09:30am

Western America; 06:30am

At exactly 09:30am, the small brass bell mounted atop the skeletal tower rang out the old european medieval 'Call to Prayer' that would now be mandatory for all churches of the nation according to a yearly calendar & daily schedule devised in DC and imposed throughout the land. The elderly news anchor explained that this sound would now signal the beginning of a mandatory temporary curfew enforced by the police, the Inquisition and the Crusade Army. During this obligated period of religious spectacle, all the people in American lands, even tourists and diplomats, were to be in church, at home, or in a public place with a functional Internex monitor to witness the 'miraculous' events caused by true and pure christian faith in action as it cleansed evil and remedied the 'ills' perpetrated against the Risen God's World. Those in a corporate or governmental workplace at the time would be given mandatory paid time to watch, kneel and pray to Jesus, or else the owner of the business would be accused of 'un-American activities' and 'heresy' and dealt with as such. Likewise, if a worker refused to attend mass and pray with the other employees, he would be arrested and punished too. Soon, an Internex based system would allow to track the assiduity of home-bound persons to make certain they got the religious services like the rest of the population, and that they were tuned in.

The 'tuned in' part was easy enough as all active airwaves and Internex channels in the country had been hijacked by the federal government to broadcast the program live. Even the attempts to link to sites or channels out of the USA had been blocked since all the governmental and telecom routing hubs had been reconfigured to 'push' the Papal Conclave's signal on all the lines that they connected with. This meant that even in countries that didn't want the broadcast or tried to block it, about 50% of the blocking efforts failed spectacularly. Since the CIA's cyber-warfare team was engaged in hacking to pieces all cyber-defenses in other nations to make certain that the entire planet knew about the revival and exaltation of their faith in the Resurrected God of the Cross.

America was now publicly declared a Christian Nation, a People of pure unequaled faith in the one and only true God of the Christian Bible, as was written in the Time of the Romans, the Epoch of Prophecies. Any being or organization that challenged this, or tried to keep it from finally becoming the genuine reality in effect, would be exterminated like the untermensch they were. No exceptions and no pardons were allowed under American Christian Law anymore, as the bleeding heart liberal lefties were finally no longer in power to corrupt the Justice of the Land with their weakness and faithlessness.

As the local population – and planet – were digesting the proclamations of the newsman, PLA Trump rose from his velvet-cushioned cement throne to stand before the main altar, a large book bound in black leather held in the crook of his left arm against his chest. Raising his right arm aloft in the 'roman/Nazi' salute, the religious tyrant gave a wide, vapid, artificial smile at the responding salutes from the seated geriatric manly-men and the much younger soldiers posted along the perimeter of the skeletal church. Taking his book with both hands, he made a great garish display of kissing it repeatedly with obscenely flamboyant flourish before putting it back in the 'preacher's crook' position against his left breast.

"Hallelujah and Amen! Unto you all, men of true and pure faith! I command and decree this to be the first of a long line of dominical addresses by the Papal Conclave of Bishops to help uplift and guide the morale of our dispirited troops, police and judiciary agents all across the Land of The Free! By this first ever public address to display the full force of our faith, creed and rule, may the American Grand Crusade Army know now and forever that the Time of Inquisition is at hand! Amen!"

The elderly tyrant smiled vapidly again as he turned left then right to expose his gleeful visage to the crowd and media cameras on all angles they could see of him. Making a few vague gestures with his free hand, the self-styled pontiff basked in the attention and unfettered adulation of the most powerful manly-men of the country's religious, financial and military elites.

Only a few clear-minded persons thought about how weird it was that none of the newly appointed 'Exalted Bishops' were presented or explained to the viewing public. None of these 12 men had ever been seen in any elected posting, public governance, public service or even corporate administration. Just who the Hell were they, and what authority did they wield? The Papal Lord immediately concentrated all of the media and popular attention directly on himself while also excluding all the others seated on the dais at his sides. This was extremely weird and unconventional, but who could ask, and what answer would they get?

"I have, as you know, all through the four years of my civil mandate as 'secular' President, tried tirelessly, and far more politely than was ever deserved by them, I tried to make a deal, to make a Grand Divine Peace Deal with the opponents of our faith and the swamp full of leftist euro-commie liberals that pollute Washington DC. Despite all my best efforts, despite my most honest proposals to establish a deal that would raise a logical, pragmatical, wall between US, the true and pure worshipers of Jesus our Risen Christ, and the unbelieving hordes of impure moochers that use the Democrats as a front, well, I was rebuffed and denied. Well, by now, you all know about Mueller and his gang of fakers and fraudsters! During the deal-making, I was rebuffed impolitely and, suffered, suffered so greatly, in full public view at that, a cruel, false, and!, and a dishonest witch hunt by the enemies of our crusade to Make America Great Again. This led me, after a long contemplation, the culmination of a long life of such contemplations, to the conclusion that we must work towards a systematic application of White Christian Regency & Governance unto all our citizens without bothering with the opinions or objections of unbelievers. Since they don't believe in Jesus and they wallow in heresy most base, it's a waste of time and breath anyways! So, I told to myself, just HOW do we govern the true faithful without crushing them under dry old theology that even the most learned ecclesiastes in our cathedrals don't fully grasp because, of course!, they aren't divine so, of course!, they can't pierce THOSE mysteries. It has to be REVEALED! Now, now, the vision granted me in my contemplations was that the best way to bring our People, the Christian People, the old devotees and the newly baptized, into the fold of our Lord of Life is to keep things simple! And, yeah, of course, to keep the heathens out, especially out of our borders! Amen, I said!"

Applause and raucous cheers sounded out from the crowd of depraved old white men as the Papal Lord gave another round of raised-arm salutes and vain smiles to his selected audience. Oh, how he loathed and despised them all, just as much as he envied and lusted after their successes! All of them had their own fortunes and solid, reliable businesses to rely on, not the long list of frauds, lies and proven failures that littered his wake in full view of everybody, causing even the men on the main floor to scorn him and see him as lesser than they, despite his exalted station. And that was the primary reason these men had all been chosen by Trump himself to attend in person; so that he could stand atop his raised dais to lord over them with the cameras and the planet as witnesses to his penultimate elevation above all his detractors. There weren't only democrats and non-whites adorning the fence posts and wooden rakes around the White House this morning. A lot of solid old-blood Republicans and conservatives were present too, if D. had known they opposed him and his rule from the November 2016 vote and on.

The people present had all been chosen by himself from a long list of several thousand names that was whittled down to just these 240 participants. Not only were they chosen manually, they also had to accept paying a tithe to the Papal Lord's private coffer in order to be granted the exceptional privilege of being physically present at the White House's Roseanic Chapel. Since the demanded tithe was 1,000,000$ for each man who was a 'blessed devotee' during the Low Mass, you can clearly see that the nave was filled mostly with the financial and corporate elites of the USA, not just the most religious or morally worthy. Even in choosing the men gathered for such a momentous event, D. 's whorish behavior shone through the thin veneer of cult regalia quite clearly, as did the inhumanity and whorishness of the followers themselves.

"Now, my good People of Jesus, the Chosen, the Exceptional - the Americans! - you all saw yesterday evening a foretaste of what style & substance support the governing of a territory and population under the name and Aegis of our Resurrected God, who came back from hellfire and brimstone to insure our rise to prominence and exaltation. I spoke, quite eloquantly by the way, the media people at Fox News tell me, about the doctors and psychologists who challenge our sanity because we actually 'hear' and 'see' Jesus and his Heavenly Father in our lives as they guide us unto greatness and Salvation. I also spoke of pharmacists and drug peddlers who try to chemically lobotomize our good honest followers with impurities and toxic trash, filling their veins with unholy swill that makes them crazier than the real mentally ill who are born that way. It's easy to call somebody crazy when you scorch their nerves and brains with acids and steroids until they're more rabid than the Green Hulk from the comic strips! We're not crazies, and isn't it amazing how those of us who stay away from doctors and their lying ilk have a better health, and more happiness in life, than those who spend time in hospitals? It's because we pray! Like our God of Mercy and Salvation intended for us to do! On our knees! With bent head, in penance, in reflexion on our sins and accepting of his Rod of Correction on our backs when we need it! Amen, I said!"

The church exploded in applause again, most of it genuine to the great consternation of those who were watching from far away on TV or the Net. While Trump may have about 50-ish million followers and hard-core supporters, that still left a good 300 million others inside the actual USA borders that most certainly did not believe his crap, and the 7 billion people on the rest of the planet definitely did not agree with him or the cult of fools he led. What the few chosen inside the Roseanic Chapel applauded and cheered on was seen as criminal behavior and unmitigated folly by everybody else. Even among the hard-right followers that had appostollized Trump from the start, the idea that doctors and pharmacists made you sicker rather than better was seen as a cook-fringe conspiracy, not something to base your national health care planning on. Now, seeing for the first time on planetary TV the real, unfettered monster they had elevated to power, many thousands of Trump's quieter, less fanatic supporters began to revise their opinions and choices, only to realize they were waking up too late.

{ SQ } - { The death of democracy on the pyre } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 10:00am

Western America; 07:00am

"As such, to whet your appetites towards the type of Faith, Creed and Law that are the true and only standard in our Blessed Christian Land, I give unto you the reverend father Arnaud Bleddings, Lord Bishop and High Justiciar of DC, in his first officiation of his newly ascended career. Let us all applaud him! His task is dirty and base, but holy and a vital necessity in this great and faithful country of ours! Amen!"

The Papal Lord applauded limp-wristedly along with the small select crowd as a wrinkled, hunched and limping, mutilated old crone of a man hobbled out from under the raised platform to stand in the empty space right at the front of the main altar on the ground level. Behind him came a cohort of crusaders, all dressed and armed like the soldiers along the church's perimeter. The crusaders were manhandling a number of persons into the large cages in the transept left of the dais, neither sparing nor caring for the people they were tormenting. Their orders came from God via the mouth of the Papal Lord; they needed nothing else to 'know' their task was both good and holy.

Trump extolled Bishop Bleddings' virtues as the man guided his troops in their task. "The poor damaged wreck of a man you see before you wasn't born like this. No, he was not! He was leading a simple and gentle life of worshipful communal helpfulness in Falls Church, in Virginia, as a Sunday school tutor when he was most basely accused of harming children. His accusers were themselves the child-aged supposed victims. They had no witnesses to concur! Never were there two good christian men, of good and loyal standing with our Holy Mother the church, to back up these spurious accusations by undisciplined, rebellious boys! And what accusation was it? Well, that he used the blessed and holy Rod of Discipline to reprimand and chastise them on bare buttocks, as is the faith and creed of our church. The little hellions were spanked - Hallelujah! - most firmly on ripe-red skin until they had bleeding stripes imprinted in their juvenile fleshes, just as they had earned – Amen, I say! - but it was the man of faith who was unlawfully accused, arrested and jailed for these false claims!"

Trump shook is head negatively, raising his black leather bible above himself as a beacon of truth as he harangued the crowd. "And so it was, at the time whence a great blessed man was accused of violence, of criminality, and of touching boys in a sexually perverted manner, that the Law of God should have been invoked to guide the police in their task. But no! They did not! Where were the two men of God as demanded by the Bible? Where were the priests to question and validate the accusers' honesty? Where were the ecclesiastes to sit in judgment of this case as it involved a man of the altar cloth? None of this was done, and the lying children were allowed to preside over the destruction of a good faithful man's life. Their lies were the only proof heard in a foul secular court that was not - and never again will be! - capable or empowered to sit in judgment of churches and priests! Hallelujah!"

Pointing down at the damaged old crone who was now counting the prisoners and ordering them on his list, Trump continued his diatribe of lies and hatemongering. "He was cast into Hell's own pit! A civilian jail! A public jail! Not even a private jail, where his needs for spirituality and safety would have been attended. And so, he was caged like an animal, abandoned and forsaken by the heinous secular liberals who gladly swallowed the blatant lies of wayward rebellious boys, all vengeful from having been righteously dis'k'plin'ned by a truly strong man, powerful in his faith in Jesus our Savior. By the false orders of heretics and unbelievers, he was left to the merciless clutches of heathens! The other prisoners ambushed him, beat him, broke his limbs and damaged his genital organs. He was made less than a man in the eyes of secular humanity."

Trump waited a minute to let the crowd boo and jeer at the liberals, progressives and humanists trying to keep them from giving their justly deserved 'roddings' unto boys, especially the colored and diseased ones. And what if they ended up with bruised welts, cut bleeding skin or raised scars? It was called "A lesson they won't ever forget" for a reason, no? How could they remember the strength of arm and faith of their father-confessor decades later if they weren't 'marked' by the corrections he gave them?

"They thought they won! But they didn't! Hallelujah and Amen! For his torture and injury were in fact the holy martyr and blessed branding of Jesus' own will unto his soul and flesh! He was made ugly in the eyes of fools because his impurities were smelted out of him by the relentless pounding of heretics and traitors against God! Hallelujah! That is why the fools and seculars see him as ugly and broken: because he's too pure and perfect for their faithless eyes to countenance without being damaged themselves! Hallelujah and Amen!"

Trump put his book of lies back in the 'preacher's crook' against his chest, taking out a long white handkerchief embroidered with a colored rendering of the Flagged Crucifer to wipe away the sweat of stress, anxiety and exhaustion from his face and neck. The inside of the church wasn't that warm since it was not even close to being sealed, but the media platform projectors and the two large wood burning braziers near the altar created a focused zone of heat right where he stood. This localized warmth was beginning to sap his strength and endurance quite badly since the chill winter wind had chosen the moment of the first 'sanctified' execution to die down. Anyways, he had no choice but to pursue and announce the coming event properly to milk it for all it's glory and influence.

"Well, now that he's been out of prison for two years with healing prayers and emotional support as he should have received all this time, Bishop Bleddings is ready to bless our little community with his teachings and solemn works anew. His posting is tasked with interrogating heretics and traitors, then disposing of them. Now, these aren't simple deaths! Runaway slaves or disobedient wives can just be shot by the roadside in the back-country cuz they mean nothing to nobody. I mean nobody important to us, the Sons of Jesus, you know that! But these prisoners here, they mean something to a whole lot of people, important people, many who have become elevated, exalted even, amongst our holy brethren of the Flagged Crucifer. As such, these specific anti-American traitors will suffer and die before us, in a truly holy and uplifting display of what it means to undergo Christian Law and Justice in the pure and true nation of America! Hallelujah and Amen!"

The Papal Lord waited a minute as the assembled crowd applauded happily at his declaration.

"And now, for our first condemned traitor of this Low Mass, we present to you a foul and base nigger! A spurious liar and usurper who DARED to occupy the seat of power and authority reserved for a white man in the service of GOD! Behold Leon Vance, the EX director of the NCIS – the Naval Criminal Investigative Services – for the entire US navy, on the entire planet. This man DARED to accuse, investigate and then fabricate lies to convict and jail honest, faithful, white men who refused to recant their faith and suborn themselves to secular humanism and leftist liberal communism! He will right now, before us all, learn the folly and price of his sins against God's chosen sons! And so, I give you the expurgation of Leon Vance, with a glorious Hallelujah and a resplendently powerful Amen!"

The High Justiciar Arnaud Bleddings pointed with a crooked mutilated hand at a mature bald black-skinned man, his broken fingers bending just enough for the crusaders to understand his meaning. They opened the cage and grabbed the indicated prisoner by his shackles, roughing him up as they dragged him bodily to the middle space and the waiting ecclesiaste. Two other crusaders brought from the cement tabernacles a pair of steel poles they slotted into holes in the steel slab flooring underfoot then stood up the prisoner to chain his arms above his head, one wrist to each 8 foot tall pole. At a head nod from the reverend father, the crusader on the right hand took out a curved skinning knife that he used to shred the man's thin cotton clothing, slowly stripping him naked in front of the loudly jeering, appreciative audience.

"Lo and Behold, ye faithful assembled in here nave of the creed!" bellowed the High Justiciar, his weak sickly voice amplified by the microphones in his collar and shouted out through hidden loudspeakers all around.

"I call unto thee to cast aspersions of shame and vitriol upon this cur spawned by a biiiitch! He hath dared to take in vain the Name and Power of our Lord Jesus the Truly Christian, American Christ by claiming he had the standing of a real and full person amongst men of true and pure faith! This nigger had the gall to compare himself to, and declare himself, of social class equal to a white believer of the Redemptor, our God! No, I say! No, he is not, and never will be!"

After letting the crowd hiss and jeer for a minute, the maimed priest continued; "This progeny of undesirable animals, the negroes, then had the unmitigated brass balls to pretend that he had the right to sit in judgment of us, the Men of Christ, in our Almight! He, a fell spawn of Satan's lowest crassest loins, DARED to take on a job in our great nation's capital that implies police powers and the right to decide who gets taken to court or put in jail! Can you believe that? A dumb coon-dropping of a nigger having the right to judge and sentence US, the true, the pure, the Americans under Jesus our God, the Truly Christian American Christ! How dare he? How dare he, I asked? He dared because before today the true and original Christian Law of our country had been ignored and reviled. Well, no more!"

The geriatric ecclesiaste approached his prisoner so the microphones clipped around the collar of his robes of office could pick up his answer for the crowd to hear. "Tell me now, Leon Vance, you miserable piece of sub-human detritus! How does it feel to be the one judged by those who are Worthy in the eye of God, you fell unclean negro?"

The black man looked his tormentor straight in the eye as he replied "I have yet to see anybody in this fake look-alike getup that is truly 'worthy' of anything but contempt and prison time. You're not christians, not anymore than Barrack Obama was ever muslim. You're just a bunch of defective geriatric old have-been who can't handle the fact the universe has evolved and passed by without needing your opinion, or your presence, to do so! The entire planet has already marched on far beyond the kind of primitive, racist, sectarian social model you want to bring back. Newsflash, morons! This way of running society was abandoned by the modern countries because it destroys the people inside of it, never helping anybody. The populist tyrants that serve as leadership always end up drowning in paranoia, eventually dying by the hands of their own scared and angry people, no matter what they try! You can't hope that what is a tyranny for the lower classes will be anything else than tyranny for you at the top! You can't have a creature with two different natures inside of it! But don't take my word for it! Go ahead, make your little cultist power grab; it'll render you mad and kill you all off quickly enough that maybe the job will get done for good this time around!"

High Justiciar Bleddings couldn't be happier for his first ever public execution of a nigger and sub-human; the man was eloquent, verbose and vitriolic enough to rile up the crowd all by himself. He was a natural at it! If only this wasn't his last day on Earth as decreed by God, the old priest could have made publicly tormenting him by small increments a recurring opening act to the symbolic Weekly Cleansing that had been ordered by the Papal Lord. Oh well; 'it' was just a nigger after all. Nothing important in the grand scheme of Jesus' Great Plan for America.

Raising both feeble maimed arms as high as they could go, the High Justiciar of DC claimed "And so you heard it from the foul beast's own maw! The very reason for his culling from the Realm of God; his innate inability to see and accept the natural superiority of White Men above all else in Creation as was designed and ordered by the most intelligent and powerful entity in the entirety of said Creation and Beyond, Jesus our Christ, the Lord Redeemer, in His Almight! As such and for them low crimes he hath wrought, for such a nigger cannot do but things that are low, the American Inquisition hereby condemns this whore spawned worm to die like the runaway, rebellious, badge-usurping slave and anti-christian rabble-rouser that he is!"

Gesticulating theatrically at the two young burly men that stood on each side of the chained naked man, the old priest clamored aloud "Soldiers of God's Crusade! I command thee! By the Order of On High; give him the death of a slave that knows not its place in the Realm of God! Amen!"

The two crusaders each took a barbed scourge whip in their right hand and a wooden truncheon in their left then took a good ten minutes at beating the former director of NCIS for the entire country until he was near to passing out from the cruel injuries inflicted. Just before he became unconscious, the foul priest signaled for them to stop and prepare the next phase. One crusader injected the older man in the neck with a spring-loaded syringe; an adrenaline/steroid/endorphin compound to keep him awake and aware so he could suffer the fullness of his chastisement. There wasn't any ways a dumb mule-born nigger was gonna escape from the sentence pronounced by God, no there wasn't!

When Leon Vance was fully awake and cognizant again, the priest signaled a soldier to come forth; the man bent at the waist and used the same curved skinning knife he had stripped his clothing with to cut off his genitals, emasculating him beyond any healing. The young soldier then used a spray can to apply a layer of opaque blue latex to the injured area to seal it so the prisoner wouldn't bleed to death before he was due to die. Following his cruelty with an act of base violence and lack of care for human decency, the soldier then shoved the entire 'apparatus' he had removed up the dying man's anus forcefully, raping him violently enough with his closed fist to cause traumatic bleeding tears that needed a layer of spray seal as well.

The second soldier poised his skinning knife next to Vance's left eye, waiting for the signal from his priest to proceed.

Arms partially aloft again, the High Justiciar exclaimed, frothing rabidly at the mouth just as he was orgasmically throbbing under his robes of office at the sight of his hated nemesis - secular police - brought low; "You DARED to claim you could SEE the faults and crimes of people! You DARED to claim that you had the right to OBSERVE, to peer into the lives and businesses of the true decent peoples of God! Well, you won't lie about that anymore! You won't see anything anymore! You won't hear the lies and vicious rumors of the unworthy anymore, to peddle them like Pure Truth as if you had the right to even know WHAT such a blessed thing is anyways!"

At an imperious gesture from the wrinkled, mutilated old crone, the two crusaders quickly cut across the eyes and removed the ears of the writhing, screaming man. One soldier took a pair of pliers from his back pocket to shove into Vance's mouth to grab his tongue to pull it out at full extension while his compatriot used his curved knife for a single harsh downward slice that amputated the organ in one fell swoop without hesitation. The two crusaders now needed both arms to hold in place the madly thrashing prisoner who had been rendered completely insane by the pain of the injuries conjoined to the drugs he had been injected to stay awake.

The crowd was in a furor.

They wanted it.

They wanted more!

They LOVED it!

And they just supped up the racio-religious diatribe served by the priest between each act of cruel profanation of the flesh that was inflicted on the prisoner. The old ecclesiaste had found just the right dosage of spectacle, pious invocations, cruel justice and torturous punishment to sate the crowd into placid contentment so they could endure the long verbose sermons that would come after. Donald Trump always did like the sound of his own voice, and the people he chose as Bishops were as bad or worse at oration.

Time to close this one up; there was another dozen entr'acte in the cages, that should be enough to tide them through all the necessary pauses during the lengthy Low Mass they would have to endure. Gesturing to the two soldiers with a preordained code, the High Justiciar watched avidly, slowly stroking his stiffened cock through his robes as he 'enjoyed' the show as much as the audience and the Bishops on the dais. The elderly torturer was gratified to behold that almost half the men in the crowd were in states of 'emotion' similar to his own, thus signifying his spectacle had been a resounding success to date.

Time to finish this in beauty!

The two crusaders were back from the cement tabernacles with a large red plastic canister and a lit wooden torch similar to those burning in the steel sconces around the faux-church. The one with the can opened the lid and poured the contents over Leon Vance, starting at his broken feet then slowly going up until the top of his head, and splashing some on his arms too. It was paint. White paint. In an act of utter humiliation towards the man, they had 'white-washed' his body & soul so that God could look on his unworthy soul to judge him without becoming sickened from having to interact with a nigger.

However, the paint's color wasn't the only torture. The paint was made for application on rough uncleaned surfaces like concrete parkways; it was highly corrosive and soon began to eat through the skin and flesh of the chained agonizing man. If it weren't for the drugs in his veins, he would have died, or at least lost consciousness, a long time ago. After five minutes of screaming, the priest signaled the soldier with the torch. The man extended his arm, touching the flaming brand to the prisoner's lower legs, setting the highly volatile paint ablaze. In barely 5 seconds, the entire body was wreathed in 3 inch thick flames that spewed an incredibly pungent black, brackish smoke into the air.

The unmistakable smell of incinerating meat wafted around the first three rows of pews, making several old men actually lean forward, licking their lips in delight as they stroked their feeble geriatric erections through their thick archaic clothing. Many who had been arrested, judged & jailed, or at least stopped in their depredations, by Leon Vance and his organization in the last decade had been offered prime seats in the audience this morning, and that choice by PLA Trump had just proven to be politically judicious. These criminally depraved bastards would remember who had taken their side and helped them rebuild their names and positions in society, but most importantly, who it was that gave them vengeance against their oppressor. Trump would have several die-hard followers from this point on; several very rich, very powerful followers that would help him convince the rest of the country to follow his tune & beat as well.

After the corpse had stopped moving, it was doused with pressurized CO2 extinguishers and unchained to be taken to the sector of the White House grounds where a specifically constructed trash chipper had been installed. The body would be ground and sprayed over the slushy terrain to fertilize it for a lush green grass this coming spring. It would be the most useful thing the dumb negro would have ever done in his life.

{ SQ } - { Eghellum's shadow descends upon America } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 10:30am

Western America; 07:30am

President re-elect Donald J. Trump was sitting back, deeply ensconced in his large cement throne, enjoying the comfort of the 3 inch thick blue velvet cushions as he wrapped his long cloak around his tall frame to stay warm enough to endure through the presentation of Leon Vance's death and debasement. Unlike the altar, his seat was in a cold spot that would be the death of him if he weren't covered properly. Why again had he thought that solid concrete was a good material to build the furniture? Because it was outside all year long, through winds, rain and snow. Too bad his aging ass wasn't built from strong stuff like that; it would help to keep his health up a lot more.

There were small monitors at the ends of both armrests but he avoided looking at them, muting the sound as much as he could without looking weak or out-of-sorts to the 12 Lord Bishops that surrounded his throne on each side. Not that there were any chances of these particular manly-men of the cross saying anything against him as their exalted positions depended solely upon his good will and tolerance. But still, there were appearances to be maintained, and he had to look like he enjoyed watching the black man being degraded, butchered and burned alive as much as the audience did.

He really didn't enjoy any of it.

Surprised? You shouldn't be.

D. was actually quite the weak-willed coward, and he had no stomach for genuine violence and depravity. From his point of view, the acts carried out by the newly minted American Inquisition and Grand Crusade Army were just the basic necessities of creating a stable reliable level of fear and loathing in the nation so people stopped questioning his health, sanity, electoral legitimacy and the legality of his orders. If the dumb stupid morons had just gone with the flow, he would not have considered seriously going down this road, regardless of how much pressure he got from the evangelicals and right-wing-nuts like John Hagee, Robert Jeffress, Paula White, Steve Bannon or avowed neo-Nazi David Duke. Unfortunately for all parties concerned, the special prosecutor Robert Mueller had come out with damning reports that were heading for a Federal Grand Jury in October 2020, right before he had that 'truly accidental' car mishap that hospitalized him until recently. He really should have known better than to try to indict the sitting US president, let alone try to implicate the Ambassador of Russia and goddamned Vladimir Putin on top of everything else.

And so, poor Bob had a car accident that had him hospitalized until two days ago, when the American Inquisition got him out of his private hospital room at Bethesda, to bring him to the White House for execution as a heretical anti-American traitor. His head adorned the fence near the main driveway, right next to Hillary and Bill Clinton in fact, so that everybody got a lesson in common sense and political survival when they entered the grounds for official visits.

Don't fuck with POWER.

Dear Donald had learned that one quite early in his youth after spending a few years as an almost bum and juvenile delinquent. That was until his father had laid down the law on his hide with a thick heavy leather belt then dragged his very sorry and sore ass to a strict, heavy-handed school to make certain he didn't ruin his life with his misbehavior and a police record.

Thusly, Donald had gone to a military school as a teenager, but never military service for real. Actual violence had never been his 'thing', especially when it wasn't him dishing it out, no matter how much he tried to smack-talk and hype-up his own personal brawn, strength and capacity to win any fight he got into. The several times the instructors at school had demanded he be beaten to break his cocky attitude and make him pliable to the rules and order of the institution had shown him clearly that he didn't have the physical endurance or strength to go up against this kind of real strength, so he had gone to university in admin and finance classes as soon as he could. Business kerfuffles were easy to paint as great epic battles for the credulous neophytes, and later on for the legions of gullible sectarian followers who wanted a part of his political ascendancy, but he had never in his life shot another person or taken a life with his own hands. The very worst fights he ever go in were the fisticuffs in the schoolyard where he had waved his little jackknife at an adversary's face once, just before his father had yanked on his chain to reorient his life and attitude.

Ever since that harsh unforgiving school, Donald had had an almost maladive respect (gut wrenching fear) of military personnel, especially generals since it was always the commandant of the academy that gave him the beatings he earned. This created a subliminal program in his mind that he could get close enough to these powerful men to use them, for a short time, but never trust them or beat them in a fight as he was too weak and too cowardly to do it head on mano-e-mano. Six decades later, he was so deeply affected by those events of his youth that he could only give the orders and boss the men around but not actually stand by their side as they accomplished the low works asked of them. Even now Trump was actively mentally dissociating from the events at the foot of the dais by childishly telling himself that he just made the lines of text (the laws) but he wasn't the one cutting, oiling and burning the prisoner so it wasn't his responsibility.

In his diseased mind he was still 'clean handed' compared to the priests and soldiers.

"Honestly" the Papal Lord thought glibly as he looked around the orgasmic crowd through the small monitors on his throne's armrests, "Could they make more noise? Or make a baser and crasser spectacle of themselves?" The 74 year old male frowned in upset at seeing so many of the 'manly-men' of his faith (yeah, right) publicly stroking and wanking their crotch at the sight of a naked man being tortured. Weren't these all the most stringent apostles of homophobic hate and forcible conversion therapy for gays? "So much for honesty among the ranks of the church!" the Papal Lord silently admitted to his own self as he contemplated just how many of these men were actually closet faggots, perverts and philanderers of the worse sorts. Not that he himself had any fingers to point, given his long list of female conquests, but at least they were women and willing as the Good Book commanded.

Although, after hiring Bleddings despite what he knew of the man, Trump could see that his mental griping at the genuineness of the crowd was a bit surfeit. On the other hand, the entire thing was being recorded and would give him wonderful blackmail material for maneuvering these powerful, rich individuals into donating even more 'tithes' to his Lordly Papal Coffer.

Amen for Fools. In their hands his power rested stably.

After almost a half hour, Reverend Father Bleddings had finished with Leon Vance; he gesticulated most obscenely at the smoldering corpse being sprayed with fire extinguishers. As the charred body was taken down from the chains, the church MC used the electronic sound system to pump out a strong, loud rendition of the powerful hymn 'My God is an Awesome God' to rile up further the crowd and viewing public. This also allowed a segue so that Papal Lord Trump could stand from his throne to march at the altar again.

Once more visible next to the great cement table, D. raised his right hand aloft, his bible held in the 'preacher's crook' against his left side as usual these days. He contemplated contemptuously the cheering, exalted crowd as they came back down from what could only be described as 'post-coital bliss' and resumed sitting on their bare freezing cement pews placidly for the next phase of the spectacle.

"How depraved you all are..." Trump thought nastily, as he beheld with his own eyes the churchmen who spoke the loudest about Christian Purity turn out to be the worse perverts and amateurs of obscenity in the great land of America. "If Jesus our God does indeed exist, He will not even consider having Mercy or Salvation for your warped souls!" he mentally snorted in raw disdain.

Trump may not be the biggest believer in any divinity, just a good con artist with showmanship to spare in all truth, but he did see clearly the hypocrisy and multi-faced nature of the people who had borne him to the high office of the presidency. For the first time in his life, the biggest liar in the USA considered seriously whether having so many liars, hypocrites, perjurers and oath-breakers in the same country at the same time was a wise thing to tolerate.

He didn't come up with a pleasant answer to that one.

He couldn't even come up with a tolerable lie that would calm his mind about it.

Taking the gold chalice on the altar, Trump sipped some tepid red wine to clear his throat as he needed to take a few minutes to organize his thoughts back to working order. He had a speech prepared that needed delivering right now and all the maudlin thoughts about honesty and the country drowning in the damned swamp-scum wasn't going to help him today. Better keep this for the long lonely nights when he was alone in the Oval Office, gazing into the fire pots as he remembered the better times of his childhood in a simpler, more honest epoch.

Raising his right arm aloft, waving to get the crowd to silence for the following harangue, the Papal Lord Amerikus the First went through the obligatory motions of shouting the many imprecations of racial purity and faithfulness expected at this point. After a few more perfunctory 'Amen!' shouted in response by the crowd, he was able to get the third part of the Low Mass on tracks at last.

"Lo and Behold ye of the faith, Eghellum rises!" he pointed at the white polyester panels set between the tall red steel beams and girders that were in fact flex-screens. The scenes showing epic crusade wars had become all white with only the colored form of the great Imperial Eagle of America flying upwards towards the Heavens. As the crowd shouted its appreciation at the imperialistic neoclassical design of the icon and Team Trump's showmanship, the digital animated bird came back into a dive and stopped in a perspective that filled each flex-screen fully to maximize visibility and detail.

Trump extended both arms sideways to emulate the spread wings of the eagle icon, getting the crowd to cheer even louder as the animated birds all matched his movements and pose. He made a few gestures just to show off, like a puppeteer amusing children with his marionette before getting serious again.

"As you can all see, this is Eghellum, the holy Americana Aquila Imperis! The eagle that represents our great people's divine right of imperial regency over the entire planet Earth, and well beyond in due time! Hallelujah! For now we tell the whole wide world that we have not forgotten the promises made by our ancestors to Jesus as he laid in mortal repose in the sepulcher, in the Epoch of Prophecies! He is Risen! And with his Rise, he has taken us upwards with Him, uplifting us out of Darkness and Perdition unto the shores of Heaven's clouds! Amen! Our forefathers made a promise in Blood and Faith most Holy to our God and Lord Creator Jesus, the Truly Christian Christ, the Savior of America, His Chosen Sons and Servants, that we would spread the Good News: HE is Risen from Gehenna! HE is Reborn from the mortal flesh that decayed in the sepulcher! HE has come back at long last from the blessed clouds of Heaven Most Holy to guide us unto Crusade and the Thousand Year Reign of Godly Peace that was promised in the days of Rome and the Cross! Hallelujah and Amen to you all, sons of America! Your GOD commands and compels this! With clean steel and blazing torches of luminous truth we will surge forth, calling out the Good News of the Rebirth and Coming of Christ to cleanse the Land from its filthy unbelievers! We will remake this Earth as a World of Faith! Hallelujah, I said! Hallelujah!"

The crowd was on its feet, clapping, cheering and shouting for the crusade to start at long last. It was time that the planet know again just how great and mighty America was, when it had the Blessed Hand of its Lord God on its shoulder to guide the men in victorious conquest and burning out heretics.

"Eghellum! Eghellum will guide us!" Trump shouted over the din of the crowd, assisted in this by the church MC who always made certain that the orator's voice was kept louder and clearer than anything else happening inside the building. "I give you my most solemn promise! I do indeed give it! I promise that as a true son of a pure faith in Jesus the Christ, our God and Redeemer, that I will follow unto battle and victory His Holy messenger, the Eagle of Regency, holy Eghellum, the blessed Guide from Heaven that will ferret out the heretics, traitors and conspirators against America's holy greatness, that was commanded by divine might from On High! Hallelujah and Amen! For the Inquisitors and the Crusaders of America's pure faith! A resplendent Hallelujah and soul-rousing Amen!"

Bolstered by this very public commitment to religion, faith, church-power and church-run governance, the highly credulous (and criminalized) crowd was again on its feet, chanting a hymn along with the organ music being pumped out loudly from the hidden loudspeakers. As the old medieval war song ended, the Papal Lord rose his left arm above his head, bearing aloft the bible of their creed to obtain immediate attention and compliance by all present.

"As I have spoken previously, as I have said many times in the past years, and will no doubt say again, we have traitors and heretics hiding in our midst. Not all of them are as easily detected as that foul nigger Leon Vance! He was black as the brimstone from Hell's lava lakes, and yet he sat as a pseudo-judge and prosecutor above white men and church officials! Just how much easier to spot could he be? Answer me that, you who work in law, justice and prisons! Just how was it that such a blatant bastardy was tolerated to exist unchecked up to date? Where we the congressmen when this fell creature was anointed to his undeserved office? Where was the punishment and disavowal for the cretinous fool that dared commit the sin of nominating him in place? Do you have answers for this?"

Waving his right hand violently to cut off protests and excuses, Trump continued his pontifications, unwavering in his purpose. "But that isn't enough! We all know by instincts given us by God Himself that negroes, yellows, reds and browns don't belong in power, or even in civilized society! Most aren't even fit to use as cattle to pull wagons or pick up the garbage in the streets, so base they are! Some have such defects in their minds that I wouldn't butcher them to feed hogs, for fear that their diseases would transfer to the humans afterwards! But these aren't the real enemies of good, loyal christian devotees. No, they are not! They are aberrant and unnatural, yes they certainly are, but they are not good enough, nor close enough to human in God's holy eye, to warrant being called enemies. Plague of vermin, yes; swarm of rodents, definitely; horrendous beasts, I would agree too! But they are not intelligent enough, and do not have enough genuine human soul inside their diseased rotting husks, to warrant being accepted as enemies of the One True Faith of the One True God."

As murmurs spread around the church, Trump smiled vapidly, pleased with how he got their attention for a good long while again. It would only need to last a few minutes more before the second 'cleansing' was committed so he had to move swiftly to capitalize on the mood before it elapsed.

"No, my good brethren, sons, and nephews under Jesus's own Light of Redemption! The untermensch and other offal of society are not real genuine enemies! These are! Amen, I said!"

{ SQ } - { Treason from the top } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 11:00am

Western America; 08:00am

As he pointed down at the front of the dais, the Lord Bishop Bleddings was again in motion, guiding his inquisitors and crusaders to place several stout steel poles upright while prisoners were dragged from the cages to be chained in offering to the viewing pleasures of the appreciative audience. Seeing the men and women chained up like meat from the ceiling hooks in a butcher's cold room made several become aroused anew, even before the actual torments began.

"Look at their colors!" shouted Trump from his position by the main altar. "Look at their skins! Look at how these fell traitors have consorted with unbelievers, heathens, heretics, denunciators and renegades that all work in foul manners against the Will of God! Lo and Behold, I said! Feast your eyes on the existence of them that art against the faith, redeeming light and exalted divine greatness of America in its almight!"

Adjusting a tablet-sized swiveling monitor atop the altar, Trump could see which prisoners were chained where and a small description under each person to help remind him of his talking points so he could properly manipulate the heartstrings of the gullible worshipers.

"First we have one of the most insidious things begotten by the coupling of poor and menial knaves; a criminalized 'biker dude' with his long beard, tattoos and piercings, who has spent nigh on seven decades renegading the true and genuine existence of Jesus, our Lord and God! I give you all Billy Gibbons! Now, if you think he looks like a good, honest, hard working Texan man, you would only be partially right. He his Texan, and probably works hard on his crimes and depravities to make so many of them in such short time, but he is most certainly not honest! The proof of his crime is chained right to his left."

Pointing at the second prisoner, a beige-skinned woman in her late thirties, the Papal Lord expounded: "This is the procreate of this back-alley cur and his red-skinned native biiiitch! A mulatto! A pseudo-white who tries daily to pass herself off as a real white human being of social standing amongst us despite that she isn't! I give you the barking she-dog, Angela Montenegro, in all her resplendent crapulence!"

After letting the crowd hiss and jeer for thirty seconds, he moved on to the next in line. "And now we have the proof of the foul conspiracy at work! Not only did the she-animal get a job at the Jeffersonian Museum in their forensics department to influence investigations and arrests of our good, honest, white christian men, she also had the utter gall to defile one and marry him to procreate with him! And so I give you the proof of the calamity in progress across the USA: doctor Jack Hodgins, born from a rich protestant family who denounced his heritage, both in blood and money, to marry this coon-spawn whore so they could pollute our society with more of the same! Which they did!"

Allowing the crowd some leeway as he sipped some more wine to moisten his throat, the Papal Lord was well pleased at the proceedings to date. Everything was going as the planners had predicted, and the absence of doubters or so-called 'defenders of logic and rationality' from the assembly had certainly helped to keep things on their proper tracks today.

Trump dropped a little nugget on the listeners that they hadn't expected. "I have decided, in my almight and God-given authority, to spare the unlawful procreates from the torments the whorish adults have earned. Thusly, all three little ones were 'euthanized humanely' by having their necks manually broken by one of our noble inquisitors who is trained specifically for this delicate duty. Upon the poor unfortunate souls of children, made impure and base by the unholy acts of their parents, we say Amen."

The audience stayed silent for a minute as they absorbed the words spoken by their leader. The silence was quickly rent asunder by the heart-wrenching sobs and protests of the mulatto woman, who cried and shouted threats and promises of violence against all of white christian America for the crime of murdering her babies. Her biker father swore out in four languages that he would see the Trumpists burn alive, just like they did to Leon Vance and planned to do with them. Jack Hodgins kept silent like a tombstone, his face a frozen mask of disdainful contempt as he gazed straight ahead, never moving or giving the crowd any satisfaction whatsoever.

Trump spoke into the collar of his robes of office for the first time of the Low Mass, giving orders to the inquisitors to gag the woman until it was time to let her scream again. She had the right to vent, he could concede that, but she was taking far too much media attention away from him and his presentation to be tolerated any longer. At least, her cries had made a nice little transition while the crusaders brought the other scum to be 'cleansed'.

Trump continued his harangue has the other two prisoners were chained and stripped naked in their own turns. "And here we have the deplorables! A well matched pair of spurious knaves and depraved bastards who should never have been allowed to exist! The woman is Temperance Brennan, she's a doctor of bones, death, and 'things that kill people' at the Jeffersonian Museum. She, a woman, USURPED the job and function of men by setting herself up as investigator, prosecutor and judge in criminal cases for nigh on 20 years! She who should have been making babies and cookies at home was instead traveling the country, and even out of it, to spread her false knowledge and fake judgments across all of Holy Creation as if she had the right of it! Well, today she will learn that she didn't have the right! Amen to that!"

Trump aimed his ire at the next woman, brown skinned in her late forties. "Here next, we have yet another slave-stock that didn't know her station in life! The self-styled doctor Camille Saroyan who USURPED many, many different jobs, important jobs!, away from good, decent, white christian men during her years! First she was a street cop in New York city, then became coroner for that same city, and finally she managed to finagle her way into the Jeffersonian's team because another nigger was in charge of recruitment, so he let her in for a few 'favors' that we all know what those were... She spent several years, hard at work using the forensic department as the tool of her base works, targeting and destroying any white man that dared rebuff her attempts at stealing power, influence or moneys from their families."

The Papal Lord made vague limp-wristed gestures with his right hand, making the crowd silence their boos and jeers immediately as he continued to disparage the woman with multiple hypocrisies. "Not content with frauding her way to the top, she has also whored herself with many white men, usually in exchange for power, access and money she did not earn, even when her legs were spread wide open. Her latest and most criminal act though, was to actually 'fall in love', if such a slutty shrew can actually feel such emotion, with none other than some brown import from Iran of all countries! He is besides her, as you can see, and a resplendent Hallelujah to our brave crusaders for his capture!"

Pointing at the brown skinned man in his late thirties, the Lord Amerikus proceeded to destroy his reputation based on lies and bigotry alone. "A muslim! A bloody fucking muslim! Dear men of Jesus, our God and Savior, a murderous muslim is what she copulated with, and tried to procreate with! Repeatedly! Inside our borders! Right inside our capital city, I tell you all! One of those damned sub-human bastards who worship that false god that doesn't exist, that came into America – illegally! – to steal away one of the top paying jobs in the Jeffersonian, and plot terror strikes from within! That is what that purulent bii-iii-iitch laid in the muck with like a sow, trying to climb the ladder to reach her brown masters in their fake heaven that nobody decent believes in! She tried to make herself important by spawning a gaggle of new criminals and terrorists with this base turdcake on legs, and the bleeding-heart lefties let them at it! Well, no more, I say! And Amen! to stopping this damned piece of sinful depravity before it actually produces anything!"

Gesticulating spastically in great agitation as if this case were actually personally offensive for his own person, the Papal Lord pointed the last condemned man with more vitriol than he had shown any other prisoner to date. To convince the crowd, he had to look and act convinced himself, and he was quite good at self-deception, after all these decades of practice.

"Here we come to the worst of the worst; the reason we are all here this day. The incarnation of SIN! The incarnation of HERESY! The kind of sub-human under-being that caused all these here calamities that we pointed and accused before! I give you the ARCH-TRAITOR, Seeley Booth! And you can guess, can't you all, which of them dens of liberal progressive anti-American depravity he was working in, can't you? The FBI, he worked at! Like all those treasonous bastards who led that witch hunt against me for 4 long years! Just like that other bastard, Bob Mueller and his ilk, but, but! Lo and behold, what real genuine truths we uncovered about that gang of criminals in the end! And now we have Seeley Booth... A white man in his late forties, healthier than a draft horse, and virile too, given he spawned several times already..."

Trump made a face of total contempt for the subject of his harangue: "He was one of our best, most honored servicemen; a master sergeant in the US Rangers trained into an elite sniper and tracker! He then even managed to achieve the exalted position of US Special Forces Warrior! Yes, my good brothers and sons of Jesus, he was one of them we deem worthy to enter the ranks of the Crusaders under the Flagged Crucifer! But that was before the accursed FBI put their claws into his soul, dragging him to the dark reaches of the SWAMP that is the kept domain of the DEEP STATE and its minions... And so he was lost to us ever since, becoming instead an enemy of all that is great in America..."

The religious tyrant took out his lengthy colored handkerchief to wipe his sweaty face again then sipped some wine, trying to stop the shakes of anger in his hands. "He was born catholic, yes, but that is clearly acceptable as a first step towards evangelicalism and accepting Jesus, the Risen God, as his personal Savior, as we all did! And a rousing Amen to that! He even gave god a beautiful white baby boy with a decent white woman, that unfortunately, he then divorced... An excusable foible in any man, especially a powerful man with the sorts of powerful, stressful jobs he had done in his life... Then he found and married another woman to have two more beautiful white babies with... Unfortunately for him, and for our country, that vile witch of a female was Temperance Brennan and all the baggage of arrogance, anti-God hate and - supposed - scientific glories... What a waste, I tell you! Such beautiful children they were... But they carried the taint of betrayal and fraud their parents had germinated inside them and so the lowest of all duties was done. One of our noble crusaders took the 16 year old and gave him one last bit of honor, due our regards and debts towards his father. The teenager was given a combat knife and a chance to fight against the soldier who wore his crusade armor but no weapons, so that the child could die on his feet like the man he could, should, have become under the Holy Cross of Jesus our Lord. The other two babies were under 5 years of age and innocent, but tainted nonetheless and received the mercy of snapping their necks during drug induced sleep, as the other children did."

Rapping his knuckles on top of the cement altar in a gesture of angry frustration, nearing the point at which he would loose self-control and go out on an actual rant rather than the meticulously orchestrated speech he wanted, the dictator finished his heinous sermon against the last condemned man. "You see before you the TRUE REASON why our country has fallen so low, going so far as to believe that we are not the exalted, elevated, Chosen Sons of Jesus, the God of the Christian Bible, as decreed by his Heavenly Father. You see a white man, born into Christendom's oldest fraternity, who turned his back on it, repeatedly, by allowing fell negroes and rat-like browns to assume positions of power, instead of forbidding it and fighting it as he should. He also allowed several women, many who weren't even Christian, let alone white, to hold offices of power to influence the world. But his most criminal act was his TREASON against the newly enacted Papal Lord Amerikus; he helped thousands of felons, traitors, renegades and rabble-rousing revolutionaries, to foment foul resistance and scheme to overthrow my Just and Enlightened rule in His Holy Name. Seeley Booth plotted right alongside of felons like Leon Vance of NCIS, just as he was told by the directorate of the FBI, and then he tried to stall the march of the crusaders as they stormed through the stinking warrens of swamp rats and marsh hogs that compose the Bureau's higher echelons in DC. It was by his actions that so many managed to reach hidden escape routes by which they evaded capture, and their Righteous Sentences."

Finally finished with his vituperations, the Papal Lord sat back on his concrete throne, wrapped in his long white cloak in such a fashion that only his face was showing, the mien of displeasure and disgust evident for all who saw.

And that wasn't all that was seen by the viewing public.

Since Team Trump had made certain that at least two dozen people arrested and condemned by the Jeffersonian's forensics department were pardoned, then offered a seat in the Roseanic Chapel for the event (if they could afford it), it was understandable that there was a sustained applause and cheers since the Lord Amerikus fell silent. Practically the entire investigative team was to be executed and it was getting better as it went. For these career criminals who had committed multiple kidnappings, torture, rape and murder, seeing the extermination of the only police team in the country that owned the equipment to investigate fully, as well as the competence to capture and convict them, it was like getting a guaranteed free-pass on all future crimes they could commit. Better yet, it was the actual government itself that was giving them this guarantee that they could now 'play' to their heart's content, as long as they supported Trump, his team, his agenda, and paid his exorbitant tithes and missionary crusade support contributions when demanded.

It was now visible to the naked eye of all who saw the show. The government and police who had been given the charge of public trust to protect the weakest citizens of the country had turned around to instead ask the criminals and mafias for 'cover charges' and 'right-to-play' fees in exchange for not looking at their activities, on top of lying to the population by telling them they were still perfectly safe under the new theocratic tyranny. Even just a few hours into the newly instituted regime and nobody was foolish enough to believe a word they said anymore. The only protection the population would have from crimes or police brutality would come from their own hands, and nobody else's.

That was possibly the only thing the blasted NRA had gotten right in its entire history. Now that their favorite president to date was re-elected, with an even more suspicious cloud of doubt hovering over his entire second campaign, the gun lobby would get to see that they had helped put in power the very tyrant they had been warning the American population against for decades. And they would also see just how much they would need those guns in very short delays, indeed. Being right isn't all its cracked up to be, not when you're this right about so much that it bites you in the ass.

{ SQ } - { Prosperity Gospel and the Unholy Failure } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 11:30am

Western America; 08:30am

As there were plenty of prisoners to punish, torture and kill off, Papal Lord Trump had given the order to do them all the same way, in the same period, so that it didn't take more of his precious media exposure than was strictly necessary. The process would be timed and regulated to fit inside his own short, flitting attention span, and severely damaging punishments meted out to the inquisitors and crusaders, including Father Bleddings, if they over-passed their allotted schedule. The tyrannical camera-whore really, REALLY, didn't like it when anything other than himself was on the screen, and absolutely hated when any voice other than his own was the narrative being heard and followed by the crowd. That was why he had so clearly favored a single telecom network up until a few days ago: because he could drop in on a running show and push people aside to monopolize all the attention unto himself at his will, while nobody in the company bitched or called him out on his multiple fallacies.

Somewhat like Nero, in Rome, not that far back...

But it's a more complicated social situation than that.

After 8 years of Obama presidency, Fox had been slowly starving for advertising revenues and visibility in a marketplace saturated by center and left leaning competitors with no possibility to move rightwards without sounding as disjuncted from reality as Breitbart, or the church owned networks that were by definition 'not news, just religion' in the eyes of consumers. Then Trump was elected in 2016, and the entire paradigm underpinning politics, policy-making, diplomacy and news-making was changed for ever across the globe, since wherever America went, the rest followed or dreamed of being there too.

Trump didn't adhere to the truth and had no existing relationship with it.

Fox employees discovered rapidly that the operetta dictator spoke mostly according to his highly unstable feelings, shifting mood swings, and mostly just to hear the sound, tone and feel of his own voice filling the empty space around himself. Then the highest elected official in the land had publicly coined the two phrases that would determine both style & substance of his presidency for the history books: "I have alternative facts that real genuine Americans will know to be the truth" and the self-serving "My detractors are simply repeating 'fake news' that I myself have debunked and refuted many, many times. And it's false – BECAUSE – I have refuted it so often, as you well know my honesty."

With such a man in office, the stockholders in Fox saw a one-shot deal to waylay Breitbart News and take the pole position as the one most watched and believed right-leaning network in the nation for a very simple and cheap cost. They would be Trump's baggage-boys, all the way for as long as he was elected, and far after that if the media longevity of past presidents was anything to judge by. For outsiders, especially the so-called 'experts' in journalism and corporate ethics, this was an unconscionable sacrifice of their dignity, integrity, and reputation as individuals worthy of trust and belief. But that was not true, and simply a myopic perspective on a far more complex problem. CNN led the left-of-center pack for decades and showed no signs of changing, no matter how much place they had begun granting to religion and faith subjects in their reports and variety shows. That wouldn't last long anyways since every such report cost them dearly in number of viewers who left them due to perceived 'pro-cult' shift and commensurate number of advertisers threatening to leave soon after. By comparison, Fox had already cornered the market for the right-of center 'ordinary faithful' auditors, therefore going an extra mile to reach those evangelicals closer to the white-power movance wouldn't actually hurt them at all since their clientele could hardly move to another broadcaster unless they went to what were considered 'fringe' and 'right-wingnut' networks.

So Fox News did what any company faced with slowing sales, dropping viewership and credibility issues would have done: follow the money to survive. This was especially doable since the realistic cost of the move was less than 1% of what the general population outside their acquired market would perceive it to be. The move proved fruitful for Fox that saw its position in the viewership ratings go up dramatically, reaping 'soft core' and 'non-fanatic worshiper' auditors that had been flittering near the right-fringe without ever diving deeply. Add to them also several tens of thousands who were slowly being convinced by the DEEP STATE conspiracy theories, or just disgusted by anti-police & antifa stories that kept coming out every other week, and you see easily why the network owners took the decisions they had. The results were probant enough to be recognized, even by competitors who had to publicly admit the strategy worked as planned. Fox became the household reference for everything related to Trump himself, so much so that sometimes they got information before the Cabinet and White House staff could produce the formal legal writs for dissemination to the officials responsible for applying the policies.

Fox News, and its mother network as a whole, lived financially well off the sociopolitical context during those few short years, despite all the reputation hits they admittedly took. Until today.

Now there were dozens of right-wing leaning, white-power promoting, and christian church operated networks at the most important meeting of the century since the end of World War II was announced. Fox's quasi-exclusivity was broken and its mediatic primacy rubbished, never to happen again in the lives of the current stockholders. Mostly because quite a few had begun publicly expressing doubts about Team Trump's electoral and judicial viability this passed cycle, given that Robert Mueller was about to lay down a slew of indictments against him and several close relatives.

Just before his untimely car accident with his entire family, that was.

These fretful stockholders, supposedly dear personal friends of Trump as they owned part of Fox and had supported conservative causes for multiple decades, including his bid for election in 2016 & 20, now had their heads lining the main half-circle driveway in front of the White House, not far from the entire Clinton family, Mueller, Pelosi, Flake, McCabe, Comey, Ryan, Romney and hundreds of others. It's an openly admitted fact that if poor late senator John McCain had lived passed the year 2018, his head would be on those fence points too. As it was, his daughter and her family were present in his stead; be it certain their ends had not been humane.

That was also WHY there were so many telecoms invited to the event instead of just Fox; because the man in charge had learned his lesson that nobody, even his cherished corporate pet, would ever stay loyal and compliant for ever. He'd better have several alternatives in reserve for the inevitable moment when the darling of the day would turn on him to demand treasonous depravities like honesty, integrity, dignity, stability and reliability. You know, like was expected from any adult member of society...

Supposedly...

But not for Trump, not since he lived inside an 'alternately factualized' reality of his own belief.

Surely 'adulting' wasn't a requirement for him... Was it?

And so the secondary executions of the Low Mass took place in a record 15 minutes flat, chronometer in hand, to make certain that nobody stole from the Papal Lord any of the precious time that God had given him to address the Faithful, the Nation and the Rest. To take such 'holy time' from him was not only a crime and a treason against his exalted person, it was also a heresy against Jesus's Great Plan for America, and punishable as such by decree of the Papal cabinet.

So sayeth God... Apparently.

Well, the Catholic Inquisition had worked like that for close to seven centuries before being pushed aside by secular parliaments and depraved monarchs more interested by cousin-incest, inbreeding, producing chinless asylum tenants, debauchery, gambling away their kingdoms on ponies or baccarat, and dying from syphilis contracted from aforementioned internecine debauchery.

And people thought American democracy was an uncontrolled, ugly affair?

Anyways; the slave-spawns were dead, the traitors were dead, the crowds were orgasmic again (and again; Yeeewww! Really people? Aren't you homophobic prudes?) and the children were actually alive in a drugged sleep, in a private cargo plane dedicated to live cattle transport, on its way to Siberia via pit-stop in Alaska, to be sold into sexual slavery to a Bratva division that good friends from Moscow had put him in relation with, a few years back. You know; back, like, in the period that Mueller was investigating but wouldn't tell about, back. What? Running a dictatorship took money, even a religious one. His lavish Papal lifestyle had to be richer and more pompous than everybody else or he'd lose face in public. As for lying to the parents and crowds about executing the kids humanely being a lie... Well, it was just more 'alternative facts' for the cameras, and it sounded soooo good, and holy, and pious, and benevolent, and just the sorts of thing that an enlightened tyrant would do... that it just slipped out on its own.

He'd waffle on it, or walk-it back at some point.

Or maybe not.

It's not like anybody would call him out on his lies and fabulations anymore, was it?

Most people had a small thing called survival instincts. The exceptions would ornate the fence.

The Old Texts said it best; each coin in your purse is a direct proof of how much God loves and approves of you, your relation to His creed, and the way you support His church. That was 'Christian Truth' for 2,000 years.

Or, to put it in language the idiots walking the streets could understand: it was all about 'the economy', just like the conservatives had been trying to tell people for decades already. Money made factories, jobs, consumption, luxury, therefore everything was made by, or bought with, money, or its natural equivalent like precious metals, gems or artworks.

If you had the money, you made the rules or broke them as you went. And ever since the SCOTUS had made that slew of laughably inept decisions that gave companies / churches rights of political speech & spending equal or above those of living humans, it really was about money and nothing else. Not even Divine Grace could save you, if your accuser had the cash to pay more mercenaries to mount a physical attack than the county had cops to protect you. And cops were so badly paid that renting them out away from their oaths was easy.

Well, it should be easy. Mueller's team was a nasty exception to a well practiced rule.

Although, the foolish man knew better now.

The Papal Lord was letting his mind drift on these many loosely related thoughts of media, economy and social movances, deeply ensconced in his cement throne's blue cushions, glancing over the forms of the pedophiles, closeted faggots and torture-porn adepts that so obviously composed the richer upper-tier of his voting block, when he saw something that gave him pause.

Deep inside the eighth row of pews, on the left, an elderly man who bore the symbols of a KKK affiliated sect over his mandatory all-white 'Knight of Christ' traditional clothing wasn't looking at the depraved spectacle up front, but at the glowing screen of his smartphone. Wasn't that amusing? An old guy who probably had been raised in a barn with farm animals, and used a chamber pot for most of his first two decades of life because his family couldn't even build an outhouse, was fiddling with the most modern tech the planet could offer. My, how the times had changed from the simplicity of their youth, in the Blessed 60's. Weirdly, the old crone held the device with both hands just in front of his nose, at an angle that showed he was reading text on it, not taking illegal pictures of the holy inquisition & cleansing in progress. If he wanted keepsakes photos or film, he could purchase it from the TV networks who would then pay a cut to the Papal Lord in order to maintain the new Grand Crusade Army (and Papal lifestyle).

Trump frowned (pouted like a baby) as the 90-something years old began to wail and cry, madly spouting gibberish as he suddenly rocked back and forth in his pew with spittle drooling down his chin like one of the broken, insane and irrecoverable souls housed inside his decrepit asylum, which he had led for well over five decades. The old priest's neighbors spoke to him, trying to calm him, then looked at the man's phone screen as they talked among themselves. After a couple of minutes, they began to touch, grab and pull at the other neighbors in the pews in front or in back of them, trying to bring their attention to whatever the Hells was going on with that useless decrepit old crone's bloody phone.

Trump was re-wrapping himself in his long thick cloak in an impatient, flourished gesture, when he saw that the other men surrounding the old alienist had taken out their own phones. Many were now busy typing away at their screens, completely oblivious to the performances of the suffering prisoners as their lives were being ended by oil and flames. In fact, the row of flailing screeching condemned was so long and numerous that it belched up a temporary curtain of brackish dark gray smoke that hid the crowd from Trump's view for a few minutes, before CO2 extinguishers were whelmed to douse out the fires and the rushing winds cleared the air inside the pseudo-church. By now, as the crusaders were taking the dead prisoners' corpses down from their poles for disposal, there were several dozen other old men panicking in the pews, shouts echoing all around the Roseanic Chapel's interior, and it had nothing to do with the punishments suffered by the traitors.

Standing up speedily with anger at the disruption of his well orchestrated show, and most upset that it wasn't a wave of applause and contentment towards his Papal Persona that was the reason for this ruckus, D.J. Trump stomped in furor, displaying a childish tantrum for all to see. Once abreast of the main altar, he tapped the microphones in the collar of his robes of office, telling the church MC to put him on the speakers, and crank the volume to 250db so he could bury all the noise under his voice.

"All right! All right! I'm here!" he told the assembled men in a whining, fake-caring tone, as if he were trying to placate a class of rowdy preschoolers angry they had been denied candy before lunch. "I'm here, you can all see me! All you have to do is look ahead and up, and SEE ME!" he shouted louder, trying to overrun the din of discontent and anger sweeping through the crowd of followers.

One of the stouter middle-aged men stepped out of his assigned (rented) pew and stalked all the way to the front of the nave, shacking his smartphone violently at the Papal Conclave sitting on the raised dais as he marched. Once near Father Bleddings, he grabbed the deformed, crooked old lecher by the robes to shout into the ring of microphones surrounding the man's neck, so he could be heard by the entire assembly, as he accused their new Lord Amerikus and his minions.

"You miserable bastard!" the 55 year old shouted, aspersing Bleddings with spittle as he pointed violently with his right index finger at the older men on the dais. "You thieving backstabber! That was your plan all along, wan'nt it? Get us here on a Sunday morning, in freezing storm winds and snow drifts, to get ensnared by your debauched pornographic torturing of naked people while your damned minions ripped the money out of our churches! You vile apostle of the Snake of Eden! You kneel at the altar of Judas Iscariot, traitor! There's a special place in Hell for you and your kind! Do you hear me, Trump? Nobody steals from the holy seat of Jehovah's Realm and gets away with it! Nobody!"

Completely baffled by the sudden accusations as he hadn't had any such plans in progress (at the moment) the Papal Lord gesticulated in a way he thought made him look imperative and authoritative. In fact, it made him look like a weather vane spinning in a storm, not like an important man signaling for attention during a meeting. But then again, by the time he realized he'd made a PR blunder with his unscripted maneuver, it would be the least of all his problems. Making more gestures at the diverse soldiers around the nave, he had them grab and re-seat the old religious fools back in their cement slabs by force, and even by threat of the Rod of Dis'k'plinn as if they were just unruly boys in class.

Once all the worshipers were back in their assigned seats, an inquisitor walked out, carrying a long white aluminum replica of the Flagged Crucifer that had a miniature news studio caliber microphone & camera system mounted on the head portion of the cruciform pole. Walking slowly at ceremonial pace, the young soldier pompously presented the recording set at the rabid follower who had just spoken accusations against the Papal Lord and his Conclave, so that everybody could hear him dig his own grave by himself, just before the Lord Amerikus condemned him to a traitor's death like the others.

Staying seated as instructed, the middle-aged priest who was the topmost leader from the Jehovah's Witnesses organization on US soil, grabbed the end of the ritualistic pole and spat his venom at the recording device without any reservations. "You stole from us Trump! You stole from our church! While you kept us all busy with traveling in the deep night to reach this damnable circus show, your army was raping our servers and our banks, seizing our money, our permits and our land ownership titles. Everything we had earned or been entrusted with by the Name of Christ got swindled! By your people! The attacks came from the servers of the FBI, NSA, CIA, dozens of US military bases across the nation and dozens of federally managed research centers like the old Area 51 control bunkers and the Los Alamos nuclear prototyping & testing laboratories. There were even hacks coming straight form the blasted White House cybernetic security team and every Trump hotel, office building or manufacture! Even from those you own overseas! What the fuck are you playing at, mongrel traitor?"

Now, Donald J. Trump was a con artist, a rip-off expert, a whorish he-slut and an attention addict of the most maladive sorts, but he had never even thought to do something like this. Sure, he had thought to tell a few of the richest churches that their permits to own a house of worship could face 'renewal difficulties' at the municipal level if he weren't properly 'satisfied' of their obedience to Christian Creed by a steady flow of tithes, tributes and personal gifts directly to his own person. But to completely destroy an entire faith-based organization when it could still pay and supply votes? Destroy what was the local intermediary between himself and the worshipers, whose belief in Jesus were the very foundation of his position and right to rule? That was suicidal dementia, not strategy!

Besides, who in their right mind could believe that it was actually possible to ERASE money from the system, let alone property titles to buildings or institutions that had existed for decades, centuries in the case of some catholic churches, hospitals or schools. Trump could understand that an occasional hacker would steal money, mostly by grabbing from a badly protected account, or obtain the genuine credit/debit card number of an existing client that he would empty out... But flat-out ERASE wealth without keeping any?

Preposterous! Who would be stupid enough to do this?

Leaning over the edge of the cement dais to look down disdainfully at the crowd at large, and the accuser in particular, the Papal Lord spoke into his microphones. "Inquisitors! Look at their phone screens and tell the audience what you behold! We shall know the Truth of this soon enough!"

During the following fifteen minutes, four different inquisitors stalked the rows of pews, taking about one minute per person to look rapidly through the phone's message logs and automated banking app reports while using their own smartphones to link with the White House cybernetic security division to let them access these devices to scan for viruses and validate the authenticity of the reports received. At the same time, highly ranked Special Supervisory Agents of the Papal Secret Service were using a very deeply classified listing of private cellphone numbers that would connect them directly to the persons in-charge of cybernetic safety for each of the major banks operating in US territories to verify events at the source.

It was nearing 11:56am in Washington DC when the loudspeakers of the Roseanic Chapel broadcast the voice of the US-PSS agent supervising the investigation with the main offices of the banks.

"Hello, Lord Amerikus, sir." the man began fearfully. "We have just finished preliminary conferences with nine major banking institutions and are in the process of contacting fourteen more as I address you. The outlook of the situation is this: for a period of time between 6:00am and 11:00am on Washington's clock, several hundred million time-delayed electronic instructions were logged throughout the entirety of the USA's financial and banking apparatus. While the most visible did come from several military, intelligence and White House servers, the vast majority came from several thousand attack bots spread throughout the web, including from outside the country. In some cases, several smaller banks saw their badly shielded servers become co-opted into becoming 'legitimization proxies' for the attacks aimed at the most thickly fortified banks and governmental systems. At latest count, some 700 small institutions across the planet were penetrated and virulated so."

The agent took a deep, shuddering breath, then continued his doomed report. "The hack-wave also reached the US Patent Office, the Bureau of Incorporations, the Internal Revenue Service, the Dept of Human Services, the Dept for the Property, Usage and Conservation of Land & Resources, et cetera... Basically sir, by using an inhumanly complex system of pre-programmed, time-delayed, cascading transactions & instructions sent out from several hundred thousand attack bots all at once... SOMEBODY managed to collapse the entire economy of the country in just five hours of work that we can see."

The entire crowd was struck dumb by the pronouncement, even if most had already suffered the blunt force of it on their own phone screen barely minutes ago. Trump was so affected that he was leaning heavily on the cement altar, unable to articulate his thoughts into something that could salvage the situation to his advantage. If this was true, then it was the most unnatural, anti-logical, counter-intuitive move that anybody considering cybernetic warfare would do. Stealing the money and reassigning the property titles and patents would be a master-stroke of genius. It would also clog the USA courts and World Penal Tribunal for centuries as the richest people and companies tried to defend themselves from being taken over by criminals or a foreign government. But to just ERASE everything? To not take a single penny? For what? To avoid getting traced back and hunted to death?

"Ahem, sir?" asked the voice from the speakers, trying to get the Papal Lord's waning attention.

As the Man-in-Charge was completely lost to the world inside his mind at present and unresponsive, it was one of the Exalted Lord Bishops who rose from his throne to reach the altar, signaling at the cameras for the agent, no doubt watching live, to proceed with his report.

"Well, my Lord Bishop, we have received reports from the banks that it wasn't only the white christian churches that got hit. From what they can tell us, somebody used the classified registers held by the FBI, US-PSS, NSA, DEA, ICE and a dozen other policing agencies, to hunt down and bankrupt every church, mosque, synagogue, temple, meditation hall or homeschooler they could find in the tax rolls. It was a blind, sustained, clear-cutting of ANYTHING faith-based or serving to promote, defend or teach religious creed to anybody. And that's not all the hackers did."

Crossing his arms over his chest as he wrapped his white woolen cloak over his fearfully trembling form, the Lord Bishop nodded firmly towards the cameras, certain the US-PSS agent would see and understand the gesture. Now was not the time for cowardice, not when they needed so badly to understand the full spectrum of the attack and the damages wrought.

The ghostly voice came from the speakers again: "Well sirs, the hackers didn't limit themselves to emptying out the bank accounts, investments or erasing the property titles of churches. They also went after absolutely everything and anything that was known to be – denominational – in any way, shape or form, even if the religious affiliation was supposedly secretive or hidden from view. Then, these bastards got nasty beyond all forgiveness. When they attacked a church, they pauperized the house of worship itself, the main holding company, the trust funds, the investments, the charities to fund missionary activities abroad, then they took out the catechism classes, the schools for kids, the hospitals and medical assistance for the elderly parishioners... Sirs, these hackers EXECUTED the entirety of each and every faith-community they could find, identify and delimitate in the cyber-world."

Whelming a superhuman amount of courage, the poor supervising agent continued his tale of woe before he was interrupted by his bosses again. "Sirs, that's not all the hackers did to our society. When they identified a faith-group for eradication, they also found out the names, coordinates and personal or classified informations about each human they had ever come into contact with. Present preachers, nuns, monks, reverends, deacons, pastors, and also the lay servants like teachers, secretaries, accountants, janitors, guards, doctors and nurses... Then they hunted down and destroyed the donors who kept the organizations alive with money and free services... Sirs... The hackers went after the people themselves, in their own homes, in their life savings, in their pension funds... The attacks have wiped out salaries, investments, kids' trust funds, school bursaries, student loans, home mortgages, insurance policies and payments, inheritances from dead relatives... They even erased several judicial settlements that had been won by churches or faith-agents since the year 2000. These hackers, sirs... They have bankrupted and pauperized almost 211,000,000 of our 325,000,000 legally listed citizens inside of a few hours... They broke our population, and our governments... Our experts, sirs... They... They don't know if we can survive this hecatomb past dinner time tonight..."

Shaking himself from his shock-induced torpor at long last because that last revelation was just THAT enormous that it jolted him awake, the Papal Lord asked aloud, aiming his unsteady eyes at the cluster of cameras above the crowd to address the US-PSS agent the same way his Exalted Bishop had done. "Is there anything else? What other damages were done in result of this attack? The government! The budget! Did they touch the Dept of Finances, or the US Reserve? What about our millions of expense accounts for all of our departments, agencies and officials? Can we still function as a state?" he asked, now in full panic.

The agent replied "My Lord Amerikus, the US Government accounts have all been put under the cybernetic equivalent of a 'Judicial Seal of Inquiry' that means they can still receive deposits but no longer make any withdrawals or payments, even those that had been pre-authorized for years. As far as we can see, only the municipal governments weren't touched beyond loosing all control over the faith-based entities & organizations on their territory. Both Federal and State levels have essentially been seized & put in escrow until a different government is elected, or a change in political system is committed. The federal policing apparatus and military of the USA are now devoid of funds passed the petty cash kept in the disbursement offices of the ships and bases. That's one week of pay for the men, with a similar time frame of food and services upkeep. If, and that's IF, it wasn't already paid out. Also, we have been made aware that the automated lending apps in the banks have all been programmed to reject all USA governmental requests for loans, mortgages, or the issuance of certified debt like bonds and promissory notes. If you want a loan, you'll have to sit face-to-face with a CEO of a banking group cuz the system says we ain't worth de nada anymore. The country's attempt at a White Christian Regency is busted, sirs, and the bag we put our coins, people and hopes in has been ripped to shreds so we can't use it again, too."

Trump was completely, utterly, irrevocably flabbergasted by the news.

His entire planning had been based on holding exclusive control and influence over the 50-odd million ultra-conservative white evangelicals that were in the process of becoming an endangered race inside their own country. This combined sense of minority, racial dilution and inevitable cultural irrelevance were all being properly fanned ablaze by the ecclesiastes in the churches, since these faith leaders were those who had the most to lose. After all, as the minoritization of anglophone whites diminished the primacy of European culture, it also exponentially eroded the number of worshipers that tithed their coffers thus reducing dramatically their spending/living power.

Money was a great motivator, that way.

But now it was all turning against Trump, his team, his voting base and the entirety of the faith-based system that had raised America above all others. With the churches materially and legally defunct, it would be the secular government that became the real, genuine leader that it had been supposed to be for the last 300 years. By all logical thought, the population would never again allow the ecclesiastes and religious movances to monopolize so much power, laws and rights out of the hands of either the basic human populace or their elected representatives. No, the Era of Faith Regency dreamed of by twenty-some generations of white evangelical christians had just come to crash and burn all around them, along with every other denomination, movement or religion the country had tolerated since its founding.

That was when it hit Trump in the mind like a freight train; the reason WHY the hackers hadn't taken any money for themselves. Because riches and power weren't their solution of choice. No, scorched earth, the Tabula Rasa of the Roman conquerors of yore, was both the method, the goal and the desired end-game here. The total destruction, revocation and erasure of America so those responsible could then possess an empty sandbox to build in without pre-existing conditions or constraints.

Would they ever find the guilty? Maybe.

Would it do anything to change the situation? No.

No, it wouldn't change anything. Nothing could change, or undo, or roll-back what had happened.

And that seemed to be the consensus amongst the pauperized, bankrupted elite worshipers, priests, ecclesiastes and church-mongers in the audience as they rose in a great angry tide of white-clad humanity, throwing fists, feet, spittle, cellphones, gloves, jewels and anything that could hurt or injure at the soldiers and ceremonial assistants around the nave. In mere seconds after the Papal Secret Service agent's last words, the eruption happened with the strength and sustained force of the Kilauea volcano in Hawaii. Barely two minutes later and the religious assembly had disintegrated into a bloody, inhuman carnage that was now reaching up to the raised dais, threatening the safety of the Papal Conclave who were forced into full retreat, all under the unforgiving glare of the live-stream cameras as they had never ceased to record for their networks.

The American White Christian Regency Era had ended in miserable bloodshed before it had even truly got a chance to start anything real or durable. What a fucking waste of flesh, blood, work-effort and time it had all been. By dinner time, not even D. himself would ever admit anymore to having had any part of it, even when confronted by the films of the epoch.

Un-civil Unrest, Rebellions and Secessions

(Green Day - American Idiot)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 12:00pm - noon

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 09:00am

United States of America; All over the country

The clock had barely struck the last chime of noon that what was left of the United States of America was already ablaze and collapsing under the combined efforts of anti-Trump, anti-Christian and old run-of-the-mill anti-government groups of all sorts, like the ultra-violent 'Sovereign Citizens'. And those were only the internal problems that could be seen on what was left of big-name television chains. you also had to take into consideration all the external enemies like Russia, China and Micronesia, plus all the Allies that had been instantly horrified by what they just saw on TV and the Internex feeds. The lurid spectacle of torturous depravity so publicly exposed on television in the past three hours had once and for all settled all questions about the immorality and inhumanity of the people in charge of what they had the gumption to still call "The Land of the Free" just because they had arrogated for themselves the capacity to harm and exploit the People without being countered, or made responsible before the courts of law.

So much for "freedom for all citizens" and the "American Dream".

Atop all the legitimate protest groups that had already been legally organized since the 2016 elections and given a new boost in 2020 with the obviously botched electoral process, there were now added all the specific subgroups that had become 'open targets' for all sorts of criminal persecutions, disappearance and death from Trump's decrees in the last five days. Jews, Romani, Arabs, Blacks, Latinos and Asians of all social classes were now trembling in fear and hate alongside the caucasian white women & children who could no longer trust anybody on either side. All religions, including several smaller denominations of Christianity usually found in arabic countries, were now subject to openly violent discrimination, to the point of being hunted down for extermination by the national police and armed forces. Even doctors, pharmacists, psychologists and secular school teachers were no longer considered 'proper' citizens, nor allowed to live peacefully inside the country. The Trump government was trying hard to make every white man alive inside american borders act according to these new lists of taboo knowledge and undesirable characters, and was fully prepared to punish cruelly any who failed to lethally enforce these bigotries on their neighbors or kin.

Now, after seeing the public torture and death of several provenly honest prominent officials of the federal governance who had served faithfully for several decades each, the general population finally realized the deep truth about the crooked, depraved, bastards that had hijacked the last two elections for the presidency of the USA.

They were a bunch of defective, degenerate sexual predators who raped, maimed and murdered for orgasmic pleasure, and stole from everyone they encountered to finance their lifestyle with the labor and resources of anybody else than themselves. For four years already, the People of America had seen the kinds of corporatist grifters and savage capitalists that Trump had nominated to the highest postings in the federal apparatus, when he deigned make the effort to actually fill the vacant jobs. These men had all been career fraudsters who made a show of attending church and making large donations to charities to cover their filthy, perverse, habits happening in the background. They raped Nature, enslaved Humanity to the soulless machines of the companies, and destroyed the social protection laws of society, specifically because those were the crimes they wanted to commit to sustain their debased acts against their victims.

Team Trump had promised to 'drain the swamp of DC'.

They had done that alright!

They had 'drained' the city of all normal, honest, dignified persons then filled in the empty space left instead with the criminals from all over the country that had paid them, or given them lip-service during the electoral campaign to concentrate these crooks in the seats of Power, Authority and Justice.

When people had said in the early 2000's that Emperor Palpatine in George Lucas' Star Wars prequels was a direct negative comparison to George W. Bush, they were wrong. Many now saw that the famous fictional character was instead a forewarning of the meteoric rise of Donald J. Trump and his coterie of lick-spittle's who stood in for the moffs and Imperial Bureaucracy with exactly similar results of corruption, violence and ineptitude.

Probably not what either GL or the cinema critics of the day had thought, but true nonetheless.

{ SQ } - { The 2020 Youth Revolution } - { SQ }

As it were, such high elucubrations about media, philosophy, politics and the 'social contract' were all well above and beyond the reach or care of the average person in the streets of America this day. Yesterday, there had been the promise of Law & Order, however tenuous, corrupt and bigoted it would have been, it still would have kept the society somewhat functional. Today, there was no such thing in sight anymore; only lawless anarchy and raw chaos so unfettered that each and every deviant, criminal, mobster and terrorist would exploit without any consequences.

It started most predictably: by millions of white skinned children in organized schooling, ages 6 to 18, revolting openly with hard, merciless violence against the religious paddy-whacks that planned to beat them into submission under the transparent excuse of "corporeal christian dis'k'plin'nins" as per the Old Testament in the Bible. These kids weren't stupid; for the first time in the country's history, there had been a legal decree that forced their attendance at Sunday School, so they were forced to watch TV that morning to see the Papal Lord's message in controlled circumstances. Millions of kids saw what was happening to old, strong adults, some of them recognized heroes in the police or armed services, and they now knew that they would be next to suffer for the sexual satisfaction of the perverts.

Conclusion: to survive in safety, the perverts must die quicker than they can regroup to arm up and take the fight to the kids. Since the average class size in US schools is between 30 and 45 throughout primary and secondary levels, the teachers were vastly outnumbered at least 20-to-1 after all the 'colored' and illegal immigrant kids had been removed from the tally. This was when the adults found out that wielding a leather strap or wooden paddle to scare the kids into compliance with physical pain, and the shame of being publicly beaten like a dog, only works if the child is alone and not afraid of something worse already. The priest-commanded teachers who were still on the job, exclusively all white men at this point of the country's history, got surprised in a bad way when the kids decided that getting a few bruises, or even broken bones, was a cheap price to pay to rip the weapons out of the adults' hands to beat them to death with it.

The teachers' surprise didn't last for long, as you can imagine.

Since the kids all over the country were now aware that any white adult male could arrest, beat, rape and kill them without any sorts of retaliation from anybody, the basic rule book they had lived by to date got thrown out the window, with the dead teachers and their bibles. Banding together under the leadership of older students or more capable members of their age groups, the young people began barricading their schools into makeshift forts, crafting crude weaponry out of every piece of wood, metal or glass they had, plus preparing pails with mixed cleaning liquids in lieu of chemical weapons to dump down on attackers from the safety of high windows. Soon enough, the kids were taking over the cafeterias and trying pell-mell to cobble up meals and tally reserves, to figure out how long they could last. Always the conclusion was that they would be limited to what they could find by scrounging the streets around if they wanted to endure without adult help, but those territories offered pitifully little to consume. It wasn't like the government or private companies would just give them food and supplies anymore. They now needed to find or steal foodstuffs, the sooner the better as most schools never kept more than a week of comestible reserves in the cafeterias.

This of course meant that kids in densely urban environment were doomed to failure practically from the start as they would need to leave their improvised forts to reestablish in zones with large dense woods or farmlands to supply their food reliably. Since very few of the city-bound kids actually had the life experience, varied education or mental acumen to think along those lines of complicated tactical and logistical realities, there rapidly emerged a handful of 'leaders' in each school who had specialized in playing video games of the 'Age of Empires' or 'Civilization' styles. These youngsters became de facto the new visionaries, leaders and managers of the youth revolt, making so that barely five days after it had begun, the 2020 Youth Revolution had emptied practically 75% of the urban schools' population, moving those willing to follow the hard road in life out of town. Usually, the kids moved out by stealing yellow school buses or teachers' cars, sometimes by getting help from white women who were fleeing the same ways. They relocated to rural areas, far away from concrete-bound cities so they could create small support communes and freely gather, hunt, fish and harvest to stay alive independently from the white adult men who would harm them.

This period of unrest and emergency youth migration towards the wilder zones of the country would have a dramatic toll on the numbers of survivors, and their health, since it occurred in the beginnings of one of the worst winters ever to hit the country, and it covered all of it with equal force. However, it was actually acknowledged, both inside the few remaining seats of power in the US and by experts abroad, that there would be more children alive with this exodus than if they had staid in the schools to be captured and victimized by Trumpists and other criminalized adults. This sad, deplorable situation pushed many farmers and village dwellers to open their lands and homes to fleeing children, re-starting the antiquated system of money-less barter and trade that had founded America - lodgings & food versus farm work - that allowed hundreds of thousands of young, barely-autonomous kids to find an anchor to steady their lives and survive.

Meekly, with few meager means, but survive they did.

Tens of thousands more did not have such chance, as they were captured by Trumpists, by secretive organized cults, by organized crime, by street gangs, by isolated pedophiles, by serial killers wanting a cheap thrill, or by the occasional brutal bastard wanting a household slave to do all the work while he sat drunk and useless as he'd always been. Then also was the merciless climate; winter's bitter cold, snow and sleet froze to death several hundreds of thousands while hunger and chill-borne disease took several tens of thousands more.

Even though millions of children managed to survive alone or by returning to their mothers, millions of others died alone in those first ten days following the Low Mass. This was a crippling blow to a generation that would see all the millions of dead white children soon joined by hundreds of thousands of kids of other ethnic groups as all the systems necessary to society like grocery stores, hospitals, police and public works all shut down savagely. Nobody wanted to leave their families alone in the clearly happening civil insurgency, so the critical personnel were absent from their posts, and so the numbers of deaths linked to lack of medical treatments, delayed surgeries, undiagnosed illnesses, accidental traumas and criminal traumas all went up dramatically. For all practical purposes, this was a generation that would be even more decimated than those that occurred during the period covering World War I, World War II and the South-Asia wars combined.

{ SQ } - { The 2020 Religion Wars } - { SQ }

At the same time as the children of society were breaking their fetters and grasping liberty by violent forcefulness at the cost of their lives, the second greatest social strata of America was waking up from its long slumber. After witnessing the inhuman depravities done in the name of one single god against all other gods and followers of other faiths, the tens of millions of worshipers living in the US, legally or not, began to shrug off the torpor caused by so many long decades of elected officials and judges sympathetic to freedom of faith at all levels of governance and civilian life. With so many laws and rules favorable to the exercise of almost every religion that was ever named aloud on the public square, most faithful devotees had not even thought that a return to an obligatory theocratic / monotheist regime of government and society would ever occur inside USA borders any time soon.

It was after all, the Land of the Free. Or at least, it was until five days ago.

Well, now these cultural and religious masses were woken up fully, aware that all their rights were being stolen and their standing in society was getting erased, along with their person-hood and lives if the small collective of white protestant evangelical fanatics wasn't stopped cold. That would be harder to accomplish than to say, but it would happen. Nobody from any religious denomination, including millions of white skinned women and children related to these bastards, had any intention to let it all continue unchallenged.

As soon as the Papal Conclave of Bishops' first Low Mass had collapsed into chaos when the ecclesiastes saw their moneys and holdings had disappeared, and the television feeds were shut off at their sources, the other priests, rabbis, mullahs, imams, nuns, pastors, preachers and lay acolytes addressed their families and followers that had been gathered around them to watch the show as they had been obliged. They had been ordered by the federal government's brand new Department of Ecclesiastic Laws and Cult to stay home or go to their own places of worship to bear witness to the mandatory broadcast. The feds didn't really care what the colored folk did for the moment, so long as they stayed away from the white-only areas that had just been decreed by law; that meant every public, private and religious school in existence as well as several tens of thousands of churches and temples that now had a placard on their entrance warning colored people, women and children to not come in as only white adult men over the age of 25 were permitted anymore.

The resulting mobilization of forces was far more organized and successful than that begun by the white children in their schools and homes. This could be explained by the simple fact that the groups assembled in the 'other' places of worship were in fact complete family groupings, not just individuals without support like the white community which had been purposefully separated and segregated to keep them from supporting each other. The bigots wanted only white men in power and saw ALL others, including their own wives and children, as enemies to survey, exploit and destroy. For the Papal Lord to rule, the white men had to be separated and indoctrinated in a special manner, but everybody else could be fitted in the same trash bag as that is what they were in his eyes: trash.

The result however was a super-exclusion of white men from all zones where the rest of the 275 million non-white/non-male citizens were percolating the basis for a revolution that would forcibly reshape the country and the rest of the planet by the shockwaves it would send out. Given that the social structures (family & cult) amongst the colored groupings were still mostly intact and that entire families had been packed into the small poorer churches, mosques and synagogues to watch the odious program and plan a collective reaction, it didn't take long to organize survival strategies and neighborhood defense patrols.

America loves guns.

In fact, America loves guns more than it loves people or Nature.

That small fact was clearly not in the minds of Trump, Team Trump, the main backer of Trump – The NRA Council – or any of the military planners they consulted in preparing their impromptu little regime change without having the population's permission.

If the fools in Washington DC and their coreligionnaries locally, in the states and cities, had bothered to open their eyes and watch reality around them, they would have seen that their hard-core block of 5 million mostly white-male NRA members were a clear minority in the environment, even inside the Trumpist movance. However, they would also have seen the two following critical facts:

#1- Only about 1 in 75 people who own a gun will ever be part of the NRA or donate to their organization. Most ordinary gun owners shun the NRA as extremists with clear sectarian undertones that clash horribly with modern American values and lifestyle. The gun-maker's lobby having stood in opposition to any reforms following a slew of school massacres from 2014 - 2020 cemented in the minds of large population basins that it was time to fight back against the weapons sellers and their ilk. The results were clearly visible as recorded gun sales slumped and NRA money movements towards politicians began being tracked and exposed publicly for the first time ever.

#2- The number of 'colored' people who legally own guns is staggeringly high, and almost none of them ever have anything to do with the NRA or its associated churches, groups and lobbyists. There are several tens of millions of 'non-white' gun owners and even several hundred thousand white under-aged persons owning guns that have never been surveyed, charted or listed by the NRA or the Trump camp.

That means that when the 50 million rabidly fanatic supporters of Trump split apart into the 'manly-men' on one side and everybody else on the other, you get to see that only about 22 million white males aged 25+ are the actual leading/thinking/working class the Papal Lord bases his calculations on. Whereas reality demonstrates that there will be an opposition force numbering in the 200+ million people with guns & munitions, with many hundreds of thousands who were trained in the army or police academies before racial discrimination became the law of the land, a mere 5 days ago.

Just on the numbers, there wasn't any ways for the Trumpists and white-power apostles to win.

Fanatics, however, don't look at numbers. They 'feel' their god compelling them from within and follow that feel all the way to Perdition, dragging their family, neighbors, society and everybody they touch down in flames with them.

Better to die in Glorious War than witness the "Great Holy Crusade" proven a failure.

And that is what would happen, when a few million middle-aged and elderly white men would attempt stupidly to march or drive in the streets with their flags and guns, trying to dominate, rape and murder to their heart's content. They would face blow-back on proportions that the Trump Team leadership had never even bothered to evaluate, let alone warn their troops about. This would cause immediate, violent and decisive combats that would see several large zones of the country being declared as "wild" and "forbidden to whites" because the few soldiers the government could field weren't enough to secure and patrol the entirety of the vast terrain inside the legal borders. This forced the Pentagon to create 'Enclaves of Purity' where whites would be concentrated and defended whilst the rest of the land was essentially abandoned to the hordes of heavily armed and organized non-whites / non-christians.

As the hundreds of millions of depressive but angry and determined citizens were being agitated to a frenzy by their community leaders and well trained members of their families, the white population that was being ordered to pack their homes in preparation to move into sheltered enclaves was undergoing a catastrophic collapse as the families exploded. The causes and process of that collapse would be discovered and explained only several years later, when the dust had settled enough for historians and sociologists to examine the remains of the failed religious tyranny without getting shot at.

DXS – NCIS arduous route to Vancouver

(NCIS - LA – opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 12:00pm - noon

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 09:00am

Orange County; John Wayne Airport

Santa Ana, Los Angeles, California, USA

The combined teams of Naval Criminal Investigative Services agents and Department of External Services spies sat silently on the chairs and couches of the MD-11C refit's communal area, their coffees and food lay forgotten, gone completely cold and inedible by now. From the very first minutes of the television program, none of them had so much as looked at the foodstuffs for fear of getting sick to the point of projectile vomiting right on the moment. The hundreds of severed heads decomposing in open view of anybody passing by the White House grounds or walking on the actual site would have that effect on normally constituted people. What did this say about Trump, Team Trump, the religious followers and the soldiers who did this atrocity? Time only would tell. Now, three full hours later, even though the meal could be warmed up in the large gas oven or the micro-wave unit, nobody had any ideas but to dump it all in the compactor and switch the vents to max to clear out any residual odors, lest someone lose control of their sensibilities and began to retch out bile.

The entire country, and especially the Washington DC area, had seen all the major federal policing organizations beheaded in the cruelest acts of savagery witnessed on American soil since World War II, when the Germans, Italians and Japanese living on US soil had been stuffed in internment camps and left to rot until well past the official end of hostilities. In fact, it was an honest appraisal of the situation to liken it to the time when Europeans waged war against the natives during the colonization or what the Catholic Inquisition did to opponents of the Church during the middle ages. The only events similar to happen during the modern era were the revolutions of Mao in China, Stalin in Russia and the Kim Dynasty in North Korea before it became part of the Montagnard Confederation four years ago, when Team Trump helped to disband the UN. In fact, even the pirate lords in Ethiopia, a blasted wasteland if ever there was one on Earth, knew better than to keep rotting cadavers exposed in open air lest they make people sick from the diseases born by the swarms of bugs that would fly and crawl all over the zone around each pike.

Now what did it say about America's much vaunted civilization and summit of human achievement when even the barbarians and criminals knew and acted better than them?

As they watched the television, the agents came to mind-numbing conclusions.

The NCIS Major Response Team was decimated and running for their lives, while four of the six administrative sectors were no longer operational at all. Eastern & Atlantic seaboard was wiped out and dark. Southern border & Gulf seaboard had been penetrated by Trumpists from the onset; under the pressure exerted by the late Eric Barlow and accomplices who had sided with the Papal Lord, no preparations had occurred at all thus the sector had imploded then gone dark. Western & Pacific seaboard was active but bunkering down in survival mode with little to no activities outside their few enclaves remaining. Northern border & Great Lakes had been betrayed from within, never prepared anything, was abandoned in a panic by its few agents and gone dark. Central - Heartland had simply never been important to begin with, never prepared and half the agents were Trumpists anyways, so it was abandoned in panic and gone dark. International Overwatch had been based in the Navy Yard in Washington DC so they suffered eradication at the same time as the Atlantic team, MRT and agency's directorate.

The FBI's three most prestigious and reputed teams, the Jeffersonian Forensics Unit, the Behavioral Analysis Unit out of Quantico and the Cybernetic Counter-espionage Unit, had been exterminated in the previous days or during the spectacle of debauchery, leaving the agency in tattered ruins. The regional offices based in the important cities had either gone dark or been co-opted by Trumpists, thusly completing the fall of the agency into policing uselessness and judicial irrelevance.

The CIA's people all over the Agency had immediately gone underground, aiming to leave US soil with those dependents they could reach and mobilize in the briefest delays, regardless of obstacles or costs. After suffering 4 years of systematic social and political warfare from the president's office, only a handful of white men had still been loyal to Trump. These 'relapsed fools' were known from the start, had been watched all the time, and were now killed-off on the very night that the 'Noah's Ark' protocols were activated. The agents and spies genuinely loyal to the true American People and constitution scuttled their buildings and major equipments they couldn't take with them rather than let the Trumpists use them to hunt down deserters and heretics. After claiming those critical materials needed for survival, the Company's people triggered thermite and napalm charges to incinerate all traces of their past work and projects, consigning their very existences to oblivion. Only once they were certain nothing remained that could be exploited by the enemies of the nation did they take out go-bags, weapons, fake papers and ID's, then disappeared into the catastrophic landscape of the American Collapse, never to be heard from again in this life.

The NSA was a shambles of untold proportions, all homeland monitoring of citizens & tourists getting terminated on the spot with most of the equipments incinerated or at least sabotaged beyond any repairs, even by the teams of engineers who had conceived and built them. Just as had been planned with the CIA, all personnel scuttled their work-space then evacuated and initiated their own escape routes, with the ultimate goal being to leave the country altogether while using new ID's for their whole family.

And those were just the agencies the people in the plane had some direct personal link with, or knew people who worked in them so they had a reason to search for sit-rep to know if they had to worry. There was in reality about a hundred interconnected policing, customs, immigration control, intelligence and military security agencies reacting negatively all at once, covering nearly six million workers.

They did have to worry. The country was imploding at break-neck speeds.

Not about the classified or critical materials falling into the hands of surviving Trumpists, churches, foreign agents or whatever new government came after the failed regime, in the depths of the revolutionary period. Thermite charges in the server towers and flammable acid sprayed in the filing cabinets would insure continued secrecy by destroying anything with any tactical or commercial value. Since it was the CIA that taught that trick to its sister agencies, you can understand that pretty much all organizations or critical individuals participating actively in the 'Noah's Ark' protocols had built such scorched-earth contingencies into all their secure facilities that held material evidence, personnel files and surveillance reports. The same protections were placed in the operational hangars and armories, just in case they lost control over them during the unrest to such an extent they couldn't move the gear out of enemy reach.

The USA was burning from the bone marrow outwards, and there were no firemen available to stop the cataclysmic self-inflicted disaster. At this point, it would be a miracle if local policing capacities survived to reach nightfall. When it was proven that a large percentage of police officers and detectives had in fact abandoned post to insure the protection and survival of their families, what little chance society had to keep standing evaporated like morning mist, and the criminals, depraved and monstrous took over the streets from then on. Since America was the country of the planet with the biggest carceral population, topping 3 million people every year behind bars, when the police and guards fled their posts to secure their families and homes, it left the prisoners completely free to work on getting out. Rapidly, contraband cellphones were pulled out of nooks and crannies to call outside, explaining that the jail was abandoned by the guards so the 'crew' could come in with a locksmith or cutting torches to rip the bars and free the inmates.

This led to two distinct events in the same very short period of time, all inside 48 hour.

Firstly; a massive outpouring of convicts, suspects and passive accomplices straight into the streets when badly secured low-level facilities were abandoned (or unlocked) by their staffers. This was usually transport vans, the cell blocks inside the courthouses, the small village jails built into the police stations and the hundreds of privately run 'juvenile delinquent' reformatories that saw the outnumbered guards and admins being swarmed and killed off quickly.

Secondly; massive, violent, and definitive turf wars erupted between rival gangs and mafias since the first group to come inside the prison would start by gunning down all opposition or members of rival groups they could find before taking their sweet time in either finding the damn keys or breaking the cell doors to release their comrades in crime. Since the guards had fled their posts in panic, that meant the armories and equipment lockers were usually full and the criminals took full advantage of these by stealing the stuff to commit one of the biggest and longest spree of unfettered chaos in the history of the country.

In any ways, the situation would lead, over the Sunday and Monday, to the liberation of upwards of 1 million criminals who were healthy enough to get out, and death of just a bit under 2 million in the savage exactions and stampede to freedom. This critical purge in the underworld's fighting force is probably what gave the few remaining civilian population a chance at survival above the flat 0% that it actually was.

Even worse though were the mentally ill and deeply insane that took to the streets in droves, breaking out of the hundreds of sanatoriums and prisons that were abandoned by fleeing guards and doctors who decided instinctively to concentrate on familial survival just like the cops did. Within those 24 hours, more than 50,000 dangerously disturbed and fundamentally psychotic individuals confined in state-run asylums were accidentally, and catastrophically, weaned off the medications keeping them docile and harmless. This broke their fetters, allowing them to eventually claw their way out of the concrete cells that had contained them for decades, finally becoming free to roam the streets to prey upon the unsuspecting few menial survivors, all isolated and weak.

The worse part was that it didn't stop there; according to statistics compiled by NAMI (National Alliance on Mental illness) and NIMH (National Institute of Mental Health) There were close to 10 million Americans moving freely around the streets while suffering from a slew of critical mental illnesses that rendered them prone to sporadic fugue states or episodes of delusion-driven violence that often led to injuries and fatalities. This was added to the deplorable fact the two organizations had compiled DOJ (US Department of Justice) numbers that clearly stated 24% of people of all ages put in prison at any time in the last 50 years had in fact suffered from grave, recurring but never treated, mental illnesses that were the cause of the abhorrent behavior that led to confinement. That meant that on the moment the country collapsed, some 11,5 million people with mental conditions needing drugs, supervision and physical restraints were loose in Nature, unwatched and unbound, acting solely on the whims fleeting through their damaged minds.

This was the true killing blow to the imploding country:

The rampant epidemic of psychological ailments that had gone undetected, untreated, and willingly never spoken about in governmental circles, had finally exploded out of control. After centuries of desperate people self-medicating their phantasms, demons, delusions and depressive states with alcohol, drugs, prostitution and aberrant deviancy, it all finally went off the rails and crashed without any chance to repair the damage.

Whether public asylums, private sanitariums, luxury private rehabilitation clinics or religious 'New Age therapy' camps out in the wilder lands away from towns, none of the thousands of mental health institutions in America survived passed dinner time on Sunday evening. By Monday morning, most would be empty or housing the last few patients who were so deeply disconnected from reality that they had no autonomy and could not move out on their own so they would soon die of starvation, still inside the walls of their cells. In many ways, some historians would later say these early fatalities abandoned inside the asylums were the lucky ones of the era since their pain would end faster, and less cruelly, than the survivors outside the walls.

{ SQ } - { Lose all hopes, ye who tread here } - { SQ }

It took a good half-hour passed the Low Mass before anybody in the DSX airplane was stable enough emotionally or physically to speak up without risking the chance of retching on the spot.

"Okay... So, THAT happened... For REAL... What do we do now?" Wilt Bozer asked in soft, disbelieving tones as he watched the splotchy unstable images of the CNN newsfeed that had now been reactivated following the cessation of computerized central censorship upon the collapse of the White Christian Regency and its associated church groups. Without his billions of dollars in hand, Trump couldn't pay the churchmen, his cronies or the country's soldiers anymore. And without armed soldiers he couldn't intimidate or command anybody anymore, not even his sympathizers and willing accomplices since they no longer had any profit in following the fool. And that meant that little proofs of tyranny and church power like controlling the airwaves and Internex contents, stuff done by cronies and low-level minions, was no longer getting done as they weren't getting paid anymore. Now, The Truth would be heard spoken aloud again on American airwaves, no matter what happened or which damned ecclesiaste bitched about it going against God's will. For a few hours more at least. Passed dinner, nobody would remain in the broadcasting centers to say or comment on anything anymore, as they would be running for their survival too, with many media stations getting ransacked then set ablaze by reactionnary depressed Trumpists, antifa protesters and criminals of all sorts.

"We try to call home, get our marching orders confirmed. What else can we do for now?" answered Jack Dalton vaguely, not looking at anyone specific as he tried to digest the spectacle of inhumanity he had witnessed over the last 3 hours. Needless to say, he was having pitiful results to date.

Riley piped up with a pale copy of her usual playful grin, quipping "Guess that means 'Get your butt online with the bosses, girl!' or some nice, polite request of the sorts. Such kind, considerate coworkers, I have in my job." she snarked weakly with an unsteady smirk as she stood to head for the plane's SCIFF, located passed the communal area, just before the cockpit.

"And don't cha forget it, girl! You could be out there working with Elwood instead! Think about that, why don't ya, while you're getting Matty on the horn." Jack replied back with more attention and a bratty smirk. Teasing his pseudo-daughter was always fun and a great morale booster.

"Hey, if Elwood's involved, can I switch mine out with yours? I don't go that well with James, and the job would get done a lot quicker if we were kept separate." Angus pleaded with pouted lips and sad puppy eyes aimed at Riley's incredulous face. Just how in bloody Hell was it that a 27 year old man could make a face like that and be credible about being put-upon? How?

Shaking her head in despair that wasn't all theatrics, the young woman marched into the plane's tactical comms array and shut the door behind herself to dodge further gentle requests – slash – pitiful supplications from grown men who should know better and act their ages. At some point. She hoped it would happen eventually. She was an incurable optimist that way.

Sitting in one of the four large plush swivel chairs, she dialed in quickly the numbers she knew by heart to connect with both the DXS directorate and the NCIS EAD – PAC. It only took two rings on each number to have the connections established and the operations managers at both ends calling in their bosses for the conference. Riley toggled the intercom, bellowing 'gently' for her crew to come in for the confab.

It took barely three minutes to have the entire complement of ten people assembled jam-packed in front of the monitors, with Shay Mosley for NCIS and Mathilda Webber for DSX on the remote lines. Both looked tired, haggard, and much worn out by the events of the night and morning, a lot like the field agents themselves. By the looks on the two women's faces, it would get a lot uglier before it got better.

"I won't say 'Good morning' to either of you because it isn't, not for anybody." Matty started up with cold sarcasm dripping from her words. "The country's swirling in the crapper on its way to the pipe, and the rest of the planet will probably follow after us real fast. Don't forget that the USA is the biggest producer/importer of material goods, services, sciences and technical development on the mudball, as well as the self-styled 'safety currency' for every sovereign country in function. When we fall, the planet will immediately go into global recession for three to five decades, complete with skyrocketing inflation, catastrophic unemployment, crippling poverty levels causing bad health epidemics, abandoned factories and an apocalyptic rise of criminality across all places touched by humanity."

The people aboard the plane were stunned by the lack of preamble and sheer gut-roiling anger coming out of Director Webber. Director Mosley didn't help any as she confirmed her colleague's words. "We have intercepted chatter from the cartels all over the South and Central American sub-continents. They are now making open moves to publicly formalize their working relationships with the generals and elected officials of their countries' national governments. There was in the air a smell of rot and putrefaction, like an overripe fruit that finally explodes due to the accumulated gases and fluids inside, revealing to the world that a nasty bout of 'regime change' was in the works in Mexico, in Honduras, in Brazil and maybe even Ecuador. What was before an occult, illegal relationship that could lead to prison, or death due to pressures from the US government, would now become the new normal for these countries. In a climate of abject unemployment and poverty, anything that gave jobs paying a small bit will be getting credibility and status with the local authorities such as it would never have received before."

Making a face of disgust, Mosley continued in the same vein of thought. "On top of things, we have received initial signals from the African continent and Asia Minor that the large criminal groups of these areas are quickly moving against the local governments to offer money and services so they can be positioned as king-makers in case either Europe, China or Russia want to restart the Drug Wars that the USA wasted so many billions of dollars with over the last 6 decades. As it stands, the companies or groups that produce food, tobacco, alcohol, drugs, medications and firearms will be the new power brokers on much of the planetary surface for the coming century. In certain areas, lets be honest, it will simply be business as usual but with less risk of local police, US or UEO interventions. It could take that long a period to repair the system-wide injuries and dysfunctions caused by the collapse of the USA, and bring Earth back to a level of habitability and civility close to what we have lost today."

"And while all that doomy & gloomy stuff is majorly important in a 'our reality is at stake' kinda way, euh, how does it bring us to the million dollar question?" Angus chimed in. "What about our mission up to Vancouver? Is that still even worth the effort? Is it relevant to the survival of our families, cities or country anymore?" the young blond haired male asked, completely stressed out.

Matty shook her head sadly as she answered "No Mac, it's not directly relevant or useful anymore, not for the USA at least. It is however vital for the stability of the planet that the young man be brought over to the UEO's capital city at New Cape Quest, before a drug cartel or rogue nation gets their mitts on him. Another threat is the plethora of churches, sects and cults that would want to either control his tech or execute him publicly to motivate fervor against jews, kids, doctors, technology, heresy, and any other damned thing the priest has got a beef with that day, the way Trump's people wanted. But let's not forget: it's the UEO that owns and operates the atmospheric recycling towers, the Internex backbone, the World Bank, and the all-important orbital anti-ICBM pulse-laser satellites above our heads. All of which are operated with a staggering 99% automation and regulated remotely from heavily militarized management bunkers under NCQ. If we want the planet's lungs, livers, veins and nerves to keep on functioning, we need this kid back in Florida at the 'hub of all things' so he can sit in the middle of the cybernetic web to keep out hackers, vandals and foreign spies. And that is still a relevant, immediate concern for us all."

Shay Mosley passed a weary hand through her long lavish black hair, discretely trying to untangle some loose knots at the back of her head as she spoke to the combined team. "It won't be easy for you. As far as the World knows or cares, the nation of America no longer lives and no government agency has survived the fall. Your badges may be respected by the soldiers and agencies in Canada as a courtesy to servants of a dead ally, but not for long. My planners guess that by the end of the current year 2020, in barely 2 weeks, all American passports, badges and travel documents will become utterly worthless, even on the black market. The reason for the delay is a combination of bureaucratic laziness with good old fashion utilitarianism; all the countries have the habit of changing laws, taxes and a plethora of stuff on the change of the civil year, so out of habit they're all gonna kill off the USA's system presence on the last day of 2020. Not that some of the worse rogue nations haven't issued such decision already. Several small countries in Africa and South America have suffered under the drug wars and the US's prolonged fights against communism/leftist governments that made millions of victims, mostly through collateral damages and impoverishment of areas by economic sanctions. A lot of groups are wanting payback right now, and they can finally get it now that the US army no longer operates as a centrally managed institution of law & order, under one flag and oath for all."

Director Webber jumped in with the nasty truth: "This means that your DXS or NCIS papers & badges will be good in Canada to go in and talk to officials, but not necessarily to get out, let alone with a sick kid genius in tow. The very best you could get at this point is a – monitored – audience with the teenager, and maybe get to accompany him on an Air Canada flight to Florida at NCQ. And that's IF the UEO makes a formal request for his presence through official channels, and IF the young man accepts the orders to move out of protected lands. Let's not kid ourselves people; with the USA dead to the world, Canada is now the big fish on the entirety of all three american subcontinental zones. If the liberal progressive government currently in power in Ottawa doesn't want to participate in the extradition for internal reasons, or shrugs it off and lets the kid decide in the name of respecting personal freedom, then the entire thing's flushed down the pipe. And, let us not forget that as of now, the North American Confederation exists only on paper, not in reality anymore. What happens next with the NAC seat on the UEO executive council is completely unknown, as is the continued survival of the NAC itself. There are wildly speculative rumors that both Canada and Mexico could deploy their armies across both borders to do a spontaneous land-grab to get some valuable resource-rich territories on the cheap. That's unconfirmed, even by the people we have embedded inside both nations by the way, but still... Tongues are wagging already. And that's another thing to consider: it may not be in the immediate national interest of Canada to let the boy go anywhere, and they may already have several tasks lined up for him, in exchange of safety, respect and privileges he could never get in the USA, even with his two large companies working full time at the high levels of society that they were."

Jack Dalton asked to the assembled people "What could Canada do to stop somebody like, let's say China, the third biggest nuclear power on Earth, from waltzing in with its Republican Red Army and grabbing the kid to exploit his tech? Even if you ignore the computer stuff, isn't he some sorts of medical genius too? I bet that's gonna be valuable in this day and age, no matter what nasty stuff happens cuz the USA tanked out. I mean, making medicines and drugs will always be valuable, right?"

Surprising the group, it was agent Lund who answered the Delta Forces soldier's question with an even more unexpected reason. "Bio-weapons. Lots and lots and lots more of bio-weapons. Technically speaking, Canada doesn't have anything harmful stocked and ready to deploy via missiles or artillery shells. And it's the forerunner in applying the planetary conventions against creating and stockpiling biologically destructive organisms. It's been that way since the inception of both NORAD and the UN, then continued through the North American Confederation and UEO Treaty membership. However! Canada is also rated amongst the top 1% most capable countries on the list of nations with active biomedical R&D facilities that work with antibiotics for diseases, antidotes for poisons and commit systematic studies of epidemiological patterns and contamination vectors as part of the World Health Organization's early detection & prevention mandate."

Taking a deep breath, Sebastian continued his lengthy explanation: "Basically, Canada has, in secured laboratories owned and operated by private research firms under contract with their Ministry of Health, several exemplars of the rarest, most dangerous, LIVING diseases, parasites, fungi and molds that can be found on Earth to date. Several of which have no known cure yet. And all are kept in industrial facilities that can easily mass-produce these toxins then activate/weaponize them. The means of dispersal that bio-weapons experts think the Canadians would use are as simple as contaminating the cans of Campbell soup (produced in Toronto) to sicken millions in any country they choose, likewise with Quebec maple syrup which is a luxury delicacy renowned across the world. Or they could taint several different batches of generic medicinal drugs usually sold without prescriptions from one of the thousands of manufacturers located inside their land that ship to the rest of the world, including China, Russia and into the known rogue states through back-channels, contraband or officially sanctioned humanitarian convoys. If they decide to be cheap-assed bastards, they could just recycle the several hundred pounds of contraband Fentanyl & derivatives they seize during customs inspections or police raids to mix the powder with other generic pain-killers like liqui-gel Advil, and ship it out blindly to the population whose army attacked them."

Detective Deeks winced, saying aloud grimly "Easy-peasy, innit? Canada's defensive strategy isn't based on huge boats, tanks and fighter jets that would kill its budget and bankrupt the population under crippling taxes like we had to endure in the USA. No, the lazy bums have gone the way used by plants for eons – the toxic gland. The blasted thing is harmless for them but ruptures and poisons you from inside when you bite into them, just like a venomous mushroom. The real kicker though, is even if you manage to survive the poison, you still got weakened enough from the illness that other big predators will swoop in to finish the kill for them, without any heavy lifting or huge money expenditure on their part. Cheap, dirty, and deadly efficient."

MacGyver griped gloomily during a brief silence: "Lazy is just an opinion, and only from the standpoint of traditional military might and direct strength the way Trump and his team liked to threaten, but not stupid. Bio-weapons and biomedical R&D are not for stupid people, not in the least. And definitively not useless as a defensive tactic, either. It's actually deadlier than nuclear weapons but less costly and has more applications in civilian life for creating cures to real diseases, thus it actually produces positive results to boot, unlike most of anything else that's usually under a military research grant or development project."

Lund pushed his glasses up his nose a bit, responding to Deeks "Well no, not fast at all. You can harm or destroy them, but unlike plants, the reaction isn't immediate or automatic. And it does take a lot of planning and effort to deploy, like any nationally managed weapons systems of that grade. BUT it is a lot smaller, more nimble and more versatile than any nuclear or conventional forces potential enemies would use, and completely hidden inside the regular biomedical research facilities of universities and private companies all across the country. There was a secret report made by somebody in the CIA in the early 2000's that said some people in the Canadian Armed Forces were interested in the principle of mixing toxins with gasoline or diesel the same way that south-american cartels did with cocaine to pass it at the US border in tanker trucks. Their idea was that since their country is a major exporter of petrol products, they could poison the fuel and then let the unsuspecting drivers be the vectors of their communities' demises without much of an effort on Canada's part. That's the sort of thing that anybody attacking that supposedly 'most peaceful of all peacemakers' has to worry about, if they want to make an act of war against the northern giant."

Kensi Blye swore softly "Ah, screw it all, people! This situation could get ugly so damned fast if these people got spooked by one of the seven remaining nuclear powers... Or some little dip-shit country with an overly ambitious military force they don't control all too well, like Iran or the Montagnard Confederation. Not to mention they could just open the valves on the materials stocked inside the hospitals, vent it out the regular AC ducts and voilà! Instant calamity all around the town that was being attacked by foreigners. I mean, how hard would it be for their engineers to set pipes from these hospitals or production centers to the nearest atmospheric recycling tower to let the winds or oceanic currents pollute the whole planet for them? Isn't there like 20 or 26 of the damned giant concrete fuglies on their land already? This is a country that helped the USA through two world wars, a dozen conflicts in Asia and another four or six in the arabic zones... They were buying most of their military equipments and training programs from us or England, France and Germany so it's all shared between NATO allies for close to 80 years now. Just how much trouble would their army techs or civil engineers have to build up the system that would wreck the mudball on the push of a button?"

The female NCIS agent's words were followed by a few seconds of thoughtful silence as they contemplated the depth of the pit they were already sinking it, regardless of their wishes.

Director Mosley cleared her throat noisily, then finished her thoughts; "And that's why the mission is no longer relevant per se but must still go on – somehow. Yes, it would be useful that you go up north and make contact with the young scientist. Just on the strength of his medical expertise in pharmaceutics, neurology and implantology we could easily find several uses for him as we make efforts to rebuild our society from its ashes. But, once you leave the Los Angeles metropolitan zone, let alone the USA's defunct borders, we can't help you anymore in any way, shape or form. And there won't be any backup coming in. You would travel alone, and have to decide if you come back or make a new life where you end up, since no credible repatriation plans could ever be made from our end. As such, I have decided to leave the decision entirely up to you. Be aware, however, that we have ample space in our new sheltered enclave near the container port to house you, feed you, and we could definitely use all of your expertises."

Matty smiled sadly at them, finishing with "This is a lot to take in, especially with the slew of depravities and chaos that just occurred in DC on planetary television. Take some time to talk about it between you then call us back with your decision when you're comfortable with it. We will support you whichever way it goes. And remember that DXS has its own bunkered enclave as well; those who would prefer to be with us will be welcomed. All of you are good people, and I won't turn you away even if you just come for a friendly visit between allied groups."

The lines closed after the exchange of basic – timid – polite wishes, leaving the room silent with only the background humming of electrical wires and the soft bluish lights from the backlit keyboards. After a minute of paralysis, the persons began to slowly file out, back into the communal area so they could discuss their options.

{ SQ } - { Do not rouse sleeping teenagers for they are prompt to anger } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 13:11pm

Western America; 10:11am

After the mixed crew was seated again in the communal area, the copilot went to the kitchen to start up a new batch of coffee to replace the cold wasted stuff that was being flushed out and put some garlic bread to toast in the large hybrid electric/gas oven, otherwise they were all going to have malnourishment migraines on top of the stress, anxiety and disgust experienced this morning. It was just some plain sliced white bread with some ordinary garlic margarine spread on it to bake in the heat for a few minutes, but it would fill the void without fuss, just like when he was a kid himself. And the plain old Maxwell House coarse grind for the 36 cup conference-sized percolator wasn't as fancy as the fan-dangled little Keurig pods could do but it would suffice too. In times of hardship and raw feelings, people needed the reassurance and stability given by the homely plain old recipes.

Watching their older colleague putter around the kitchen, Jack decided to help the man with his good idea whilst the others were seated in diverse positions around the room. Most had a vacant look in their eyes and were all clearly psychologically traumatized by the morning's events, some more than others, as they silently contemplated (or tried to forget) the morass of crime, depravity and destruction they had witnessed, followed by an equally cataclysmic video conference with people that weren't really in charge of anything anymore. God knew Jack was traumatized too, just older, more seasoned and more experienced at stowing the hurt into a dark nook at the back of his soul until he could lock himself in his bedroom to let it out in a safe, silent place that nobody would bother him while he broke down. If he didn't already have PTSD from some 15 years in Delta Forces followed by a solid decade of undercover work for the CIA with Afghanistan as Mac's EOD guard for a few years, this today would certainly have given it to him. Given how banged up the others were from their lives and careers with a badge, he really wasn't surprised they were all stunned out cold.

Agent Gregorio was sitting close to agent Lund, looking vacantly at the insides of the hangar by the plane's viewport beside her as she rubbed Sebastian's shoulders while the man tried to regulate his arrhythmic breathing. Agent Blye and detective Deeks were sitting together at a dining table, holding hands as she reclined back into her chair's backrest with her face towards the ceiling while he looked into empty space straight ahead with dead glazed eyes that saw unspeakable things. Riley was sitting sandwiched between Wilt and Angus on the couch that faced the kitchen. She looked frighteningly unsettled and queasy as Mac rubbed at his eyes with the heels of both hands, his first sign of an impending grave migraine, while Bozer had his arms wrapped around his chest in self-hug, leaning forward with his eyes closed as he tried to shut out the world of horrors around him. The main pilot was rifling around the small cabinet that held the alcoholic liquors, pulling out the cheapest, hardest US Heartland whiskey he had so he could 'medicate' the new coffee pot when it was ready; they would all need the liquid courage to go any further today.

"Seb? Will you be okay?" Tammy asked as she looked towards her partner, worried about his condition. Sebastian hadn't had a panic attack in several months now; the multiple hard take-downs of criminals and combat injuries he had lived through since becoming qualified for field work by FLETC had solidified him quite a lot. But, unfortunately, there was a limit to how much anybody could change their innate nature, and Sebastian Lund was clearly reaching that limit again.

"Whaaa? No! I'm fine! Honestly, just a little outta breath, d'as all..." the male agent replied suddenly returned from his spastic episode and more aware. "Running around this plane is just murder on the cardio system you know, with how long it is and we have to always be fast and..." He looked around the room at the amused – and incredulous – faces of his colleagues then threw up his hands. "And you don't believe a word I just said. Okay, then! I give up! I was having a bloody panic attack, so sue me!" he grumped as he wrapped his arms around himself in a protective self-hug much like Bozer had done. "After all the bloody crapulence we saw and the damned vid-meet afterwards, you'd think a guy had a right to lose his marbles in peace, but noooo it just too much to ask for with these persnickety people!"

Tammy Gregorio burst out in a fit of chuckling as she leaned into her friend's side, wrapping her arms around his prone form, pressing her forehead to his left temple in a gesture of friendship and support, even as she continued to laugh at his expense. Angus managed a small tight smile that turned into a wince as he closed his green eyes, trying to fight the pounding inside his head, at the top of his skull. Wilt snorted loudly, giving Sebastian an amused look as he quipped "If you were really panicking, you wouldn't have time to worry about other people's opinions." This comment made poor Riley lose her composure to burst out laughing whilst Marty and Kensi glared at the lot silently, still not recovered from everything they saw and learned yet.

Shaking his head tiredly as he put the whiskey on the low table in the middle of the conversation square, agent Sampson asked "Isn't anybody worried about what the young guy at the other end of all this is gonna think and do? I mean, we're about to decide whether we're going over to Vancouver on what could quickly become a one-way trip to nowhere, especially since I betcha US currency won't be worth bloody Trump's fluffy blond mullet by lunch. Shouldn't we call the kid now to get his decision on all this, instead of just showing up on the canuck's doorstep like a shit fly at a pick-nick?"

Deeks passed both hands up and down his face in a gesture of weary exhaustion, blowing out air through the mouth in a loud exhale of frustration. Giving his fiancée a look to see she was still leaned back all the way, eyes now closed with a congested expression on her face, the young man girded his courage to answer the pilot's valid question. "Yeah. I'm thinkin' real hard 'bout it. I don't know anymore if we have any reason to go up there to meet the wunderkind. Sure, having him work for us back at the NCIS enclave would be beneficial, and taking him to the UEO would help the whole world, but there is an absolute zero quantity of reasonable arguments that support the guy moving. If anything, given he was targeted personally by Trump and his crusaders, he could be said to have an immediate and credible fear for his life if he leaves Canada, and the canadian immigration authorities will certainly see it that way. Even at the risk of pissing off what's left of the US military complex, which isn't much or centrally managed anymore by now, I can't come up with a scenario where the beavers let the kid go to his death back in LA or San Francisco. Anywhere near Washington DC would be unthinkable under any conditions for years to come, no matter what bright ideas you got. And New Cape Quest isn't all that big or defended compared to Florida as a whole. No walls or fences to separate it from the rest of the state so it's easy in & out for any mercs or fanatics that would want to make the effort to reach him there. Unless they bury the kid in a bunker with Section 7 sitting on his skinny ass with a leash around his neck, they won't be able to protect him, let alone convince him to move from Vancouver."

Tammy Gregorio added blithely "Not to mention that we were going there to take his statements as affidavits for the courts to start investigations and charges against a slew of elected officials, bureaucrats and high navy brass. With the whole country swirling in the can, there aren't any federal policing forces anymore, let alone any functioning tribunals to hold trials. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure the Papal Lord and his conclave of senile bastards probably modified or erased all the laws that we were basing our authority and investigation methods on. Legally, it's a credible argument that we no longer have any jurisdiction, authority, or mandate anymore since the government's down and dark."

"I concur with my indubitably esteemed colleague," Marty replied in a pensive yet still snarky tone as he gazed absently at his hands as they lay on the table before him. "By international law, our homeland is defunct and therefore so are any pretensions of authority, mandate or policing powers that we may have had in the past. Our badges are now just souvenirs of a by-gone era whose cadaver hasn't finished cooling yet, but it's a dead cause nonetheless. Sampson's right. We shouldn't assume that Wolenczak will cooperate with anything but his own self-interest, especially if his life is at stake. He's already badly injured with possible infections in progress in the surgery sites on his legs; that would make anybody rational think long and hard about what gets done next."

Jack Dalton walked out of the kitchen with a large bowl of cold coleslaw and quartered dill pickles that he had taken from retail plastic containers inside the large fridge. The chilled vinegary taste of the slaw an pickles aught to help settle everybody's stomachs a bit, especially with some garlic toast and a few bits of cold cheddar cheese on the side. It was more an emergency snack than a real meal, but then again none of them were really hungry or stable enough to swallow a heavy preparation. Jack thought to himself that as long as they ate a small bite to not have only coffee sloshing around their gut for the trip, they could last until arrival in Canada without getting nauseous. He hoped. Mac looked passed nauseous and well into fully sick already. Setting his burden on the nearest dining table, he went to crouch before his prone friend then laid a hand carefully atop his head. Damn, but the kid was burning hot!

"Mac, you're out'ta it man. Your oversized noggin's flaming hot, and I don't see it getting any better in the next few hours without help. Take some pain relievers, eat just a bit of toast and orange juice then go lie down in your bunk with an ice-pack on top of your head. There's no ways you can function like this. We'll call the kid and get his decision before we move anything, so don't worry. We ain't gonna fly off half-cocked and blind, not if there's no nuttin' waiting for us at the other end."

Wilt got up from his place to reach across Riley so he could help his tall lanky friend get to his feet without face-planting into the low coffee table in front of them. Steadying the swaying man as he rose, the two made slow progress to the dining table where Mac was sat and served a small glass of juice while Jack jogged to the bunkie to fetch the blond's personal traveling medicine kit.

Riley pursed her lips worriedly as she witnessed her friend having yet another grave episode of spontaneous brain pains that were bad enough to practically lay him down cold. Nodding firmly to herself, she fished out her smartphone to find the number for the young doctor Wolenczak and dial him up, then she plugged the phone to the cable that would transfer the conversation to the conference screen mounted on the wall so everybody could participate.

The sounds coming out of the speakers around the large monitor happened to be a song or theme of some sorts but no-one in the plane could remember what it was yet. The music played for about ten seconds before it was rudely replaced by loud crashing noises and much swearing in seven different languages that weren't English. The conference monitor's automated translation program activated and the long streak of obscenities was promptly translated to plain old US English, including the scrolling text banner at the bottom of the screen that showed the written version of what was being spoken on both sides of the vid-meet.

Somebody had obviously woken up on the wrong side of the bed, and wasn't shy about saying it out loud for the world to know.

"Oy vey, das uneheliches kind der scheißkerl!" resounded crassly through the sound system while the screen staid completely black as the person on the other end had only authorized audio-out for now.

The US teams exchanged amused glances as several understood many of the phrases without the help of the translation software but they still winced a few times at it seemed they had gotten the poor sickly teenager at a bad moment.

Some more noises of flesh hitting solid wood rather sharply were heard, accompanied by a pained howl of "Ostie de chienne baste mal enculée! C'est pas c'que je veux, Tabarnak!" and an air searing "пульт? где же трахающий пульт?" that was promptly chased by "Watashiniha, jigoku no tōi tōzakete kudasai!"

Finally, after the noise of a drawer slamming shut on wooden furniture, the screen changed image for the darkened interior of a bedroom that was lit poorly only by the wood stove's cheery glow and a pitiful filet of weak sunlight coming by the space between curtains that weren't completely closed off.

Lucas Wolenczak was seated weirdly, quite uncomfortably prone on the plushly carpeted floor besides the bed, on the side next to the room's inner door, trying somehow to climb back into the extra-large bed by using the blankets as impromptu ropes to climb along until he reached the flat surface on top. He absolutely needed to stretch out his aching legs as he answered the damnable phone call that woke him after a miserably short five and a half hours of medicated, exhausted sleep or else he'd have cramps all day like happened yesterday.

He was NOT a happy teenaged boy, no he was not.

"Who is it, in the damned name of Lucifer Morningstar and his cohorts of red-skinned, pitchfork wankering, goat fucking spawns of a sewer pipe is it that DARED to wake me before I had 12 hours of shut-eye?" Lucas growled angrily as his arms strained under the effort to get back into the warm comfortable bed he had fallen from. "I want bloody names! I want to know who had the dangling hairy round balls to wake me when they could have sent a fucking email like everybody else! It's not like the bloody planet is ending or the continent's burning to ash!" he continued griping vilely even once he was finally seated on his mound of thick warm blankets again.

Blinking owlishly at the Internex monitor which was the only source of strong light in the bedroom, the adolescent cussed out "Oy vey is mir! Can't you people do anything without somebody holding your hands? You know, like adults? Like people your much vaunted ages are supposed to do?" he snarked at the law enforcement agents good and hard. Making a great many noises of displeasure and disapproval, the mussy-haired blond teen moved around the blankets so they covered his legs up to his abdomen and crossed his arms over his torso, adopting a mulish expression on his face that bode ill for the coming conversation.

Riley just couldn't hold it in anymore. She exploded in belly-deep hearty laughter at the poor kid on the screen. "Ah ah ah! You have the same face Mac makes when he wakes up after sleeping seated at his desk, with his face on his keyboard like a pillow! - Snort! - And he has the same style of boxers too! I guess blue plaid is really an eternal fashion for men, no matter age or social status." the young woman teased both the boy and her friend with a big smirk. Said smirk was now being shared by Jack and Wilt as the black male patted his childhood friend on the back gently in fake-sympathy to avoid making him motion-sick.

"I will be revenged!" Lucas Wolenczak promised in low ominous tones as he squinted blearily at the monitor, seeming to be trying to match voices and faces with the personnel files he had memorized last night, when he had analyzed the team coming to meet him. "There will be blood! And pain! Let us not ever forget about the pain... Where would the world be without pain...?" he menaced in a breathy voice more suited to an elderly asthmatic granddad than a threatening teenaged boy.

"I could do without the pain part" Sebastian Lund said, with his hand raised at shoulder level as if he were in a classroom, speaking to a stern teacher. Tammy put her forearm in front of her face to stifle her laughter as the boy on the screen was suddenly paying a lot more attention to their lonely pair on the couch than anybody else.

The kid's biting reply was interrupted before he could even articulate it by the fact he yawned wide enough to pass the DXS's plane through with considerable clearance at the wingtips. Blinking again at the intruding light from the screen, the young male scratched at an itch on his right thigh through the layers of blankets as he tried to focus on the people and conversation.

It wasn't happening any time soon, in case you were wondering.

Getting fed up with the stress, uncertainty, and the fact both their mothers were waiting for them at home in a non-gated neighborhood, without any experienced support in the building, Marty Deeks stood up abruptly from his chair to stand at the narrow end of the coffee table, some 10 feet right in front of the monitor so the built-in cameras automatically focused on him.

"Excuse us for bothering your peaceful sleep with bad news about how the whole fucking world is coming apart at the seams, doctor Wolenczak, but, well, the whole shitball is burning. So there. I said it." Deeks exclaimed nastily at the whole room and auditor on the screen. "The motherfucking round turd-cake we call home is going up in smoke like a charcoal briquette, and we need to know what your opinion of the situation is. Mostly to figure out if we lose what precious little time we have left to save our families by going up north to meet with you. Cuz, you know, we don't really have any real reason to do that anymore."

Passing a weary hand over his strained face, the pale skinned adolescent closed his eyes for a few seconds as he gave another try at whelming his tremendous mental faculties into working order. He was almost there, but just not completely. Well then, partial capacity would have to do for now.

"My apologies for blasting you all right from the moment the screen lit up. I should have waited to hear your explanation before I got my 'brown tongue' out of the suitcase." he spoke slowly and softly as he seemed to think through and line up a conversation thread that would be more polite and match the level of maturity that he sought to project in his business relations. "I do hope that I haven't offended anyone. However, given you all work in law enforcement, undercover spying and black ops, I really hope it takes more than a few harsh words yelled out by a kid to cause you any genuine discomfort. You're all supposed to be made of stronger stuff than civilians, afterall."

Riley came back at him gamely "Oh, were made of strong stuff, alright! But we're kinda crunched for time, given the situation. Are you in any ways aware of what happened in Washington DC this morning and what the consequences for American society and Earth will be?"

Pressing the heels of both hands to his closed eyes in a gesture eerily reminding them all of MacGyver's own flagging health, the teenager shrugged inelegantly in a slouching way. "I'm guessing the blond-moppet-in-chief gave a racist speech full of religious shit, had some people arrested and tortured for fun in front of an audience, then he handed out new rights for white men and restrictions for everybody else. He probably pardoned a few dozen more of his financial backers that were still in jail going up to last evening. That made the justice system and all policing collapse, the kids and their mothers would have seen that they were now reduced to common 'public playthings' for the whims of whomever wanted something from them, and that they couldn't say 'no' anymore. This was exacerbated by the white men turning against Trump and his Bishops as their financial situations were being weaponized by Trump under the guise of 'prosperity gospel' at which point it was made clear to all and sundry that to reach Heaven, or be allowed any freedoms inside the White Christian America of Trump, you had to pay coin-in-hand or be enslaved as well. Then the churches, priests and cult-whores figured out they were completely poor because their bank accounts were mass-hacked so the dumbass assembly of defective monsters collapsed around their would-be messiah." The tired, sickly teenager yawned widely again as he put a hand under his T-shirt to scratch at his torso. "How close am I to what happened?"

The adults inside the DXS airplane were looking at the kid on the screen wide eyed. He had been asleep during the whole damned thing but knew about it all as if he had been there! WTF?

Waving his left hand in a vaguely dismissive gesture, Lucas grumped out "It's just basic statistics and psycho-societal profiling, with some few insider tidbits from what I heard from the World Bank while reassuring them that I was still willing to work for them no matter where I ended up. Any company that does serious marketing studies to sell products in the USA could have told you the same thing. Trump's voting base and the white supremacy swill he's been preaching for the last four years is actually the same thing that was being preached almost 400 years ago when the first white european settlers arrived in America. It's the same gut-rotting offal that was used to justify 400 years of slavery against all non-whites and fueled the christians to indoctrinate, abuse, torment and murder millions of children in the name of their damned god that doesn't exist for 2,000 years. Open a history book covering US history from the founding era onwards, or even just basic world history, and you'll see just how easy it was to predict everything that happened. Having watched the televised newscasts in the last two months would have given you the same raw data & result just as fast, too."

Jack Dalton moved to stand besides Marty Deeks in front of the monitor to ask "Fine, fine! That's all well and good, but doesn't answer the main question. Are you coming back down south or are we going up north?" Gesturing at the team around him, Jack told him how things were on their end: "This is it for us. We all have families needing us to stay alive in this mess, but, technically, we still have a mission to do. The problem is, we don't know what you'll be doing in it all. Do you stay up in Canada or do you go down south, like Florida. We heard that the UEO wants you in New Cape Quest pronto, and the beavers would like to keep you on their ice patch, but nobody's told us what YOU are planning in all this swirling mess."

Stormy luminescent flint-blue eyes focused on the Delta Forces specialist with a force of anger behind them that shook the older man. At that moment, Jack realized that this kid was hiding inside of himself a whole lot more hurt, anger and PTSD than he let out to be seen, and that was matched by the brains and information he carried locked in his noggin. The kid was a bona fide junior MacGyver that looked the same to the point they could be related like close cousins. And that worried Jack; he had an inkling what it was his friend had hidden away in his brain, and what he could do with it. Imagining a similar mental capacity inside the injured, sickly, tormented little guy that had nobody in the whole world to lean on for help gave him goosebumps all over.

If the kid wanted vengeance, and had no emotional attachments to hold him back...

What is it that could stop him?

Who was it that could help him back from the brink?

Sure; Jack or another Delta could find the kid and put a bullet in his head easy enough. But, like MacGyver, the blond munchkin would have contingencies and time-delayed events in play long before the sniper's shot reached him. They could kill him, neutralize him physically easy enough since he had no fighting training whatsoever, but they'd never control his brain or his willpower. Living in close proximity to Angus over the last 5 years since their EOD patrol days in Afghanistan had taught Jack a few things about recognizing the symptoms of a super-genius plotting mayhem, and he was getting that vibe right now as he made an effort to look at the kid on screen while seeming as harmless and non-angry as possible for a man his size and age.

He really hoped it worked or they were screwed worse than when they woke up this morning.

After almost two full minutes of utter silence on both sides of the comms, Lucas made an impatient grunting noise as he roughly ran a hand through his mop of blond hair to shake and settle it in place a mite better until he took his shower. Inhaling a deep steadying breath, the boy glared at the assembled adults on screen without any mercy or 'give' whatsoever visible on his expression.

"I have been beaten and damaged all my childhood by nearly everybody that I met. I was almost enslaved by my father onboard an active service NUCLEAR warship and sent to international waters so that they could beat me, rape me, and murder me without answering to police agencies for it. I will carry scars and diseases, physically and mentally, from these events for the rest of my life. I can freely admit that I suffer from chronic depression, PTSD and recurring bouts of manic insomnia. My name and reputation will suffer, almost as much as my body and mind will, in the decades to come. And now, you want me to sacrifice what's left of my health, sanity and survival to help keep afloat the monstrous depravity of a country that did this to me? Have I missed out on anything?" he queried in a cold dead tone that forebode nothing good.

"You're absolutely right. And nothing will change that." Sebastian Lund spoke softly from his seat on the couch, near the Internex monitor. "We can't undo your misery. We can't erase your pain from the past. We could barely heal and cure your health if we still had functional hospitals to our name, because that damage is so big I'm not sure it could all be repaired. I know that from personal experience; because of my own phobias, and anxieties, and socially triggered manic episodes. I'm still a bit of a germaphobe, but I managed, finally, to beat back my hypochondria. Because I had help from friends, who were close enough to me to act as the family I needed to support me. Now, with society the way it is, I don't think we could find a functional hospital or medical team to work on your body, let alone your mental situation, anyways. I should know; I'm in the same boat."

The NCIS – NOLA agent adjusted his glasses before continuing, studiously ignoring the looks of sympathy and interrogation from the crew around him in the room. "What we can offer you though, is this: eight of the most elite, highly trained operatives in law enforcement, forensics, hard sciences and military interventions that are still working on the 'good side' of things at this point. We can serve as your close-in body guards, technical consultants, medical support and, specifically, help with the remote high-mobility part of any activity you have to commit. If absolutely needed, we could also do seek-&-destroy missions to nullify threats that have been determined inbound before they reach your vital space."

Sebastian concluded his argument very politely, taking care to keep it real and relevant to the young man's situation as they knew it. At this point, anything but raw reality would blow up in their faces badly, and it would be even worse if he tried any sorts of 'Trumpian' bombastic hyperbole. Lucas Wolenczak had lived like no child ever should suffer, and achieved things few humans ever did in 7 or 8 decades of life, so talking to him truthfully was best to get him interested, even if he was laying out general terms only at this point. The relation would build-on from there.

"You would hardly be able to find anybody of our caliber, together or just individually, to compose a mission team like the one we have, even with your own vast resources. I'm certain that, through Wise Apothecary's internal security division, that you have several experienced people with 'potential' in hand already. But, frankly, I doubt the quality of both their formation and morality would match what we operate with, or the level of results we produce regularly as our base benchmarks." the New Orleans native concluded firmly.

{ SQ } - { Trades, alliances and loyalties } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 13:32pm

Western America; 10:32am

The teenager sighed in annoyance as his last hopes for going back to sleep had just evaporated around him like morning dew. While he was tired and grumpy to the point of swearing like a drunken sailor if pushed the least little bit, the opportunity in front of him was just too good to pass. However, the potential benefits hinged on what they wanted as individuals, and as sub-teams. Deeks and Blye would clearly have necessities far different from the others, just like the Dalton - Davis pseudo family or the MacGyver - Bozer sibling pair.

Fishing his brand new black & blue armament-cane from the chaotic mound of blankets, Lucas turned towards the side of the bed near the bedroom's door and set the metal cane with his right hand, using the left hand to lean on the nightstand to help set himself standing on his legs besides the bed. Managing to stand up without face-planting in the carpet again was a vital necessity to reach the small individual coffee brewer on the counter next to the wall inset closets on the left of the monitor. Grabbing the long terrycloth bathrobe he had left on the wooden chest at the foot of the bed, he put it on completely, wrapping and tying it to his thin meatless frame to keep what little warmth he still had since leaving the safety of the blanket pile. Thinking about warmth, he walked unsteadily to the wood stove, using his cane and furniture along the way to keep himself upright and mobile. He put a pair of new logs into the stove then went to the hybrid brewer to prepare himself an 'emergency' coffee so he could be awake and more civil to speak with these people.

The conversation wouldn't be easy, he could feel it.

Flipping open the top flap of the machine, the teenager verified the water level then chose which type of hot drink he wanted from the small metal wire rack. He set the plastic K-pod in the slot and closed the device, tapping the intensity at 'extra dark' and the size at 'medium' since he didn't have his stainless steel thermal mug at hand. The serving set's ordinary porcelain mug would do for the moment. He could always fill up 'His Extra Precious' before taking a bath to relax his legs. Within seconds the aroma of warm espresso filled the room, giving the adolescent the last boost he needed to reach wakefulness.

"Alexa! Open the curtains for the entire suite, please." he ordered as he put in a full spoon of brown sugar with two spoons of cream in his mug to balance out the taste and cut the acidity so his empty stomach wouldn't rebel against so much potent caffeine coming in. Thinking about his gut had the boy open the mini-fridge under the coffee brewer to rifle through the assorted condiments, a few bottles of medications he preferred to keep chilled for better shelf-life and... Snacks! Well, edibles that weren't junk food at any rate. Some small mini muffins like they served with breakfast during the brunch hours, a box of half-sized doughnuts with six different types inside, and the jackpot he was looking for. A box of deluxe camping ration bars composed of granola, flax seeds, chia seeds, dried fruit and shredded jerked bacon all mixed with honey then coated with pure dark chocolate for a real morning kick to the engine as well as good nutrition. And there was a bonus to them: it was the food division of his company Wise Apothecary & Chemists that had owned the recipe for a century and was back in production after a nasty decades-long hiatus that they were still recovering from.

Snorting in amusement a the irony of seeing his own products in the hotel's fridge, Lucas quickly made his choice. "Whelppp! Deluxe granola bars it is." he told himself as he took a pair to stuff in the pockets of his bathrobe. He set the cream back in the chill then carefully picked up his mug for the short trip back to the large cedar foot chest that served to store thick winter blankets or sit near the wood stove for a few minutes of contemplative warmth. Exactly the sort of emplacement and comfort that were needed for the coming conversation with the people on the screen. This would not be simple or short.

Once seated safely with his cane leaned against his right thigh, his espresso in the left hand, and a granola bar in the right hand, he gestured at Agent Lund to expound his proposal in more detail then took the first sip of the strong coffee. Gaaawd! That was good! A swift bite of granola followed, chewing slowly as he waited for his audience to get on with their offer.

Sebastian exchanged brief looks with everybody around while Lucas was occupied with his food acquisition mission before plunging into the fray once said teenager was back in the image. This kid owned a large company with several hundred employees (those they knew of) and half his fortune was in Europe with almost a quarter in Canada, so his losses following the US national crash wouldn't be anywhere near as fatal as they could have been. Further more, Sebastian strongly suspected the youth had moved a large portion of his known American moneys and holdings to Europe in the two days following his abrupt departure from San Francisco. It would have been stupid of him not to, and Lucas did not give him the vibe of an idiot, nor did he exhibit any chronic distemperment, despite the highly emotional situation. That level of ironclad self-control in any child was a sure sign of past abuse and torment; in a teen like this, with the money and resources he controlled...

The phrase 'evil mastermind' came to Sebastian unbidden as the boy's eerily luminous blue eyes focused on him through the Internex videophone connection.

Swallowing back his apprehension that he was dealing with a lesser devil, Lund moved on. "I will not try to deride or lessen your life experiences. You have suffered tremendously, but you're still alive to speak about it, so that means everything anybody needs to know. You have inherited a vast estate, but you were already building your own when that happened because laziness and idleness are not in your nature. Your multi-specialization between highly mechanical and highly medical is truly rare in the field, few people having ever managed it so thoroughly. I tried to find others of your age group as competent or eclectic, and none came up in my searches. Basically, you have the stronger negotiation position in this discussion. There may even be other strengths that you have beyond our knowledge, I'm certain it will be revealed in time if you need to assert a point with us. However, not everything is all rosy-dovey in your situation."

Lucas washed down the last bite of his first granola bar with some coffee as he stuffed the waste wrapper in the pocket of his bathrobe. Gesturing idly with his now free right hand, he signified to agent Lund to continue. He hadn't heard anything much to date, but at the very least the agent didn't seem to take him for a weakling or an isolated recluse that never lived. What exactly were they after? Or was it just Lund himself that wanted something? The facial micro-expressions in the adults on screen were both placid from tiredness and marred by stress. There was still too much 'situational interference' from the country's ongoing collapse for their emotions to have settled, so nothing to be discovered. Well, nothing to it; Lucas had learned patience the hardest way, so he would exert that skill to its fullest.

Sebastian folded his hands on his lap, pursing his lips as he ordered and lined up his thread of thoughts to speak it out clearly. "What we have here, doctor Wolenczak, is a two-sided impasse that we can't settle if we stay separate. Do note that I didn't say it wasn't survivable. Our diverse groups here specialize in chaos, disorder and getting the job done in war-zone conditions. Likewise, you have several properties built in the early 1800's that have tall brickwork walls and guard towers, including wet moats and mechanical draw-bridges that are shown clearly on WAC's corporate website. Or you could stay put in Vancouver, peaceful and healthy behind Canada's thickening border defenses. If either of us were so inclined, the status quo wouldn't be lethal in either short or medium term. In three or four decades, though, that would become a different ball game for everybody."

Taking a leisurely nibble on the second granola bar he had just unwrapped, Lucas swirled his espresso in the mug gently, gazing deeply into the dark beige depths as if he were scrying for secrets and divine answers. Taking a slow pensive sip, he raised his eyes to the screen again, slowly searching the faces of the ten adults he could see. He didn't have files for the pilots which bothered him only a little; usually transport crews were mid-rank agents, only averagely skilled in spy-craft or warfare, not like the pros actively moving the conversation.

It might surprise many that Lucas REALLY didn't want to have Sebastian Lund as an enemy, not anymore than Angus MacGyver. The tall, lanky, bearded forensics analyst had way too much facility with biologicals, chemicals, and diverse electronic technologies to be made an enemy unless absolutely necessary. And if Lund collaborated actively with MacGyver, an EOD tech who raised geekness into a high art, in an aggressive fashion against him, then Lucas would need to hire mercenaries for protection post-haste. He had always planned to have bodyguards from the moment his fool father Lawrence had made his move to forcibly exile him abroad, but he expected to have at least until coming Thursday to establish himself. Then the cretinous fucktard in the hotel administration had happened, and now the city's police wanted his head on a plate.

Didn't the twits in blue realize just how far above their pay grades this all was?

Concentrating his now fully awakened mental powers on the monitor's occupants, Lucas required in a neutral, dispassionate tone: "Could you please state your proposal clearly without preliminaries, agent Lund? If I can't see or analyze the underlying context myself, I will ask for supplemental information at that moment."

Nodding once, Sebastian forged ahead: "Basically this: you need a team of bodyguards that are not only competent, but also capable of following your activities without needing month-long lectures on the basics of life, technology, medicine or planetary politics at every decision you make, as you swim through the quagmire your life has become. The dregs of America want you alive to enslave, or your public death to inflame their followers. The Canadians want you alive to serve them somehow; preferably voluntarily, but under constraints if need be. Depending on how they set it up, it could even be legal and binding until you reach age 18 to liberate yourself from whatever 'legal guardian' or court supervision they forcibly assign. Likewise, you could probably successfully argue in court for emancipation without restrictions due to your immense scholarly and corporate results. I could see a judge in a Canadian tribunal giving you that, in regular circumstances. That is, IF the USA hadn't collapsed on their doorstep, and national survival wasn't at stake in the short term. Plus, as you came here seeking 'refugee status' whilst arguing to receive the go-ahead to become both investor-migrant and have dual-citizenship with America, I don't see any judge in Canada say that their federal government doesn't have a vested interest in the process, outcome, and capacity to keep you at work on helping the country survive the fallout from America's suicide."

Taking a gulp from a glass of orange juice handed to him by Jack Dalton, Sebastian continued his exposé: "The Europeans would dearly love to see you migrate over the Atlantic to establish as a science provider and potential key player in several fields of industry and finance. Lastly, the UEO Alliance wants to get the World Bank's darling back home to exploit you some more, in exchange of the usual exorbitant fees they'll gladly pay you just as they have in the past. Everybody wants you. Everybody wants your skills and competence. But I have the suspicion that few people want your actual person, let alone your OPINION on anything that matters, especially if it means letting you out of the clearly delimited role of 'teenaged genial protégé' to somebody much older and better established. Your present autonomy is bound to have irked a lot of people, and we both know that the Canadians' CSIS is just waiting for you to fall into a pit that you can't pull out of by yourself, then they'll make the 'offer you can't refuse' and bind you just as hard as your father wanted to do."

Regardless of the reactions or expectations of his colleagues in the airplane, Sebastian was silently satisfied by the stone-faced observant demeanor the teenager maintained as he spoke. If the kid had accepted the first offer at the onset, it would have indicated something gravely fishy going on in the background they didn't know about. Likewise, if he had refused to even consider any kind of interaction with them, that would have been 'game over' and no options left to play. No; a silent thoughtful teenager meant that Sebastian had profiled the case correctly, and he was ready to offer the solution right as the customer needed it.

"I don't mean to be presumptuous, doctor," Sebastian said politely, "But you need us. You need our team, and specifically you need the one thing that nobody in Canada or elsewhere will give you any time soon: loyalty. You need a team of people who are not only competent and experienced, but also and most of all loyal to you personally. You have many enemies right now, many thousands of fanatics who would give quite a lot to see you bound in slavery like a mule, isolated uselessly in a jail cell, or just plain dead so you no longer posed a challenge to their organizations and creed. In either case, your opponents are legions, but your friends... Well, since the beginning of this case, we haven't exactly seen or heard from your friends, have we? And given the exactions of the Papal Lord and his crusaders, I wonder how many friends are still alive, or in any shape to help."

Locking his oddly shining electric-blue eyes on the face of agent Lund, Lucas asked in deceptively mild words "Are you trying to monetize your – loyalty – was it, by the hour? Like a rent-boy in a dark smelly alley, behind a bar at 3am? Will you bring the rubbers or will you take it bareback if I pay an extra 100$?" He snarked dismissively before draining the rest of his coffee, setting the empty cup atop the wooden chest he sat on, on his left side.

While the adults on screen finally showed some emotions, mostly outrage at his disrespect for their friend, that Lucas could perceive and compute into his profiling matrix, agent Lund remained calm, collected and unimpressed by the crass retort the boy had just dropped on him. Then again, the man probably expected to receive a cold shower on his first three or four highly hyped-up offers, just like any negotiations of this caliber normally cycled through. Lucas certainly expected to have his first few low-ball counters laughed at merrily until they had properly measured each other's true goals and capacities before putting the grain in the millstone for the real work.

Sebastian Lund was actually enjoying himself by now. The small outbursts of annoyance from the peanut gallery around him were both fun and informative, but ultimately meaningless in the conversation. By allowing him to run the meeting thus far, the rest had silently agreed to have him as pro tempore leader and Lucas would not react well to a change in representation at this point, even if these were just preliminary word jabs. He would however expect to have at least two fully mandated people sitting across the table if they met in Vancouver, as the group would have the plane ride to discuss their own realities to form a cohesive offer, unlike this ad hoc conference which was happening because – really, folks? – the civil war outside kinda forced it on them all.

"Your prices are a bit out of date, doctor" Sebastian replied with a smile that was all teeth. "Besides, this isn't Honduras or El Salvador, it takes more than 100$ to corrupt a federal agent in this neck of the woods. And my base price starts at 10,000$, just so you know. I might be on the take, but I ain't cheap like some people I could name." the forensics expert snarked as he delivered his own retort.

Lucas smirked playfully at the older male, nodding once in admission that he had been pulling his leg rather weakly. But then again, that amateurishly delivered piece of snide crap had gotten a reaction from each and every person in that plane, and that data was well worth trading small juvenile barbs if it fed him the information needed to settle his decision. It was the conversational equivalent of echo-sounding on a submarine; make a loud 'BEEP' then wait for the sounds to come back to have the picture of what surrounded him. The process wasn't pretty, and certainly not quiet, but it worked reliably in almost all circumstances.

Lund expounded more seriously "For your information, what I'm proposing isn't a transaction like boss & employee so much as a 'durable situation' where you benefit from the talents and support of human beings who will not sell you out for cash to the first bidder to approach them. We offer to work not only FOR you but also WITH you towards goals that we establish as common. Our methods will inevitably vary given the wildly different experiences and skills between us, but finding and maintaining common goals like survival, good health, defeating common threats, all that should be feasible if we discuss it clearly."

The adolescent was young and lacking in many experiences in his short life, but business negotiations and contracts weren't among those things he missed on. He had also studied a lot of history, so he had a vague sort of idea what this could become. Taking a wild guess, he decided to put a point for discussion on the table, just to see what nibbled on his bait. "Are you offering some sort of fealty oath like knights or samurai of the feudal era? I lodge, clothe, feed and reward your performances inside my... jurisdiction shall we say?, in exchange for loyalty, obedience and services commensurate to your skills and intellect? Is that the 'situation' you mean, or was it more in the line of a Justice League kind of loose arrangement between equals? There are variants of the concepts that could be adapted, since neither of the pure versions are culturally, economically nor strategically viable. Not with the planet's biggest money-maker swirling down the can as we speak."

Sebastian shook his head, answering amused "We aren't in Avengers territory yet, and I don't see us kneeling in front of you as you dub us at court with a sword like vassals. It would have to be a far more modern and flexible arrangement, but we also understand that the larger socioeconomic burden would rest on your side. Therefore, yes, a hierarchy would be necessary, and some people would be answerable to you or others, just like the jobs we had yesterday and in the years before. Whether that means straight out employment paid by your company, or just a seat in a loosely structured association will have to be negotiated at later date. What we clearly expect from you though, is first and foremost the right to bring our relatives to safety inside your walled compounds, with some degree of collective protection and support resulting from that communal living. Who gets what salary for which job should remain individual arrangements for now, unless familial groups express the need for a collective bargain."

The young man looked out the window towards the Capilano River, his mesmerizing blue eyes gazing idly at the evergreens and patches of glistening white snow stuck to the trees. Taking several slow breaths as his powerful mind computed the variables and risks associated to this very unusual situation, the pale skinned male answered softly "I think that the general framework of concepts in your offer can be molded to fit my own needs, in broad terms. There will be several particularities to settle with each individual person that knocks on my door to beg for shelter inside my walls. I have already accessed your service jackets yesterday before the nation's collapse, as well as your more personal permanent files. I took what I needed directly from the source servers of the organizations concerned, finding that each of you on that plane does in fact have the skills and intellect to be valuable inside my operations. With sufficient supervision occurring case-per-case, as I would be in charge and not inclined to let that point be challenged. By anybody. Especially not on MY land, inside MY walls."

Turning his pallid angular face towards the Internex monitor, the boy swept cold inscrutable eyes across the adults present as he elocuted clearly; "Let me be blunt. I haven't asked this of you. Your team came to me with an offer. I already have plans and contingencies in place, actively protecting me in such ways that CSIS is particularly aware of them. The USA's economy didn't collapse without help. Neither did the moneys, holdings and property titles of the churches, ecclesiastes and sluts-of-the-pews disappear without assistance. I am the World Bank's PREMIER supplier of cybernetic security for a reason, and those who came after my life forgot that fact to their everlasting regrets. Canada, I am sure, will not make the same mistake as its southern neighbor did. Neither the European Confederation nor the UEO would tolerate such blatantly incompetent decision from our northern allies. It may take a trip or two to NCQ to remind the remaining nations of the planet, but I am mobile and willing."

Carefully standing on his aching, unsteady legs with the assistance of his cane, the adolescent scientist leaned both hands atop the pommel to stabilize his position as he concluded the conference from his end of the link. "If you come to Vancouver, I will meet you and negotiate in good faith with those present, based on what is provably in hand. If you choose to stay in the USA's dead corpse to protect your loved ones or begin their movement towards my territorial holdings, you will be dealt with by the facility manager on contact, and this person will negotiate according to his local authority. For those making the trip north, you should try to bring the airplane you are in. I strongly doubt the Canadians will let you keep it, and they most certainly won't give or sell it to me, but if you bring it as a goodwill gesture for their military, it could convince them to let you enter and move about instead of repelling you at the border. In the event that you do manage to come, I have reserved the suites on each side of mine for the coming month. There is a total of four enclosed bedrooms with variable sleeping setups that can be arranged with the hotel's administrators. That is all."

Sebastian Lund answered for the group without even looking at them; "Come Hell or high water, we'll see each other in Vancouver, this evening, in your hotel. Over and out."

{ SQ } - { Just between us friends } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 14:17pm

Western America; 11:17am

After the screen had blacked out, the federal agents in the plane's communal area turned to agent Lund with interrogative, somewhat frustrated, expressions on their faces. This had not in the least gone the way any of them had expected, especially not the offer to get hired by the kid. Where the Hell had that one come from, anyways? And the brat admitted to hacking to bits the finances of thousands of churches and millions of followers? What the ever loving fuck was that?

"What's your game plan, Sebby?" asked Tammy Gregorio with a smirk and a playful tone, quite willing to go along with her NCIS partner as she knew full well just how good at gaming the system in his favor the bearded technician was. Her geeky friend had balls and badass fighting instincts that surprised more than one criminal into an early grave, so she felt safe following his lead blindly for a tic. He'd explain things clearly soon enough.

Taking his glasses off to wipe them clean, the bone-weary federal agent sighed deeply in exhaustion as he could finally relax from the mentally stressful confrontation. Regardless of his young age and diminished health, Lucas Wolenczak was such a psychological, scientific, industrial and political heavyweight player in the game that any type of interaction with him was draining. Sebastian needed several minutes sipping on his orange juice and nibbling on his now cold and dry garlic bread before he was able to articulate what had just happened to the rest of the crew around him.

Marty Deeks however, stressed out, angry, and blindsided by the way things went, wanted specifications immediately so he pressed roughly on his colleague from the Gulf Coast office. From where he stood at the head of the coffee table, his words were biting and aggressive: "So you're saying the entire 'need' for any sorts of meeting with this kid has nothing to do with law enforcement anymore? That it's all about positioning ourselves for getting the best jobs he could want to pay us for, and some living arrangements inside those castle thingies he owns? Is that about it?"

Kensi Blye raised from her chair to stand besides her fiancé, wrapping her arms around him from the right side of him in an attempt to calm him down from his adrenaline spike. It worked only half as well as she hoped, testimony to how badly wound-up her man was. The situation, the country's bloody, inhumane end, was getting inside all of their heads in a bad way.

Everybody's eyes were now going from the forensic technician to the LA police officer and back, all wondering what was going on. Several were in agreement with Lund already, with only a few still having doubts as to the actual realization of the spontaneous plan. Doubts, however, did not mean in any ways that they were opposed or thought differently.

Leaning backwards into the backrest of the couch he sat on, Sebastian sighed in relief as the pressure that had been building inside his cranium was finally going down. He may yet be lucky enough to avoid a stress-induced migraine. Having MacGyver on the floor already was bad enough, having him ill as well would be problematic for the group's plans since he was the closest thing to a medical doctor that they had aboard the plane. Looking to the couch across from the coffee table, he used international sign language to silently tell Riley Davis to dial up their respective HQ's to give their report to the bosses. Things had gone about as bad as they could, and this could very well be the last official acts of their careers as federally employed agents. Riley nodded, quickly using her smartphone still cabled to the Internex monitor to request a video conference with both agency's survivors. Deep in her gut, the young woman knew this wouldn't end well.

The OPS managers in both enclaves had their bosses online in less than four minutes, ready to hash out the details. Once Mathilda Webber and Shay Mosley were seated in front of their screens, both women were instantly aware of just how tense and volatile the crowd was on the other end. Sebastian gave an abbreviated report of the conversation, to the relief of all involved, while Riley uploaded the films to the servers of the two enclaves for analysis, when they had time to spare for it.

"We all have to be realistic right from the start. The USA is dead. And our police powers, our agencies, our support structures, all died with it. There was no manner by which I could intimate any sort of military power-play or leverage governmental authority against the kid. He's completely free, fully autonomous, and more than capable of supporting himself and thousands of employees at the same time. Plus, he flat out admitted that he was responsible for the cybernetic attack that caused the catastrophic bankruptcy on live TV of the entire white christian movance that supported Trump this morning. He publicly said Canada's CSIS was made aware and threatened to replicate the feat at will to insure his security and autonomy."

Sebastian took a small sip of his juice before forging ahead. "What we needed was something to keep him interested in our cause, of his own free will, just long enough to get that first meeting with him, all of us in the same room, talking about what our basic necessities are so we can all survive this clusterfuck. Because let's all be honest a freakin' minute here; it's not about police powers, agency mandates, court warrants or national security threats anymore. It's all about surviving long enough to worry about what we eat tomorrow, and will our loved ones be safe until we reach them. Now, if we can manage a deal with this kid, so much the better because he can bring a whole damned lot to the table to assist us in surviving. If not, if he balks or wants things we aren't willing to give... Well then..."

The New Orleans agent rubbed his forehead to ease the tension building up again as he spelled out his views. "If he really refuses to help, that would leave us with one option to work with: talking with the Canadian government to negotiate our services as foreign agents partnered with them in the hopes that they would be willing to invest in our efforts to build up our enclaves, and maybe eventually stabilize what's left of the US population. That would leave Lucas Wolenczak to deal with the blow-back of not sealing a deal with us all on his own, which he's actually bloody well placed to accomplish, by the way. I don't hate the kid a single bit. I certainly don't disrespect him, not after what he's lived through and then managed to build himself a decent life anyways. I understand what he's doing now, today, to prioritize his own survival and health after being hunted to death by an entire country of crazies, but that comprehension's not ever gonna be enough to make me risk my people for him. Not now, not yet at any rate. Real friendship with him is possible at some point; I don't think he's unstable or defective, despite all the damages he took during his life. But, real gut-deep instinctive loyalty like I told him about, that has to be earned the hard way like with my team, not through shortcuts in the dark."

Wilt Bozer summed up everybody else's feelings on agent Lund's conclusion; "Hear, hear, man! We ain't for sale, no matter who's paying what! But it's also true what else you said; this guy's got the buildings, people, tech and money to pull a lot of weight behind him. And in this mess, if he decides to work against us, the force ratio will be like us trying to stop a speeding freight train bare-handed. He'll roll right over us and the UEO will probably push him along to make sure he doesn't stall."

Angus rose unsteadily from his chair to walk towards the conversation quad, leaning on the back of the couch where Gregorio and Lund were seated to stabilize himself before adding his opinion. "We have to look at this as rationally as possible. We can aim to become friends with this guy, it's a laudable goal unlike willingly making enemies of everything out there, like the Trump-sect christians did. But, in the mess we're dealing with, being friends with anybody is a pipe dream we can't bank on. As long as we can trade with someone equitably without getting shot in the back, or sold off to foreign enemies, it should count in the 'ally' column of the balance sheet. I'm sure both directors and a few people here would agree that in business, to make a deal and get paid for your work product, being buddies isn't required as long as you're normally reliable and honest. Besides, like detective Deeks said; the guy owns a series of 'castles' all over the USA and Canada. Each is a full square kilometer with three storey walls and guard towers that can easily be armed. Last evening I looked over the publicly accessible photos and historic blueprints of these places that Phoenix HQ was able to dig up since it was decided we needed to intervene in this guy's life. They were built mostly between 1800 and 1900, with at least two major passes of renovations in the 1930's and in the last 6 years since Lucas took over the Wise Heritage & Trust Legacy. I'm willing to bet he's got steam powered machinery to generate electricity and purify his potable water, as well as vast underground bunkers that could be converted to shelters for refugees until land for better housing could be cordoned off, cleared and built up."

Marty Deeks griped aloud, still very much angry; "No matter which way you see this going, we NEED this kid alive and healthy if we want anything from his companies or land. This is especially true because his workers know he's alive and well, stashed up north safely, so they won't just take orders from jack-shit walking in the door with a smile and a badge. Don't forget that a lot of his publicly known properties, corporate or personal, are actually inside Canada, and that country hasn't collapsed or been destabilized socially. His workers won't have any reason to accept a court warrant, even from the Canadian Courts, unless probable cause or immediate civil security are at stake. And presently, the beaver's federal government could be shitting diamond tacks in a golden plate and it still wouldn't pass muster with the dumbest junior litigator that has his Bar Association card in his pocket. We NEED this kid alive AND willing to help us of his own free will, or we are screwed. Trying to force him, or worse, kidnap him, will see us fighting against a rabidly defensive super-genius teenager at contact proximity with tens of external enemies gunning for our hides to get him back. Or did you all miss the part about the UEO wanting to secure the World Bank's prodigal baby back in NCQ?"

Pilot Sampson swallowed the last dregs of his orange juice, thunking the glass down on the table forcibly to get people's attention. Seeing they were all looking his way, he spoke his mind. "I think that you are all making a mountain out of a horse dropping. This kid's gonna be involved in rebuilding the USA whether he wants to or not, and your many vaunted opinions won't even be what decides that for him. You've all turned around the point and touched it, but you won't admit it cuz you're all still thinking like big bad powerful adults who have the right to boss the little kid around, just cuz you're older and stronger. Or worse, you're banking on your badges and the backing of moribund agencies that can barely linkup with us for this pow-wow, let alone field agents and machines for a fight. Get a grip on your ego-swollen balls, people! Lucas Wolenczak was fighting for his life against adults a lot bigger and nastier than you young mooks since he was four years old. And he's still present to spit in yar eyes about it!"

Sampson snorted at them derisively. "NO! He won't be pushed or forced. He'll get involved because his lands produce more food crops than his employees' families can eat, so he'll sell that. His manufactures produce canned goods, both medicinal and foodstuffs, specifically to sell to wholesalers or store chains, so he'll keep on doing that too. His terrains have large triage yards for trains, 18-wheel cargo trucks, freight barges and even floatplanes. That means he can offer mechanics works, spare parts and maybe even some machining services to craft brand new devices. But he's in business, not a charity, so ya'll have to pay for it. But, because there's a buck to make, and he's already set for it, he'll be involved in the rebuilding. Just not by force, not free of charge. And most certainly not because some jumped-up high-and-mighty adults have decided in a locked room, in a closed meeting, that he would do it or be punished, the way his parents and Trump tried to do. We all saw how those ended up, didn't we?"

The oldest member of the team stood from his chair to go fetch himself a coffee. He'd eaten enough during the two previous conferences and following debrief that he could tough it without being sickened from too much acid in the stomach. Besides, that's what TUMS were for. His copilot joined him at the coffee pot while the actual field people exchanged flabbergasted looks with their agency bosses in silence. It seemed that everybody had lost sight of the most vital problem: the kid was on the run for a reason, and the myopic fools had been about to blindly replicate the mess while hoping for the same outcome Lawrence Wolenczak and Donald Trump had tried for but failed miserably. And the kid had openly admitted to sabotaging the finances of the churches, ecclesiastes and their fanatic following to break their strength and force them into poverty and uselessness. Which had worked wonderfully as shown on live TV.

Moronic dicks! Would they ever think differently than the fools they used to take orders from?

Director Mosley spoke slowly in soft but forceful words that left no leeway for interpretation or negotiation on anything. "Be that as it may, adultist bigotry or no, last time I checked, doctor Lucas Wolenczak was still a citizen of the United States of America. That means he's – nominally – ours, not the beaver's, regardless of ANY other opinions that any legal, political, religious or diplomatic figure could voice. Besides, with the great need facing us, we can't afford to listen to anything else than our population's clamor for survival. Deeks, take point and work with Gregorio on spelling out an argument for the Canadian Immigration Tribunal, general enough for their federal policing and military brass too, if the courts rule against us."

Frowning in concentration, the black woman enunciated slowly her astute strategy: "What I want is an argumentative that states: "The country is in dire, fatal and degenerating peril; therefore all viable personnel are required by the Civil Security Code to report to the local National Guard or policing agency still functional to be surveyed, assessed and put to work at holding back the progress of the disaster. Just like a communal chore to dike up a flooding river, blockade a forest fire or clean up after a tornado, etc..." The Canadians are very civilized and community minded, with a very dim view of boat-jumpers and cowards as they have shown in every war they participated in since World War I."

Making a vague gesture of the left hand, Mosley added glibly "Plus, we also have some little-known clauses for mutual support & survival in the North American Confederation's alliance charter that actually cover what are deemed 'extinction-level events' since the mathematics say that a critical asteroid strike could happen in the next 20 years. That, plus we did make the idiotic act of putting in orbit giant space-stations with city-scorching lasers on them, despite the fact we could easily lose control of them to a hacker of Lucas Wolenczak's caliber. Or the fact that we have about a hundred of his sort under watch already. The clauses seemed to be a wise inclusion at the time. I wonder if the writers of the charter had prophetic talents or just profiled who the country leaders were at the time... Anyways people, that's your inroad to procure access to our juvenile doctor without the Canadians getting upset to the point of setting their pet elk at your shapely backsides. From the NCIS directorate's point of view, the mission is still valid and ongoing. The USA is comatose on life-support, but not dead yet. Not as long as we keep on trying to make it whole anew."

Everybody, including Matty Webber, was looking at Shay Mosley as if she'd grown a second head that happened to be yellow-skinned and spoke Korean. It took a good long minute before the copilot snarked aloud "And now you know why you noobs are in the field while she's sitting nice and tight in an air conditioned office, handing out orders like rain drops from the sky. Cuz she sees the big picture, and you're all still convinced the 3"x6" screen on your phones is all the world there is. Professionals, really? So much for tradecraft being a fundamental of the job description!" the middle-aged man shook his head in disappointment, agreeing openly with Mosley that the team needed to pull their heads out to smell the fresh air before they gave up.

"Whelp, folks!" Jack Dalton said with a wry smile, "I guess we just got schooled on business, strategy, good manners and international diplomacy, all in one class. Unless one of you wants to incur the wrath of the other big gal on screen, I think we aught to stop bellyaching and get this beast on the tarmac for lift-off."

The argument should have been settled by seeing the two pilots walking off to their cockpit to warm up the engines and call the air control tower to obtain a runway slot, but it wasn't.

MacGyver snorted in clear disdain at the last living assistant-director of NCIS, asking aloud "Are you freaking nuts? Didn't you hear anything that either Sampson or I have said? Or even what your own man Lund has explained? Is being idiotic, close-minded and rampantly attached to your rut in the road a prerequisite for NCIS employ, or is it just a by-product of orbiting around Washington DC for your job so long? Cuz I could swear that we just hashed out, very LOUDLY in fact, the WHY trying to force this teenager into any action would result in catastrophe on the very moment he became aware of the attempt. Do you want to see an Arleigh-Burke shoot a bloody Tomahawk cruise missile with a nuke at your position? Cuz I could swear the G.H.W. Bush battle-group was sailing the Pacific Coast not far from Oregon going southwards, yesterday morning. Do you want the kid to hack through the task force systems to find himself a toy to fling at you? You CANNOT force him or approach him with violence and dishonesty! He'll react hard like an allergic shock and you'll end up having an entire city wiped out in the backlash! He just pauperized the entire damned country! All by his lonesome, in front of all our eyes to prove what happens when he's threatened enough! Stop trying to boss people imperiously like a fucking queen on a throne when you're no more than a dirty, forsaken beggar with a broken badge, just like the rest of us!"

All eyes in the room and on screen were popping out at the angry rant the shaking, sickly young man had shouted at the monitor. Both directors and teams were reacting differently though.

"Buddy, that was uncalled for." Deeks growled, unimpressed. "True on many points, mind you. But not that polite, harsh, and should have been said differently. We're all stressed out to max, including Mosley. Piling on screams and insults isn't helping any, even if it feels good coming out."

"Marty! What kind of comeback is that?" Kensi asked her man, visibly scandalized by how her agency boss was treated by the worker from the other group. Which was strange since she'd never been the least little bit fond of Mosley in, like, ever.

"Hey! Let off him, woman!" Riley Davis griped angrily in defense of her colleague. "MacGyver may not be the most touchy-feely of all guys, but he's no brutish grunt either! If he says there's a bad chance of getting creamed-out in the method your boss wants done, I'd listen to him. Cuz, you know, out of everybody in this here meet, only him and Lund have any sorts of inkling what's going on inside Wolenczak's head. And I think trying the high-handed, adult-in-charge-of-kid tactic will in fact result in more deaths, and a refusal to help anybody outside his walls. And that's if he doesn't decide to actively gas everybody he can reach to make sure the threats are really dead this time around. Lobbing a nuke at you would be the least of your possible worries from this guy. His companies produce antibiotics and anti-venom to treat diseases and animal bites; that means the labs have the base toxins in hand to test their prototypes before mass production. He could just mass synthesize the poisons instead, and then what would you do against him?"

Sebastian voiced firmly "Miss Davis is correct on all counts. Doctor Wolenczak favors combat tactics that emphasize subtlety and discretion with geekishly technical twists. The use of corrosive acids, psychotropic pharmaceuticals and hidden knives basted in toxins figure prominently in his resume, not guns, bombs and vehicular manslaughter. He's more likely to find and call somebody in your entourage that's tired of your bitchy persona through a phantom VPN, then pay him off in Euros via out of a Micronesian Bank, to kill you at your desk by handing you a poisoned coffee while you're feeling big, powerful and unreachable. It isn't your meager security around whatever it is you call an 'enclave' that will stop him. Super Max prisons can barely hold idiotic animalesque detainees from committing atrocities or contacting the outside to give orders to their followers. Just how hermetical and secure do you think your communal space will be against his determined assault, once he figures out that it's by your orders that he's being forced into a court battle for his freedom?"

"And why would he know it's me who's responsible, agent Lund?" countered Mosley in a voice full of concentrated menace that promised immediate retribution even if he backed off.

Snorting in contempt for the woman's very obviously razor thin sliver of intellect and emotional stability, the New Orleans agent replied blithely, with as much audible and visible disrespect as he was capable of expressing: "Not much of a law graduate, are you? Lucas will know BECAUSE both Deeks and Gregorio will need to put your name and titles on all of our credentials, customs passes, affidavits, court documents, immigration tribunal briefs, request for an emergency meeting with the federal minister of national defense, et cetera and so on... Without the name of the director of the agency holding federal policing powers as the case's referring authority, the Canadians will not even let us pass the borderlines, let alone interfere in the lives of anybody inside, even under pretensions that we 'own him already' like a pet poodle that slipped his leash."

Mosley wasn't even given the chance to answer that broadside before Wilt Bozer acrimoniously slung verbal vitriol across her arguments and positions. "Yo, sister! By the way! Given what just happened to the country in the last week, and that you're both black and a woman, aren't you the least bit ashamed o' yo'self for trying to say aloud that the basic argument for making anybody do anything is that 'somebody owns them' like Trump and his barbarians tried to re-enslave us? Where the fuck is your sense of self preservation, woman? Or your racial pride, dammit all! You wanna go around this shit-can again? Do it on your own time, not on ours, or the country's! We got badges to SAVE people, not to chain them to your war galley like the rowers in Rome!"

Clapping their thighs a few times, both Gregorio and Davis exclaimed together "Hear, hear!" with Riley adding nastily "You tell her some common sense, Bose! She's obviously deciding with something that's not under her hairdo!"

This virulent exchange brought a thunderclap of exclamation from Mathilda Webber who'd stayed silently observant until now, since there was no clear path ahead through the fog-of-war. Now there was. "People! That's not how we address colleagues from other agencies! And especially not their directorate! If anybody's gonna blast a director, it's gonna be me! And nobody better get in my way or you'll be bawling out for mercy before I even get my hands on you! Is the Standard Operating Procedure clear?"

"Yes ma'am!" was heard automatically from six people, with not a little fright in their tones. Matty the Hun was about to rampage and it wan'nt no time to be about in the field no more.

Putting on her best fake 'support for a colleague' smile of diplomatic blandness, Mathilda spoke in a tone and choice of words much more suited to the plush velvet-padded offices of the Capitol than field work in a war-torn country. It was just too bad that Shay Mosley was herself an adept liar, a consummate politician and rabid burn & sack barbarian in her own right that saw through the vapid polite façade on first contact. Not that Matty expected any differently since she'd had dealings with her counterpart often in the last seven years through her CIA and DXS functions.

"Now, Shay, let's not get on our war chariots just yet. I'm certain that doctor Wolenczak is just being a mite overly prudent due to his health and mobility issues. If we let him have the problem looked at in Vancouver, he'll certainly be much more amenable to relocating to one of his existing USA facilities to continue his excellent R&D work and business collaborations with all levels of government. With the Trumpists' White Christian Regency fallen to burning pieces before the planet's eyes just this morning, allowing a couple of weeks to pass can only make the country more stable, and more attractive on its own merits, without resorting to menace and force. You don't have the habit of international diplomatic nuances like we do, or the long experience at maneuvering actors of the planetary political scene to move while believing it's of their own volition. The DXS does those things as its daily routine, before we even consider the 'hard' problems to manually interfere with. Put your people in the capable hands of my team, and we'll see the young scientist quite literally BEG us to let him back in the country, just so he can tack his name on the reconstruction efforts to win the public kudos it would give him, along the nice juicy governmental supply & services contracts that come with them. Greed and desire are far better long term motivators than fear and pain. You were trained to know that as well as me."

Director Mosley seemed to think it over for a few minutes, all the while glaring vengefully towards Wilt Bozer as if she could incinerate the younger man through the monitor. After about five minutes of silence, she wheedled a request through the back door in the form of a legalistic argument. "As I recall, the DXS does not, in statutory fact, have signatory authority for any policing or customs actions undertaken by the US Federal government. Principally because you don't officially exist ANYWHERE in the fed's organigram, and will burn out your agents rather than admit you do physically exist. As you have done in the recent past, if my memory serves me correctly."

Smiling with all her teeth visible like a crocodile about to feast, Mathilda Webber replied in amused tones, having seen that one coming from a hundred miles off; "Of course, dear, you can still put your name on all their credentials, documents and court actions. My people will, afterall, be 'publicly' attached to your agency as externally contracted technical assistants for the duration, because of the unforeseen shortage of internal manpower you are experiencing. Quite thoroughly understandable management method, under the current national crisis. You can even claim all the resulting credits and plaudits in public, in whatever congressional hearings, whenever they happen. Our agency will gladly cede all media time and limelight to your good people, so long as ours are consigned to the oblivion of the shadows where they dwell. You'll have the agreement letter on your desk in an hour, as per the standard National Intelligence Agency protocols in vigor. Anything else?"

Giving her own patently false smile of 'friendly acquiescence' to her counterpart, she shook her head negatively, then spelled out for her teams their new marching orders. "Alright, people! From now on, the DXS team will lead this circus show through its hoops and you follow that lead. Deeks, you're still the point man for us in it all. And I want that argumentative I talked about prepared anyways, to be filed as part of our work product in case we need it for the tribunals in Canada or the UEO. Bsides, we need to put that in our agency archives so Congress can read what our options were, eventually, when we have a Congress again at some point. That's all on my end." she closed her position, quite determined to end this meet.

"Same here for DXS," Matty confirmed. "If anything urgent comes up, email us both together or wait until tomorrow morning when we have another vid-meet to discuss how first contact went. We'll set up the regular vidphone report schedule at that moment, depending on how things are with the principal asset in the case."

A few minimalist salutations later and the viewscreen was blacked-out, going on stand-by but not inert yet as the minimal 15 minute delay for sleep-mode hadn't passed.

Emitting loud sighs of released stress and angst, the two NCIS lawyers gathered their work satchels and papers to a quiet table near the door to the SCIFF and the cockpit beyond. It was a much better place for intellectually demanding legal paperwork than the high-traffic area near the kitchen door. Riley would join the pair to plug them into the plane's internal secured network and servers, just as soon as she had disconnected her phone from the conference monitor, thus closing the system down. As she removed the set's attached wires and spooled them back to stow into the hardware drawer of the built-in cabinetry unit under the wall-mounted screen, she never paid attention to the automated network pop-up that showed the statistics of the lines, user ID's, frequencies, bandwidth and time online used.

If she had, she would have seen that the external signals were passing at 98,68% of maximal bandwidth and, maybe she would have checked further. Or she would have assumed the minuscule slow-down was due to so many signal towers and Internex nodes being damaged or unmanned from the civil war going on that she would not have looked further. Since she had actually expected a slow-down worse than 5% until dinner when she expected an even worse drop as more Internex signal repeaters and nodes would be destroyed across the USA, it probably wouldn't have worried her anyways. As it was, she didn't see the data pop-up, and so she would never even ask.

They would all have reason to cry for this soon enough.

{ SQ } - { The cold calculus of warfare } - { SQ }

Eastern America; 14:57pm

Western America; 11:57am

Back in his suite of the Daleminton Hotel, the teenager concerned by all this was still seated on the wooden chest at the foot of his bed. He had stretched out his aching legs towards the glowing wood stove, hoping that the waves of gentle warmth would soothe his muscles and tendons a bit. His eyes were closed, allowing him to concentrate on the events happening so far away south, in Los Angeles, where people thought they had the right, the authority even, to decide for his life.

They were wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

Opening his eyes to behold the soft noon-time sunlight streaming in peacefully by the slightly ajar patio doors alongside some fresh pine scented mountain air, the teenager released his deep hold over the neuroplexic network. Instantly he felt a tension leave his neck, ears, eyes and temples, as the energy circulating around the implants dissipated through his body, merging harmlessly with his nervous system just as the natural electro-chemical signals did. Sighing a deep exhale, Lucas turned his flint blue eyes, back to their normal dark color now, towards the Internex monitor hung on the wall above the wooden service counter. The unit's screen was a shiny black, inert as it was now disconnected. He used his reflection in the matte surface as an anchor to concentrate as he regulated his breathing during his period of deep thought.

Because of the massive amounts of information gathered by the neural interface during its use, it was actually impractical to use 'on the fly' so to speak. The chance of data overload was real, even for him, and the risk of ignoring minute details of great relevance was even worse. This was especially consequent when reading the emotions and patterns of a living entity, and downright dangerous when trying to profile many humans in one go. Like in a classroom setting, it was better to concentrate on the room and people, trusting that books and recordings were available for revision later on in a calmer, isolated setting.

As things were, Lucas had been awake for an hour before the phone rang, a nasty nightmare having roused him many hours earlier than planned. That shortened restless sleep cycle hadn't improved either his health or his cold, angry mood from the day before, you could be sure of that. Immediately upon waking, he got a small cappuccino and muffin to fill the hole in his gut, then got to the business of hacking through the systems of the two organizations that wanted to send him representatives. Despite the fact that Trump's little dog & pony show in DC was going on, the teen had no desire to waste his time on it; the 6:00pm news would tell him the highlights, he didn't need the details. No, what he needed was more personal information on the coming envoys, especially anything classified or hidden like their mission goals and what methods they were expected to employ.

Since the NCIS was a federal policing agency overseeing the Navy, their systems should have been well defended but, thanks to Trump's sacking of their HQ at the Navy Yard, the servers and intranet were in a state of wild fluctuation that allowed easy access for his neuroplexic probe. It took barely fifteen minutes to punch through, find and harvest everything he needed about the New Orleans and Los Angeles regional offices, their crews, and then ferret out the elusive Shay Mosley's personal files.

The DXS was a different animal altogether; their servers were pristine, stable, and somebody (a certain Ms Davis perhaps?) had been updating their firewalls, including a makeshift patch to keep his Bios-OS update hijacker from locking on to their firmware ports. Whomever had done the job had come to the conclusion that they couldn't fight the virulent program once installed, since it was too close in code & nature to the original manufacturer's own version. Therefore, they decided to run a sweep & forbid routine to block his fake-patch from actually entering the system to contaminate it. Basic but effective, yes, until he decided to blunt-force his way through by throwing all the 4 million users/passwords he had collected from the defunct CIA server in Texas across half the 150,000 lines the DXS HQ had coming in through a dedicated fiber optics telecom emulation hub. And wasn't that funny, seeing just how much 'illegal surveillance' this phantom fed agency was doing on absolutely everybody, going so far as to build a fraudulent telecom service & control hub, right in the heart of metropolitan Los Angeles. So much for Net Neutrality laws indeed. From the moment he activated his auto-ping app, it was a simple game of patience which lasted barely three minutes before he had several hundred still-valid passwords to get inside and roam at his devious little heart's content.

He was busily navigating his way through the DXS intranet, mapping the place and setting up several phantom back-doors by using the CIA's own built-in 'agency remote management' toolkit when he detected the reception of an incoming line with a number he had tagged for active GPS tracking & wiretapping through his bot-net. Riley Davis was calling home to set up a 3-way conference right after Trump's mess had exploded in his face. Lucas was able to see the entire first conference they had, even though they thought they were secure on all lines. Technically, they were secure since he hadn't hacked any of their phone lines; he was already inside DXS HQ, looking over their director's shoulder via her own security cameras in her OPS room. Small difference in terms of law and morality, but eh, it was those kinds of details that won wars.

Lucas was surprised by some of what he witnessed. Miss Davis, MacGyver and agent Lund had good opinions of his technological and medical capacities, rather flatteringly so in fact, but they critically underestimated him nonetheless. The other members of their teams had opinions based on gossip, the WAC's website, Stanford student records, and their own limited views of reality.

Snort! - The usual, for his life. Disdained and scorned even when they needed him.

Or rather, they needed his resources, not him per se.

Before the first conference had disconnected, he had traced and penetrated the servers in the DXS plane and the NCIS – LA enclave, setting back-doors and his customized remote management system to run invisibly in the background. Then he quickly hacked through the MD-11C refit's internal systems until he could see through the comms and security devices located throughout the vehicle. That allowed him to witness the private discussions the two field teams had about his person, his usefulness, and how they should approach him for first contact. Then they decided to call him to see if he was still minimally interested in a face-to-face meeting in Vancouver.

What a fucking joke these people were!

The USA was ablaze and yet, they still thought with their badges and big honking guns!

Lucas smiled a nasty crooked half-smirk as he remembered how easy it had been to play the blond numskull kid that got yanked out of deep sleep by the phone ring, falling besides the bed in his rush to find the remote to activate the screen. Morons! As if someone with his injuries would ever sleep without cellphone, remote controller and panic button, right there under his pillow, or inside the built-in shelving unit that composed the bed's massive all-in-one wooden headboard and nightstands. Not to mention that voice control was standard on all regulation Internex monitors sold to public accommodations and offices; only the domestic models had VC optional. All Lucas had to do was mess up his bed sheets, sit himself on the ground out of view, and keep the monitor blacked out until he was ready. Through the neural interface, he saw them call and was able to con them easily with his amateurish rendition of a school play pratfall. Since all they saw was a poor, much maligned little kid who was weak and easily victimizable, not a single one saw through the transparent ruse.

As their copilot had said sarcastically: "Tradecraft obviously isn't a prerequisite of the job anymore."

Imbeciles, the lot of them.

Even the supposed 'geniuses' spread across their teams were operating under skewed paradigms, fallacies and bigotries that blinded them to the true reality of the person they were courting for favors.

Then, the idiots had the gall to try and negotiate with him for safety, livable space and usage of his resources while DARING to imply that they would be LOYAL to him, all the while their very intention was to get close to him just enough to either convince him, or kidnap him, but never to be loyal. Not that the boy would ever be stupid enough to trust pure strangers on first contact like that! Just how inexperienced at life did they think him to be?

Well, the verbal joust with Lund had been amusing, for all of one minute, but that was about it.

Then they closed the signal and called their two HQ's, which, of course, Lucas had again secretly watched since he needed to know what the true intentions of all parties were in this mess. And wasn't that an eye opener as to WHY exactly the country had fallen in the toilet, pushed by a geriatric religious fool, then flushed by an angry adolescent's viciously driven desire for safety and freedom. Even with criminals and madmen running around killing people freely, and fearlessly, outside her thinly built edifice, the newly self-elevated director of NCIS was busy politicking for a higher station in life and the future government. That black furred bitch Mosley really was something... The USA were burning to the ground at her feet, yet here she was, in a fucking pissing contest with the sister-agency, trying to lift her leg to mark her patch like a she-dog running between fence poles around a property she'd never visited before. And the backstabbing stunted dolt on the other line just let her do without even a wink of protest, just as long as she wasn't publicly accountable for whatever was done to Lucas to make him docile and helpful. And wasn't THAT little understatement a declaration of war all on its own!

THESE were the people who were supposed to lead the reconstruction efforts?

THESE were supposed to be the leaders of a new era of honesty, civility and social harmony?

In which bloody faerie tale was that happening?

Were the dragons here yet? Cuz, you know, he always liked those in a fantasy story.

Pursing his lips in deeper thought, Lucas idly analyzed the NCIS director's somewhat expected tactic of invoking the NAC charter clauses on 'extinction-level events' in court. The partially rational, but visibly mostly emotional, appeal to the Canadian and UEO authorities had a very thin chance of working, so thin in fact that it didn't worry him. Honestly, the woman had a better chance of obtaining custody over his person by proving that Trump and the White Christian Regency were destroyed irrevocably, thusly no longer a threat to his life, than by pulling at the heartstrings of countries that had been spat on by the USA for the last four years.

Massaging the nape of his neck to relieve a kink, the youth tried to drag what he remembered of NATO's successor from the darker recesses of his memory. Bah! What little he did remember was mostly about the architecture of security clearance levels in their servers, how the World Bank processed their transactions on a different schedule and accounting methodology than the UEO had chosen to employ. An idiocy that made his life harder as main programmer for that particular system, since he had to double everything he did to accommodate them alongside of the regular UEO transactions, which 84% of the planet had standardized. But the NAC was primarily a military defense pact, not a civilian trade zone, therefore they had insisted that having a system that was not only segregated from the regular Internex, but also programmed differently, would increase security.

In theory, the type of system could have done exactly what was expected. Against menial little skript kiddies at the bottom of the ladder. For old pros like Lucas, it just meant a few more hours of patience while automated number crunching by his bot-net got done, letting him free to sleep, eat, or go out of the apartment for a brake from being connected. The North American Confederation deciders had the right idea, and the right method, but they had simply run afoul of exactly the kind of person their system wasn't designed to repel, let alone handle. Not to mention that nobody on Earth had functional, provenly operational, neuroplexic systems & hubs in the field as he did, and certainly no defenses against this type of enhanced cybernetic processing power. That, plus the fact the guy hacking them had helped to build not only the programs and safety regulations users had to follow, Lucas had also been the person who designed and validated the concepts for many of the hardware parts put into the servers and nodes all over the NAC alliance over the last two years.

Ah, betrayal; the coldest, cruelest of all weapons...

Then again, if the World's governments hadn't tried to betray him first by shamefully letting Trump and his nightmarish sect of paladins, crusaders and inquisitors loose on the planet, he would have held his secrets all the way to his grave. Unfortunately for them though, this particular teenager was a rather nasty, spiteful, and quite vengeful little bastard, so he would now be using every secret he owned to make good on his threats of retaliation against those that tried to harm him. Starting with the USA and every church or faith organization they spawned, then extending it to all international connections or allies these depraved cesspits of religious toxicity had financed.

But back to immediate concerns, namely a certain Shay Mosley whose time on this Earth seemed to be coming to a close. Or maybe not? Warfare was a cold, unfeeling business, and the winners who walked out at the end were often lesser, reduced in humanity compared to what they had been going in. Wasn't there an old proverb that stated "War makes debased beasts of all who partake, with only the dead having still a parcel of their humanity left" or something similar? Taking that warning to heart, Lucas understood that he had to tread carefully, as he had already committed several acts of international war himself, even if he were just a 'mere civilian child' in the eyes of the laws and governments. He was now in reality a veteran of the trenches, physically as well as cybernetically, considering just how physical and real the consequences of his cascading hack-wave had been. He was most assuredly responsible for the tens of millions of deaths that would occur in direct consequence of tens of thousands of churches and organizations going bankrupt, plus the military's budget getting frozen. When the families, schools, orphanages, hospices, and other faith-linked systems all imploded catastrophically and the people each went their own ways, mostly to their quick merciless deaths in the depths of winter's relentless storms, it would be on his soul that the fault rested. Well, him and few besides him, since the white anglo-saxonic christians had pushed beyond all good taste, morality, legality or basal humanity. They targeted him personally, calling him out in public TV programs, so they could share the defender's podium with him, when the time for tribunals came.

And it would continue like that, in the same manner, for as long as he was ready to pay the price for his freedom and safety.

Pay with the livelihood, welfare, health and lives of others, just as his parents, schools, churches and national governments had showed him to do since he was born. They bred, broke and tamed him specifically to create a living, thinking, autonomous weapon that could infiltrate enemy societies and trigger once inside, to unleash multi-faceted chaos. They had, knowingly or not, pursued the research and depravities of his great-grand-father Franklin Henry Wise into naturalism, eugenics and the elaboration of the ubermensch, the super-soldier iconic of White European creed and faith. They almost made it, too. Except that what he got mentally was never matched physically, and only a blind fool would call him 'super'. He was competent to the point of being genial in multiple domains of sciences and technology, but not by any stretch of the imagination was he 'super' at anything.

But the people coming for him didn't know that.

And Mosley, ensconced deeply in her protected enclave didn't either, nor would she care for such minor details. No, what the woman wanted was an egghead, a squint, a geek to shame all geeks into taking lessons in weirdness from him, but she wasn't looking for a super soldier or some hyper-physical brute to punch through cement walls. What she wanted was exactly what Lucas had in vast stores; intellect, raw processing power, intuition, large-picture perspective but without sacrificing the small-picture perspective as most macro-managers did... She really wanted a strategist or a logistician, not a tactician as she had two dozen of those already. She needed someone to manage the daily admin grind of her enclaves and human resources so she could be free to handle the politics and military tactics herself, as she preferred.

Lucas could understand her stance; but she'd never get anything from him for free, let alone by making threats at his freedom or health. "Whelpppp, there went that option..." the teen whispered softly as he flexed and rotated his ankles one after the other in a gentle therapy exercise to keep them from cramping. Getting off the wooden chest, he closed the patio doors, locking them tightly, then slowly walked to the kitchen to fetch some solid food for his first real meal of the day. He wouldn't be going back to sleep until evening anyways, not with all these threats flittering around his outer perimeter.

As he he took out the frozen breakfast foods he had saved from the buffet cart two days ago, he thought about the options available to him. How could he control the war, force the combatants to fight on his terrain, in those periods, and with only those terms he chose? How could he – impose – conditions on the battle to come without it backfiring dramatically in his face? Sun Tzu had stated that "To win the war, you must always impose on your enemy terrains, weather, daytime, and methods of survival that were as foreign to his troops as could be, to sap their strength and resilience before the fighting even starts. Only then do you hit most unconventionally, from as many positions and weird angles as your own troops can manage. If you know your enemy as well or better than your own allies, you will be victorious, in both the manipulations and the fight." The iconic Art of War was an old text indeed, but sage advice from a man who had written THE actual book about warfare that was still taught in military schools all over the world. Lucas had learned to read, write and speak Mandarin at age 11 during his first long hospitalization, just as he began to attend Stanford's classes remotely, by using the everlasting text. His tutor, back then, happened to be a retired elderly doctor who had migrated from China in the early 1970's. He had practiced medicine at the very same Stanford hospital they were being cared for, until his retirement due to terminal colon cancer. The man had insisted that Lucas learn his native language from a source that would also offer him inspiration on how to face the hardships and violence inflicted on him by his parents, as the man had known such people in his own family. The old man died the year after, but was remembered kindly, just as his teachings were well valued.

Damn. Sun Tzu was right - as always - but how to apply his wisdom in this case?

Problem One; Shay Mosley was angling to bring him to the defunct USA so she could exploit him without any oversight or constraints, other than what her 'owned' minions would tolerate.

Solution One; not go to the USA, under any circumstance. Find another confederation, country or territory to be sheltered by their leading authorities, but in a way that keeps him autonomous.

Problem Two; Many groups wanted to exploit or enslave him, up to and including pillaging his existing companies, research projects and personal possessions. The basal reasons for such desires were multiple, but irrelevant to the result from his viewpoint. They were all thieving, rioting barbarians which he had to repel.

Solution Two; preemptively approach people or institutions in positions of power over the planetary economy to make first-move deals with them, thus sheltering his holdings and companies under their desire to see the deals follow through. When greed is the motivator, people will usually be very stable, reliable and predictable in their decisional processes. The corporate bosses and elected ministers of finance in each country also have this visceral allergy to losing money, or seeing profit walk to the other country. These simple psycho-social mechanisms could be manipulated easily towards his own goals, since he was intimately acquainted with them, being a global industrialist himself.

Problem three; his physical safety was in immediate jeopardy.

Solution three; whomever he made a deal with to shelter his business and moneys, he would need to hold his own armed forces separately and ready to deploy in his own defense. That meant of course that he had to complete and secure his stranglehold over the cybernetic side of banking, then acquire control over the atmospheric recycling towers and, if possible at all, the orbital anti-ICBM stations. Once he made it abundantly clear that stealing from him would be met by 'The Wrath of Heavens', then he could look for para-military freelancers to employ. These would then accept his payments without betraying him since his capacity to destroy an entire country would be well established, and only a few insane defectives would ever challenge him then. You only betray people who can't reach far enough to touch & hurt you, or your loved ones. Once his reach and willingness were proven, he would have peace and safety.

Synthesis; he needed to move his cash reserves and property titles to a neutral, unshakable nation who would resist all attempts at political coercion less damaging or physical than an actual full-scale military attack on its borders. Furthermore, he needed to hire, train up, and deploy at the very least one medium sized guerrilla team. Said people needed to have capacities and effectiveness similar to the DXS field units to maintain his safety, primarily by sending this armed high-impact team against the origin of the threat to exterminate it, preemptively if possible.

Conclusion; he needed a place that was safe, hard to reach, harder to breach, offered qualified medical support up to his standards, and was built with an energetic system sufficient to support his neuroplexic hub and fabrication devices. This installation was to be necessary and important enough for the bigwigs of the planet to keep it safely functional without any efforts on his part, as he already had a lot on his plate. But, it also needed to have built-in direct-action military & weaponized capacity on call so he could defend his person locally, regardless of any country or government's preferences.

Realization; a deliciously cruel irony. He could simply be a good son who obeys daddy and go rot right where his felonious parent wanted to drop him. The UEO's much vaunted flagship, the SeaQuest.

Rationale; the ship was a hugely spacious environment, well appointed to support civil life for an originally military designed boat. It boasted world-class medical facilities with adjunct research labs & personnel that would have Lucas engaging colleagues intellectually instead of despairing because he was surrounded by nothing but damned grunts. The ship carried several varieties of weapons, enough of each to scare away a full battle group all on its own. The cold fusion generator could power everything he would bring, buy or design on the way. Plus, the ship's latest upgrades included a slew of cybernetics that Lucas was intimately acquainted with like the holographic consoles, the biometric identification apps, the fourth gen updates to the PAL network and the life support emergency self-calibration apps that guaranteed that any spills or leaks in the labs or aqua-tubes would be isolated and purged in seconds.

Again, betrayal was such a cold, calculated weapon to wield, in expert hands like his...

"Yes", the teenager thought with a growing smile as his Sunday brunch was slowly heating on the gas hobs, "I think my last doctor said something about taking a little sea cruise vacation to get some fresh air and take my poor, weary mind off my many legal problems. And I have just the travel agency to resolve my problems in my virtual rolodex. Surely, the World Bank's governor wouldn't balk at giving an old friend such as little ol'e me a helping hand, wouldn't he? I'm certain he can arrange a quick conference call with the appropriate agencies and authorities to make it all happen, neatly and cleanly, far faster than I would. And without me needing to waste some of my rare and valuable sleep time."

Smiling genuinely for the first time in over a week, the adolescent took a chunk of french toast right out of the skillet where it was slowly sizzling up to good warmth, chewing it with gusto. Strangely enough, his appetite was coming back with a vengeance. Funny, since he was cogitating vengeance...

Then another cruel irony hit him fully, striking his mind with enough force to make him lean on the metal safety handlebar on the front of the range-oven. A deep, loud, and clearly slightly unhinged laughter of evil glee erupted unbidden from the depths of his sickly, injured heart. He had just remembered that his much beloved parents had both been arrested and ferried to the SeaQuest, at the express behest of a certain admiral William Allard Boyd Noyce who had been in a bloody boiling rage from the unintelligent name-dropping his father had tried to intimidate his son with. The fact he had told people like the criminal lieutenant Denalt that what he did was part of a nudge-nudge deal with Noyce, and thusly no legal repercussions would happen, had probably also given the admiral some fresh new bilious ulcers for his collection. And most of the crew being internationally selected, it was quite probable that a large number of them and their countries would have screamed 'bloody murder' of outrage and shame at being associated – even accidentally – with such a deplorable turpitude. This too would have worsened Noyce's day, especially since it would come borne by diplomats who would insist on stopping by Andrea Dre's office to make certain she knew and was doing something about it.

Laughing harshly again at the sheer scrumptiously evil irony of the mess, Lucas asked aloud to his crackling bacon slices, as if they would answer him somehow; "Surely the UEO and other governments wouldn't be so cruel as to refuse a poor, abandoned and neglected child like my damaged, desperate, self a much needed reunion with my own birth parents? Surely the planet learned its lesson after Trump's self-inflicted debacle a few years back? I mean, they're no good and probably criminals to boot, but they're all the parents I got. That has to count for something? Right?" The bacon never answered him, despite all its greasy sizzling noises, but that wasn't the point at that time.

"Mwu Ah Ah Ah!" the adolescent exploded in malevolent hilarity.

Transferring his foodstuffs off the oven and into a beige ceramic plate decorated with forestry motifs and the Daleminton logo, the boy shoved a rasher of bacon in his mouth as he shut the gas, wiped the surface mostly clean, then made his way to the glass dining table where the condiments and a full thermal tankard of holy Java juice were waiting for him. The smile he wore on his young, angular face as he ate and drank his full-sized copious brunch had nothing nice to it, not in anybody's imagination.

Eghellum Falls

(Imperial March – Star Wars)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 16:00pm

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 13:00pm

White House; Oval Office

Washington DC, Maryland, USA

Sitting at his massive custom-built gothic wooden desk, the Papal Lord, Amerikus the First (and only), gazed most balefully upon the three computer screens that showed him the state of his personal, familial and corporate holdings across the vastness of planet Earth.

A big fat 'ZERO' that could be written on the eraser stub of a lead pencil.

It was all gone. Absolutely everything his grand-father, his father, himself and his two sons along with Jared had worked on for over a century of totaled history, had all completely vanished into the ether of the Hell-pit that was the Internex. Not stolen, not transferred, not under limited blocks like the municipal budgets, nor put in judicial escrow like the US federal appropriations accounts.

Nope. Just gone.

Someone had vaporized over FOUR BILLIONS in moneys, assets, holdings, investments, brand names, property titles and even their bloody passports, social security accounts, driver's licenses, school diplomas, EVERYTHING!

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, the Papal Lord swiveled the massive custom-built bishop's throne to face towards the conference sized Internex monitor, pushing a small button on his armrest as he did. The TV sound rose until it was clearly audible, even over the din of panicking staffers occasionally filtrating through the thinner portions of the walls and securely locked doors.

Why did he bother looking, again?

Firstly, there wasn't any positive coverage of him or his projects anymore. Even just friendly coverage would do fine, but that was asking too much. NO. The best he could find were channels too busy showing, and commenting, the massive racial and religious riots in progress, or the other grave problem that struck the nation, the spontaneous and fatally violent USA Youth Rebellion of 2020 as it had been dubbed by some 'imaginative' media type.

"Ah, fuck it all to Hell and back!" the Papal Lord exclaimed, as he surfed channels.

When CNN wasn't showing swarming hordes of slave-spawns burning down police stations with the cops inside, it was his 'reliable old friends' at Fox News that showed the empty vandalized schools, their snowy grounds strewn with the corpses of dead personnel, all still wearing their antiquated christian simile-monastic clothing. The news anchor very unhelpfully insisted on the fact that all these murders and rebellions were "The doings of scared, desperate, Pure and True white american boys and girls, scared for their virtue, health and lives at the hands of Trumpist ecclesiastes let loose of any controls. None may blame them for defending against such slovenly, murderous pedophiles".

"Bleh! So much for honest and fair reporting from Fox News Network and associates." the failed religious tyrant griped aloud to the empty room as he realized that even the baggage-boys were openly rebelling against his self-hyping, smack-talking style of bombast, hyperbole and systematically ignoring reality twice at every breath he took. Apparently, even the die-hard conservatives wanted some sorts of minimal adult behavior, stability, reliability, honesty and, you know... human decency and mercy...

Well, they weren't getting none of any of that! The country's population was collectively gleefully swirling around the piss-pot's drain pipe, and enjoying themselves at it, too! So much for asking HIM and the Papal Conclave, the SCOTUS and Congress for adult behavior and decency. Served them right!

Shutting off the useless piece of techno-crap, the 74 year old wannabe emperor turned back to his desk, wandering what was happening to his wives, sons and daughters in their sheltered retreat, out of the country. Thankfully, he had had the foresight to remove them from the conflagration zone before the holiday season, planning to keep them away until past the confirmation ceremony and the public revelation of the Reborn Grand Crusade. Now, they were seeing this on their TV's, reading it on the Internex feeds, and he wasn't at hand to spin & weave the story he wanted them to swallow and live by.

They would make their own opinions without him!

A shudder of debilitating fright traversed him at the thought. His own women and children, autonomous, independent, no longer bound by his authoritative God-endowed Will and Rod... They would finally be able to see and hear things that should never be spoken or shown, specifically because they went against his narrative, his lies and hyperbolic bombast, flowing contrary to his long decades of fraud, crime and abuses of trust. And he couldn't convince them otherwise. He couldn't even intimidate them or threaten to jail them anymore, although he'd only just now thought of that ultimate shame as a plausible, acceptable last option rather than tolerate rebels inside his home.

Because the FBI and all forms of federal policing were dead, dying, or had run off in fear for their lives, nobody was present to explain to the Exalted President of the Christian Nation of America that his thought patterns were actually a known profile of criminal insanity. He was slowly going down a psychological regressive spiral of clinical depression, self-loathing, doubts about the future, doubts about his own worth, finally seeing his complete loss of all power over others in his job. All this culminating in the death knell that even his family was now disabused about his true nature, which he couldn't hide anymore, thus causing him a catastrophic dose of reality, fear, shame and powerlessness.

The FBI's specialized 'Behavior Analysis Unit' in Quantico would have qualified him as a sociopathic, psychopathic, narcissistic, attention-addicted, media-addicted, domestic tyrant, charismatic cult tyrant who had finally devolved in the most statistically reoccurring end for such a persona: the family annihilator. The very common, usual even, brutish religious sectarian fanatic who believes that his spouse and kids should only live by his will, and under his rule, or they should die. Of course, the excuse they all said was that the murderous deaths were actually 'Inquisitory Sanctions' needed SUPPOSEDLY so they could still be pure enough to be allowed into Heaven, rather than live long enough, and far enough away from the tyrant, to sully their souls and be condemned to Hell. Better they die in cleansing pains, as Holy Martyrs for Christ, than to be left alive as heathens that proved with every breath they took that the tyrant had never been that frightful, or truly powerful, no matter what Divine Might he arrogated for himself in his delusions.

Well, since the BAU had all been shot dead in the gunfight against the Grand Crusade Army soldiers that came to arrest them for public executions under Father Bleddings' unholy offices, nobody would be bothering the old crone in his delusions of self-righteous heavenly almight. No, all the feds inside Washington DC, in service or on vacation, had all been rounded up in jail or got killed in fights. The country had lost a lot of 'good, pure white men' that way, but since they opposed the Cleansing and the Crusade, that made them race traitors like Seely Booth, so their deaths were justified under the Inquisition of the Faith. Amen.

{ SQ } - { The ignoble fall of a false leader } - { SQ }

At 13:12pm, the tall heavy man was sitting in his large throne, idly fiddling with the solid silver ring bearing the depiction of Eghellum, the newly minted icon of America's Guiding Light under the will of Jesus, their God and Savior. The small metallic object rolled in the palm of his left hand, as he watched the light from the viking styled fire pot reflect on the deeply sculpted surface, making the eagle design's colors resplend even more. Setting his forearm on the armrest of his throne, the old man leaned back into the deep azure cushions, feeling the full weight of his age, history and failures crushing him relentlessly. Leaning his head backwards so he could gaze pensively at the ornate ceiling frescoes that had been painted over the 225 years of the building's existence, he felt another shudder of fear and despondency pass through him. He closed his tired eyes, just for a few minutes, to stave off the migraine that he could feel forming.

A short soft 'pfffiiittt' noise was heard through the room, followed by the distinctive loud sound of metal traumatically warping and glass exploding to shards. The high powered, high velocity X-25bb (Experimental 25mm bursting bolt) new-age tungsten round punched through the steel shutters covering the french doors leading to the cement dais above the Roseanic Chapel. The shock-wave of its passage exploded all of the decorative doors' glass panes, ending its course right inside the thorax of the Papal Lord. Right through the sternum, inside his coronary muscle mass.

By reflex action, his whole body spasmed, the colored sigil ring tumbling out of his hand, bouncing and spinning on the hard wood floors until it came to rest against the wooden desk's thick base.

Then the projectile exploded.

Loudly.

And spectacularly messily.

Such a disgusting mess of flesh and blood, 'fountaining' all around like a giant water balloon filled with dye, for such a small rocket-sustained projectile. Only 25mm diameter by 175mm long, the bolt of tungsten-alloy was 5mm thick all around, with a 15mm by 75mm explosive payload and the rest was the solid propellant for the second stage of trajectory. The initial shooting cordite shell was made of ordinary brass that stayed in the tripod-mounted rifle, getting ejected as the shot left the barrel.

It was an experimental prototype from the US Navy arsenal in Mobile, Alabama, that had been stolen last year from a contractor's R&D labs by his civilian employee, a young skinhead idiot who wanted to become part of the same fanatic white-power militia as his brothers and cousins. It had been recovered during a heavy shoot-out, in that same city, with the NCIS – Major Response Team based in the Washington DC Navy Yard, just a few city blocks away from the White House. When the Crusaders breached the NCIS HQ Saturday morning, to captured or assassinate everyone they could see, they missed somebody who was out in the city on his off time.

They should have looked harder, and beyond the building. They failed their mission.

Getting that bloody gutsy mess out of the wood furniture, velvet upholstery and wood floors, would take a lot of effort. Not that anybody would care to do the job. There wouldn't be anybody left to give a damn passed sundown, anyways. In the following 90 minutes, each isolated person that could be seen or scanned by the rifle's powerful hybrid scope was taken out by a single shot to center-mass. Then those in pairs were targeted, the bolt programmed to air-burst next to the targets, which were now aimed at face level for maximum chance of maiming permanently and grievously, in case they didn't die from shrapnel penetration or bleeding out.

The White House was an old building, nearly 225 years old in some parts. The construction techniques used in the walls had never been conceived to resist miniaturized ballistic projectile artillery shot from some 2,500 yards away, which was only half the effective range the weapon could reach. Even though the gunner had placed himself on the rear side of the building to maximize his chances against his primary objective, the building's other sectors were nowhere near reinforced enough to stop this weapon's slugs from going through the venerable brick and wood planking walls.

It was a slow, miserable and lonely job, but this man was gonna get it done.

He did. It was done, at long last.

{ SQ } - { These old bones of mine will hurt no longer } - { SQ }

When 40 shots had left the massive team-portable light artillery, the weapon became silent. All the experimental ammunition available for it had been spent wisely, in dispassionate but honorable service of the laws and morality of a dead nation, carrying almost 90% kill ratio in total.

The man carefully shuttered the scope's flaps then affixed the red muzzle plug that signified the weapon was empty and secured, ready for transport to another job. The damned gun was twice heavier than a Ma Deuce 1933 Cal.50 BMG but still manageable by a single man, if you took the bloody long 12 foot barrel assembly and huge telescope off to move it in three separate segments. The tripod itself was the same regular model used by USMC gunners since Vietnam and needed a trip for itself, just like the box of 40 rounds, weighing three pounds each, had been heavy enough to warrant its own lonely walk.

It had taken an hour of slow back & forth to pull out of the armor-plated secured 'classified evidence' storage lockers under the NCIS annex where the agency's geek squad held court amongst their servers, hubs and wireless antennae. Very few people knew that weapon was still being held, even though the investigation had been closed by lack of – living – suspects to drag before a judge. Someone intimately linked to the conception and preparations for the 'Noah's Ark' protocols had decided to waylay the ultra-modern weapon in case killing off the nation's leadership became a critical necessity for their survival. The idea had been valid and quite clairvoyant, as events in the last 72 hours had just showed.

But the mission had failed. He was too late.

Every person he loved was dead, and everything he cared for of the country was dead, corrupted or being sold off on the Tor sites, in the deep recesses of the Dark Web where he was normally so at ease, navigating amongst his own geeky kindred spirits.

No more. The web no longer offered solace for him. The intricate currents of codes, data and comportment patterns that had fed his rich, vivacious mind for decades no longer bore life or joy for him. Because he was alone. Because he had nothing left to fight for. Because nothing was waiting for him at home, when he emerged victorious from another cybernetic war against crime and depravity, or returned from the field stinking of sewage and plant sap from recovering a victim's body.

Delilah and the twins were dead. Killed by the crusaders at Bethesda hospital when they came to arrest those they claimed were slave-spawns, race-traitors or heathens. Bless her soul, Delilah had tried, really she had, to keep herself and the twins hidden in a supply closet, deep in the examination room they had been waiting in to be seen by the pediatrician. It didn't work. The crusaders had come with a scanning technician who was stalking the floors with an infrared visor and parabolic microphone to spot the nooks and crannies that usually got passed over during quick smash & grab's of the sort. They saw Delilah, she used her NSA sidearm to kill the tech and two crusaders, but that signed the death warrants of her and the babies. Not that they would have lived any longer.

Timothy McGee didn't want to think on what he had learned, through his contacts in the Dark Web and across the military scuttlebutt, about what the fate reserved to children under age ten captured alive was destined to be. The Bratva. The Russian mob. Slavery, sexual at first while the children were young and easy to break, then just dumb manual labor when they were bigger. Many wouldn't survive passed the first month of captivity, the russians having a 'thing' for snuff-fucking their juvenile victims. It was an unbearably cretinous, unforgivable, peasant superstition that if you killed the young virginal child while he was sucking your cock, you would absorb their life-force to fight disease, injury and old age. It was supposed to work better if you destroyed the child's virginity by sodomy so brutally that it tore and bled from the anus, then was forced to clean your member with its mouth, at which point you slit it's throat and keep it in position until final death occurred. The old insanity purported that at the moment of fatality, the infant's 'energy' passed from its orifice into the orifice of the penetrative member, just like plugging an appliance into a wall socket for electricity to charge reusable batteries.

"Uneducated, illiterate, iconoclastic, ill-aborted spawns of disease-bearing wild whores rutting in a city's dumping field... These bastards deserved no mercy. Not in this world, or the next. Anybody who collaborates with them deserves what I gave out, and worse!" Tim thought severely in recollection of each shot he fired. In this uncivilized war of extermination, it was far better for the poor children of America that they die strafed by M16 fire, or frozen to death in the forests, than be captured and shipped off to the black market overseas.

Finally done with his last tasks, Tim looked around the sniper's nest he had created. It was just like The Boss had taught him; simple, discrete, elevated but not the last floor as that would leave him exposed to satellites or drones that 'see' through the roofing material. Hence, like a fringe-kook, the good old aluminum foil that served as wallpaper, including the ceiling, and under the layer of transparent plastic sheeting that served as floor cover. Better paranoid than found out, especially with what he had planned at the time. The luxury building had a good security system and manned front desk, but the underground garage was watched only via a set of fixed-mount cameras that Timmy had hacked and looped through a continuous sequence without really paying attention, or trying hard at all, in fact. In better times, he would have been kind to them, warning them of the blind angles then offering to refer a friend who worked on upgrading such flaws. No more.

Taking out an old stainless steel flask embossed with the USMC logo that had seen better epochs than today, even whence it was used in the heart of war field trenches, he saluted empty air, keeping his eyes closed as he knew what came next. He didn't think anybody in the White House would be that quick to hunt down the sniper who wiped out the defective bastards that served them as leaders and first tier minions. But, you could never know when a zealot would decide to come out of his comfortable hidey-hole to continue the Holy Cause all by his lonesome.

Case in point; himself.

Lifting the uncapped flask to his lips, he drank the alkaline fluid in the slow methodical manner that had characterized all of his actions during his life, no matter that it was a subtle, incurable poison of Abby Sciutto's making that was his fatidic last toast. She had prepared this for each of them, as part of the 'Last Bastion' Rules put in place by Gibbs when director Sheppard had started participating in the 'Noah's Ark' protocols. At least Abby was safe in England, working in a charity with homeless kids, away from this violence and bloodshed. Tony was with his daughter and father, in Venice, Italy, because Senior had a genuine business going these days. Something about wanting a tangible asset to protect his grand-daughter with, just in case. They and Timothy were the last survivors or NCIS central HQ, so to speak. He wouldn't be with them much longer.

Closing his tired blue eyes, not bothering to keep in the silent, inconsolable tears anymore, now that the job was finished, the forty-something male sniffled out one last small bit of amusement in this life before the inescapable end.

"You were right, Fury," he spoke to the ghost of the legendary bad-ass Director of Shield, from the fantastic Marvel Universe, "If we can't save this Earth, we'll damn well make sure to avenge her until they leave us alone. Zalut!"

With his last breath, senior field agent Timothy McGee, of NCIS – MRT for the last 17 years, thumbed a button on the small device at his belt as he lay down on the plastic covered wooden floor of the brand new, unsold, condominium apartment. His hands held the battered flask over his slowing heart, and a clutch of photos of dear teammates and beloved family was in his shirt pocket. Practical and prepared as the lifelong boy-scout he had been, he was already dressed in his best 'meeting at the capitol' workday suit for his funeral. Not that he expected there to be anybody alive to give him one, especially given what came next. He was just never one to leave things to chance, nor leave a mess for others to clean in his stead. And at his age, in the circumstances the country was traversing, it wasn't time anymore to change who he was.

"Semper Fi, Boss! The job's done, and I'm coming home now." he whispered to old ghosts only his glazed, blind eyes could see as he claimed his well earned reward amongst passed heroes at long last.

{ SQ } - { Happy Hannukah in DC } - { SQ }

Under the tripod of the experimental gunnery system, inside the couch, two wingback chairs and in the kitchen inside the appliances, several dull gray cylinders with a glowing green timer on one end were counting down the final seconds. An instant later, nine thermite charges totaling 27 pounds of incendiary explosives triggered, annihilating the prized auto-rifle, the furniture, the dead corpse and the entire apartment's contents down to the concrete dividers and steel frame inside of 7 seconds.

Then the fire, so dense it was almost liquid as Hawaiian lava, corroded through the floor and walls, conflagrating through the edifice at speeds only firefighters and munitions experts could comprehend. Windows exploded outwards in great fireballs as the gas lines erupted, causing a sonic boom felt at six blocks around. People were set ablaze from just the unholy ambient heat, reaching close to 3,000 Celsius on its own, igniting their body fat, hair and humors, jumped out of any aperture they had, falling down to their deaths from both impact and burns. The modern edifice, finished building less than 8 months ago, took less than 11 minutes to become a 17 storey high roman candle in the Washington DC skyline.

At that moment, it was only one of some 38 buildings burning, along with about 400 cars and a few dozen dumpsters. There were already no more firefighting crews anywhere inside the municipal limits of the District of Columbia, as they had been purged or fled for their family's safety. The few soldiers still loyal to the new White Christian Regency were all holed up at the White House grounds, the Pentagon's underground parking garages, or the military bases that surround DC, even two that had been reactivated specially to house only the Inquisitor / Crusader barracks, infirmaries and secret jails for internal discipline.

Soon though, even these places would no longer be safe from rage, revolt, fire spreading wildly and winter's furious assaults. Without orders, active command structure, or even a municipal authority to answer to, the felonious soldiers would abandon these installations to Nature's whim's by the end of the week. Maybe sooner, since they had no support to bring in food and necessities, plus, the infrastructures were shutting down from massive damage all over town and the neighboring states.

DXS – NCIS arrival in Vancouver

(NCIS - LA – opening theme)

Eastern America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 20:00pm

Western America; Sunday 20th of December, 2020; 17:00pm

Diefenbaker Military Airport

Vancouver, BC, Canada

After one stressful hour on the Los Angeles tarmac, followed by slightly less anxious 4 hours in the air, the DXS airplane crossed the Canadian borderlines with official permission coming expressly from Ottawa, from the cabinet of Prime Minister Trudeau himself. The short, terse exchange of formalities had been handled directly by senior pilot Sampson, never reaching the teams in the passenger compartment. That small detail certainly surprised them, when they heard over the intercom that they had gotten the go-ahead that easily, and quickly, too.

There was one small detail though; the Canadians were not idiots, nor incompetent at military matters that required finesse and discretion. And, in these trying times, with the southern neighbors having committed societal suicide, allowing any american heavy-weight jet into the international civilian airport on Sea Island, right in the middle of Vancouver, would raise questions nobody wanted asked. Consequently, the pilots of the MD11C-refit had been ordered to alter their flight course on a westward trajectory the very moment they passed the official Canadian airspace. They were to head out over the blue waters, putting them just about between the city of Vancouver and the capital city of British Columbia, Victoria, which was located on the large island named Vancouver also. By navigating over the safe internal airspace of the wide sea channel between continent and island, the plane would be able to bypass both cities, just outside of naked-eye perception, without calling undue attention to the activity. Then, when they were about ten miles past Vancouver city's northern urban zone, they would turn eastward, inland, to reach Canada's largest strategic facility on the Pacific seaboard.

The Diefenbaker inter-systems Pacific Seaboard command Airport.

The 4 kilometers deep by eight kilometers wide complex was situated in the foothills of the Rockies, perched on tall cliffs overlooking the sea's frigid blue waves by a hundred feet. The Canadian military had blasted and quarried an impressive amount of natural debris, millions of tons in fact, to flatten out the surface required, then dug down through the under-layers as well as horizontally into the mountain's core to create a vast network of bunkers, hangars and weaponry emplacements. In usage since World War I as an armed military supply & repair port, they had added weather balloons and observation dirigibles around 1918. During World War II, new technology saw the erection of long range radar towers, more flak turrets, and the small airfield was expanded to full runways to permit propeller or jet planes by 1941. Since the planet fell in the grips of the Cold War against communism and many countries of the Pacific Rim gave themselves over either to Russia or Islamic fanaticism, the entire complex had never ceased its feverish operations. Always expanding the cleared flattened surface, modernizing existing infrastructures, and staying vital to the defense of BC and Canada on the west coast. The last decade saw the updating of the ship docks to receive massive cargo container ships and combat submarines, expanding the railway triage yards & workshops, and completing four anti-ICBM interceptor launchers with new missile types. The Canadians had also finished building twenty housing towers of 10 storeys, with 200 units for 8 people per apartment, with panic room in each suite, communal underground bunkers, garages, grocery & convenience stores, emergency medical facility and open public socialization areas in each building. That would allow them to bring in up to 4,000 complete families on-site to bolster combat, medical and mechanical capacities by an incredible factor that few bases could boast.

"Yeah, them canucks know how to live in their damned white shit all year long." thought Jack Dalton, "And they know how to put up a good fight, history had proven that." He gave the base a detached, professional gaze from the plane's cockpit, seated at the flight engineer's console during the shortened landing phase with Riley at the nav/comm console on his left, even though she let the pilot do all the talking with the tower. The ex-Delta Forces specialist was an old hand at casing an enemy base for weaknesses and movement corridors in/out to commit mayhem. That had become an even more vital skill recently, given his primary mission partner's penchant for causing disasters just by being a curious brat with unstoppable hands. Spying on-the-fly over the vast installation, as big as the best the USA or Russia had built to date, he could easily see that taking this frozen, forlorn place by force wouldn't be easy, even for the well equipped, strongly numbered armies of China, the Montagnard or Russia.

The cliffs were a little over 100 yards of sheer vertical stony height, with little to grip to if you rappelled, whipped by watery winds charged with salty brine that would sting your eyes fiercely, and chill you to the core in barely two minutes tops. The artificial plateau was as level and smooth as only reinforced, mechanically set concrete could ever become. The lip of the plateau overlooking the sea was interspersed with large CWIS turrets; beastly machines of hard steel, big enough for two men to be inside to manually operate the weapons if the central network was down or hacked. Each defensive turret was armed with a central 5 inch naval rifle for long kills at 50 miles, two quads of energy-based pulse rifles for short range interception at 10 miles, and two independent – 'nodules' – each with a chain-fed Pine Needle electro-chemical autogun for close-in strafing inside 3 miles. Plus, vertically in the back portion of the turrets, were three sets of four launch tubes filled with Sapin #I plasma warhead, all-purpose missiles for heavy interceptions inside 250 miles.

Turrets might seem an 'antiquated' way to defend a strategic place, since most conventional wisdom, from the invention of the ballista onwards, stated that static systems would always lose to mobile weaponry. Especially since, throughout history to date, mobile devices were smaller, cheaper, and easier to mass-produce or replace that the massive stationary siege defenses normally built. It was also much easier to bring more attack forces to a siege line than to bring more defenders, as the number of positions inside an enclosed defensible perimeter would always be, by the very reality of closed spaces, tightly limited.

That wouldn't be the case here. Besides the huge complex teeming with peoples of all sorts, there were four clear ways to bring in more, and even the best equipped enemy would grind to a halt if they didn't come in nuclear or biological from the onset. The defender's multi-axial beam weapons and hypersonic ship-killing missiles would see to it.

Jack could easily see a line of similar heavy CWIS turrets along the perimeter of the base, from the sea front all the way to the mountain façade, and at strategic places at the very joint of the plateau and vertical cliff-back of the rising, hard stone mountains. The two semi-exposed flanks of the base were further protected by dry moats 60 feet across and 30 feet deep, with two lines of thick military grade spiked, electrified, chain-link fences and several dozen guard dogs that roamed loosely between the metal barriers. There were 3 concrete gate-keeps with flat roofs, mounting three CWIS turrets atop each, visible on each of the base's two land flanks. The ocean cliff-front had a set of twelve massive concrete piers and docks built upwards from the sea floor, their main level being at 20 feet above the waves. On the outer tips of each pier were similar CWIS turrets, but mounted on a ten foot tall, round, cement bunker with 24 murder slits all around, to shoot at invading enemies that might make it to stand on the docks. Deep inside the docking berths, in the rocky cliff-face, were several pairs of massive vertical slabs of steel that served as blast doors, blocking the access to the repair drydocks dug deep into the living rock of the foothills.

Jack couldn't see the underwater torpedo launchers, heavy plasma laser arrays and CWIS pulse rifle turrets to repel missiles and divers. He knew they were there, though. He'd been briefed on the layout of the place, four years ago, by Patricia Thornton. Just like he knew there were four brand new anti-ICBM interceptor launchers that had been dug out of the mountain's high façade, 1,000 feet above the base, just in case the Chinese or Russians decided to try a quick grab for resource-rich land. These launchers held dozens of Canada's newly built 30 foot long Witchlight #I ionic warhead, Mach 10 hypersonic cruise missiles, capable of flying at 2,13 miles per second. These vectors were based on the US Tomahawk system, but re-designed with a scramjet system to take out other missiles or large ships, at 1,500 miles inside of a 12 minutes reaction window.

Anybody thinking Canada was a dead mule with four lame legs would get a few surprise kicks in the teeth, if they didn't check where they stepped when they visited. And they'd better call first.

Also, the classified maps showed an atmospheric recycling tower, built high up, deep inside the mountain chain, surrounded by a back-up military base in case this one was attacked by such force that they managed to land invading troops for a physical takeover. Good luck with that. After Sebastian Lund's explanation of Canada's preference for biological research in defensive applications, earlier this morning, that nice big hospital in the north portion of the base didn't seem so inviting anymore. A bloody Typhoid Mary, more like it. And having an ART essentially meant the zone up to 500km around the tower could be awash in poison inside of a few short hours, depending on the winds.

"Well, at least they ain't going down the crapper with us. That's always good." the fifty year old veteran thought glibly as he saw the landscape shift rapidly as the massive jet maneuvered for its approach down to the assigned runway.

A runway that had four BV 206 (Repeller variant) tracked carriers and two main battle tanks never seen before; the Avalanche AI-#I (Amphibious Infantry Mark-I). These tanks were the brainchild of a cooperation between Canada, Israel, Germany, Sweden and Norway to produce a battle-wagon capable of taking on a full 4-man crew plus 8 others inside the vehicle to shelter them from climate, incendiary, chemical, biological or radiation attacks. These vehicles were 75 feet long by 15 feet wide, with 4 feet wide tracks, a huge main-assault turret, eight mini-CWIS turrets, cargo hatch on top, personnel doors on both long sides, plus an 8 foot wide cargo loading ramp at the back. These 323 ton machines were fully amphibious to a depth of 150 feet as their engines were hybrid electro-plasmatic reactors, not the usual diesel turbo-charged piston systems other tanks used. Since the turrets all had beam weapons coaxial to their main projectile guns, the tanks could fight underwater too.

Nasty bastards, those. And a nastier surprise since Jack hadn't received confirmation of their existence yet. In fact, his most comprehensive briefing on this complex dated back to Thornton; Matty never needed them in this region before, and, let's face it, the USA never really took Canada as a serious military power since WW-II was done. That decision was obviously an error to correct.

"Oh well, no time like the present..." the soldier mumbled dryly as he mentally took notes. Good ideas deserved copying post haste, especially if it helped his own people survive as a nation. Or at least, as a family. And he needed to talk to his crew into thinking about how to hot-wire and drive them thingies, in case events went pear-shaped the way they tended to when spying & sabotage was the game in play.

The DXS plane was directed to land on an airstrip calibered to receive extra-jumbo jets like those that ferry the space shuttle or, in case their allies had needed it, US Air Force 1 and its escorts. Then it was guided immediately to taxi into an enclosed, isolated, surface hangar to be scanned, analyzed, and decontaminated as necessary. The crew and passengers were to be brought to the hangar's built-in medical quarantine facility to be scanned and cleared as well, given how public sanitation and health services had imploded over the last 3 days inside their homeland. The Canadians might be willing to tolerate them, and even accommodate them to a point, but not if it brought pathogens or parasites inside their population. Besides, they DID have a reputation, if the gossip from the Royal Canadian Air Force colonel in charge of them was to be believed.

"Lies! Such spurious lies, and calumnies, too!" Jack had responded playfully, his Texan accent full of mock outrage and drama, much to the amusement of the surrounding persons. "Well what? Denying things works for politicians; why not for our team?" he asked aloud.

"Yeeeeaaah... And where did that get ya'll, in the last two elections?" answered the colonel, snarkily like only someone who'd 'been there' AND 'done that' while in service under the flag could manage with a straight face, but still keep the tone funny. Strange combo, yes, but you didn't survive shell-shock and PTSD by staying stuffed like a bottle. You found ways to express, or you popped like aforementioned bottle.

Given the very small amount of foreigners on base at the time, the medical analysis and identification verifications were done quite quickly, in under an hour for all ten persons. The two pilots were offered bunks in a segregated suite that had three bedrooms with four bunks each, with communal sanitation, cooking and living spaces fit for 12 people year-round. The tactical deployment dormitory wasn't used right now, so it wasn't a biggie for the colonel to assign it to just two people. Especially since it was to be the official lodgings for the other eight persons as well, if their meeting with Lucas Wolenczak went down the pipes, as such things were wont to do when politicians and lawyers got involved.

That, plus the kid had a nasty reputation for being 'violently stubborn', the VCPD had reported.

It was possible, though, that they weren't completely objective. He had made fools of them in public, then set his attack bitches... ahem... lawyers after them for police brutality. That could, potentially, 'bias' the organization's perception of the adolescent. Men were not perfect, after all.

Anyways, the combined teams were assigned the spacious accommodations with basic supplies to take a much needed rest for the night, while their paperwork and authorizations were finalized to allow them to carry weapons, body armor and badges during their stay. The fact the NCIS lawyers on team had been told unequivocally that this was "not their choice" did factor into the decisional process, yes, but honestly, they were all beyond fatigued, stressed out with worry about their loved ones, and not confidant at all about the job ahead of them. The estimate that it would take only a short ten-or-so hours to process everything was miraculous, as they had guessed at closer to 4 - 6 days. Apparently, someone in Ottawa wanted them out of their borders ASAP, and all possible methods were being exercised for such expedited ends. Again, their opinions weren't needed.

In the end, the agents were truly grateful for the time to get a good solid meal, some shut-eye to decompress their minds, and thanked Riley profusely for connecting them back to the Deeks house in Los Angeles to speak with their relatives on a secure line. Being able to comfort and reassure their mothers had the best, most calming effect any of them could have needed that evening. A series of quick emails over to their agencies to inform them of circumstances had the video conference planned for tomorrow at 8:00am. They would have their tactical vid-meet, then be driven to the Daleminton Hotel complex in a militarized 'command bus' fitting 24 extra-large seats on two rows, a planning table, a field command comms hub with retractable antennae, two toilet stalls and two mini CWIS turrets on the roof. The heavy 60 foot long armored vehicle would be escorted by a pair of old fashioned Canadian military police LAV-III carrying four soldiers each.

They were imposed a CSIS liaison officer aboard their bus for the trip forth & back, that would accompany them during the meeting scheduled with Lucas at 12:00am noon. Apparently, the young man had 'insisted' on the Canadian government playing their expected role as host country fully, with all due diligence towards his welfare, in the coming negotiations. Oh, Joy!

{ SQ } - { Operational uncertainties } - { SQ }

Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 11:00am

Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 08:00am

The morning was off to a rough start for the DXS and NCIS teams.

Getting up between 8:00am and 9:00am so they could take a leisurely shower, eat a good sized breakfast, and sip some not-bad coffee seated on something that wasn't motorized and getting shot at, the start-up routine had seemed to foresee an ordinary day. Then they'd been told that their suite reservations at the Daleminton had been canceled by Lucas Wolenczak on the pretext they were housed by the military base, so no need for him to spend a penny more. Furthermore, they were warned that the teenager had reserved his Vancouver based lawyers for the meeting. As if that weren't enough shit-dressed-in-a-suit, the runt had managed to transport his actual Canadian litigation team based out of Sault-Sainte-Marie in Ontario all the way here, yesterday evening. They would carry out the actual argumentation with the diverse government levels whilst the Vancouver people were reduced down to support-team stance only.

And they were arguing something fierce, too, with arguments that the Canadians, Mexicans and EUO were listening to even as the DXS and NCIS teams were on the phone with their bosses for another joint vid-meet to set the day's agenda.

Rumors from their two directors, before going on the road, had informed them that there was chatter coming out of Washington DC that Trump and several of his Exalted Lord Bishops plus multiple key cabinet members and high White House staffers were killed yesterday. By incredible bad luck, neither NCIS nor DXS had any human contacts left inside the District of Columbia, and practically all the 'illicit' cybernetic links had been destroyed or taken over by Trumpists, many of whom were not officially hired inside the bureaucracy, police or Grand Crusade Army.

These reports of high-level deaths were still only rumors also because most of the government's formal public relations apparatus had been undergoing dramatic changes immediately in the wake of the White Christian Regency coming to power, then falling into the US Civil Collapse of 2020 without any preamble, right at the same time. Added to this was the crudely effected attempt at censoring all privately owned broadcast media systems operating at the national level like CNN, CBS, ABC, MSNBC, and NPR. Even the small PBS which covered parts of Canada, in Quebec and Ontario, was therefore seen as important in controlling the USA's external image and narrative to foreigners. The fully automated, centrally controlled, censorship AI algorithms couldn't really keep up with that many broadcasters and the Internex on top, plus the fact the technicians managing the system were not at all experienced with it, nor did they get any practice run before it was activated. Add to this situation the fact that several thousand people used Virtual Private Network applications to log onto foreign news streams to receive/send information on the REAL events inside the USA, and the amateurish system had only about 63% efficiency across all broadcasters and bandwidths.

Aside this critical development in their homeland, DXS listening outpost in Miami - Dade county had intercepted encrypted comms between the World Bank and UEO Council whom had been in hushed, intensive talks with the Canadian Prime Minister all through the night. The field personnel were warned that nothing good would come of this, and to expect some form of push-back from the teenager, supported by the WB's governor, and possibly by Andrea Dre who had finally manifested her existence, rather late in the whole shebang. Reportedly, she had suspended all her familial holidays in New Zealand to fly back to New Cape Quest in one of the UEO's few supersonic command & EW-C planes. The people still friendly to the USA's original statehood on the ground in NCQ had forwarded information that the planet's leading figure was in a Hell-raising mood upon landing, and would not be easy to negotiate with, or even just placate with bland agreement on what she said. And that there, just guaranteed their mission would go bust. With Dre most certainly backing the kid's autonomy to manage his own life and businesses, practically all the federations and countries would file in line, following her lead. Vying for a different outcome was pretty much a fool's errand by now.

After the 10:00am not-so-good vidphone conference, they were assembling their stuff to go on the road when the same colonel who had processed their intake yesterday came into the dormitory to inform them their authorizations had just been amended by Ottawa, at the insistence of the UEO. They no longer had any rights or privileges to carry any weapons other than basic survival knives, to which was added the fact that ALL guns were to be packed away in a secured locker, under MP jurisdiction, until they left the country. Their team leaders were getting the written versions of this as they spoke, by email from Ottawa and NCQ jointly. Without any room for arguing the point, the teams disarmed and repacked their mission packs then followed the colonel down to the street where their ride was waiting.

The three vehicles composing the armored convoy were drab forest green, with only a few small positioning LED's at the corners of the frames or turrets. Wilt had gotten a few snorts of snarky amusement from Jack, Kensi and Marty when he had exclaimed aloud "Whaaat? No battle tanks? Take a look how much they trust us already! My, but these northern types are friendly! A lot better than back home, is all I have to say..."

The infantryman in charge of driving the bus didn't seem to react, and the anonymous CSIS agent gave them all a bland, inoffensive smile that reminded them of Matty Webber and Shay Mosley during a vid-meet. Patently false, but you dared not call him on it, for fear he'd show you what he really was underneath.

Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 14:00pm

Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 11:00am

They set out of Diefenbaker Military Complex at exactly 11:00am without any visible problems or reasons to think things would go worse. Well, other than politicians and bureaucrats getting involved, but those came with the lay of the land, so they'd have to deal with. Still, mechanically and tactically, everything seemed fine especially since the CSIS agent stayed in front, seated in the first large chair next to the door and driver. The two field teams had been able to sit themselves at the planning table and surrounding chairs without any kerfuffles of rank or posturing. Simply, the two lawyers, Lund and Mack got the table, Riley got the comms hub console, and the rest seated nearby as they could.

"Well, isn't this a pretty little jar of pickles we got dumped in..." griped Tammy Gregorio without any real anger. "Them eager beavers have sure been up to no good, hidden under their white blanket all along. And they didn't think to share. Not very neighborly, if you ask me."

Answering snorts from all over told her the sentiment was shared, especially by the spooks from the DXS team. MacGyver, who seemed in much better health now than she'd ever seen him, actually cracked a joke at her, saying "Don't talk about it too much yet. Normally, in military espionage, when you get to see that kinda stuff, it's cuz the man-in-charge won't let you live to blab. Sooo, be nice to the kind CSIS agent, and don't diss the boys in green camo. We could quickly need all the sympathy we can find to avoid getting sent up to the 'Great Beaver Dam' secret prison up in James Bay."

A few people blinked their eyes interrogatively, with Sebastian Lund actually raising his head to look at the blond male seated across from him, next to agent Deeks. Tammy, sitting just left of Seb, asked the bearded forensics tech "What? You look you're about to go deep dark on me."

Giving an amused huff, her partner replied "There is no such place as 'Great Beaver Dam prison' anywhere in Canada." Pointing a finger at the younger blond male, he wagged it in mock sternness, instructing him; "You shouldn't say things like that about black sites. You'll scare the kiddies into a tizzy, and you could give the canucks ideas they clearly don't need, not with Diefenbaker built the way it is already."

Jack Dalton was laughing discretely in his closed fist while Blye, Bozer and Davis seemed relieved, even as Deeks grunted an absentminded something from the depths of the paperwork on the two active tablets he was using. They had just received a humongous batch of 'stuff' from Wise Apothecary & Chemists, Wolenbahn Electronics International, the Canadian ministry of Citizenship & Immigration, the North American Confederation HQ (temp. loc. Mexico city) and UEO council, passed along from the cabinet of Andrea Dre. Marty grunted again as he swiped the first tablet, sending via Blue Tooth the files over to Gregorio's own tablet, so she could process and resume the superfluously voluble forms. Somebody sure liked the English language's written form, cuz they'd gone and made a damned crapton of it for no good reason that could be discerned.

Kensi looked at her fiancé in sympathy, for once unable to help at all with any of the formularies and reports since it was way too legal and diplomatic for her capacities. Even their colleague, agent Gregorio, seemed clearly put back by the sheer volume and overly detailed nature of the files. An odd sniffing sound came from Riley Davis at the comms console, as she was giving a try at analyzing some of the less specialized files they had gotten. She was supposed to act as their para-legal for the mission and, to her, that wasn't just a cover but a real job to do, so she was trying her best.

"Well, it's official." the young woman grumped as she scrolled through reams of forms, reports and questionnaires on her screen. "We've officially reached 'Stonewall Town' and the customs office is closed until further notice. Damn, but this is gonna hurt when we call home, after the meeting."

The two lawyers looked up at the same time, asking her what she had seen to say such a thing.

"It's right here, in this 'exigent brief' submitted by World Bank governor Desdenski. It states that WB charter clauses stipulate 'All employees or contractors of security clearance grades 10 and above are reputed as having full citizenship, with the rights of a person 21 years of age, anywhere inside the UEO Alliance at large, without needing a member-country as native homeland to seat this claim & position.' It then states that Lucas Wolenczak was graded level AIT-SSS-10-Ex in 2017, then level 11 in 2018, then level 13 in 2019, and just got boosted to level AIT-MD-DFS-SS-CCA#16-Ex/PV as of August 2020. That clearance was validated by the UEO department of military intelligence because it's valid across the entire alliance, and allows him to access classified data, IT systems and locales. In particular, that coded denomination means 'Artificial Intelligence Technologies; Management – Directorate; Design – Fabrication – Supply; Support Services; classified/compartmented access #16; External contractor; Prioritized Value'. This guy's been vetted by Section 7 when he passed CCA #13, and again at CCA #15, so he's politically and legally armored up to his hair from deep inside the UEO military brass, on top of whatever the World Bank would do. We ain't gonna touch him, let alone move him, not without going off the books so far we become rogues for it." The 27 year old woman explained, worry evident in her voice.

"Well damn. This ain't gonna end well." Marty Deeks swore softly, his blue eyes looking out the window, idly scanning the thinning tree cover as they were entering the district of North Vancouver, their target hotel just another 15 or so minutes away at the speed the impressive convoy maintained. Turning to the persons around him, he commented aloud "It's not what that brief contains that worries me. Honestly, Gregorio and I expected something in the style, just delivered differently. Think about it, people. If we'd been told that yesterday morning, the mission would have aborted right then & there, because it's some of the plainest legal verbiage you'll find. The UEO wrote in the charters of the major planetary institutions a set of protections for its critical employees or contractors, in case a rogue country tried to falsely arrest & ransom one or two in exchange for concessions. Basically, to attack Wolenczak is to attack the UEO Alliance charter directly; an act of war. Legally and politically, at least. But, if they knew that already, and I'm bloody sure everybody including Mosley and Webber knew, why were we allowed to waste our time and dwindling resources to come here for nothing? That's what scares me, you know? The fact I can sense that somebody's playing the 'long game' in the shadows, but I can't see the guy, or what he's doing. My gut's telling me it's a trap, just not a fatal one, not in the shoot-to-kill sorts of trap, but were being 'boobied' all the same."

"Don't matter anymore, now." Jack shrugged it off as he pointed at the front of the armored bus. Through the large windshield they could see the massive pine log structures of the Daleminton Hotel over the short houses and low density apartment blocks that separated them from their destination.

Barely three minutes later and the convoy was entering the drive lane that led to the rear parking lot of the hotel where they were met by four Vancouver Police department squad cars, one VPD supervisor minivan, a Royal Canadian Mounted Police mobile command post already set in field config, and another pair of nameless spooks in tailored suits & trenchcoats. Their three vehicles were made to park at the far end of the lot to avoid crowding the hotel building, as well as give the heavy gunnery systems some free-range to act if they needed to defend against attackers. The DXS and NCIS teams were surprised to see that the bus driver and soldiers from the LAV-III escorts stayed inside their vehicles rather than come meet the assembled officers outside. Only their CSIS escort came with them, and only so far as to pass them along to the waiting pair of other spooks at the hotel's back lobby.

The eight agents were identified, saluted, then escorted in full, oppressive silence. They walked through the rear lobby, passed the entry to the large restaurant and gift shop, then up the decorative cement & wood stairs to the second floor, and suite 204. Before they even knocked or rang, the door was opened by yet another CSIS agent, this one wearing a clearly bespoke suit with designer glasses and a bronze name tag that simply showed the Canadian flag in red with the logo for CSIS next to it.

A 'big boss' then. Well, hot damn, but things had gotten complicated fast.

A strong, young voice that they knew well called out from deep inside the suite, inviting them to enter with ominous words. "Come in, come in, little kiddies, my poor webs are empty and cold without your presence. Besides, I was just about to have lunch, and couldn't do that without ya'll."

Mindful of the old proverb about spiders, flies and meals, they entered, seeing at once they had indeed been 'boobied' as Deeks had foreseen. And no, fun would not be had by anyone today.

{ SQ } - { What the fuck did we get into, this time? } - { SQ }

Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:00pm

Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:00am - noon

Lucas Wolenczak was sitting comfortably at the head of the decorative glass dining table, backlit by the cheery cast iron wood stove that cast gentle warmth and playfully moving lights as the pine logs burned. He was dressed in dark purple jeans with a deep blue T-shirt and checkered blue & gray flannel shirt worn completely open on top. He was poking idly at the tip of his black sneakers with the end of his night black cane, the thin blue veins inlaid along the metal shaft glowing mysteriously from the reflected firelight.

The first three seats on his left hand were occupied by people unknown to either teams, but the other three were the Vancouver lawyers. Seated along the right side of the table were yet another CSIS agent in high quality suit, an RCMP high officer, the VPD commissioner, and three people in brown suits off-the-rack that just screamed 'bureaucrats' from a mile away, but neither had name tags or even agency badges to refer to. As there were no seats left, the eight new arrivals were made to stand in the kitchen area with their bags in hand, a clear sign they wouldn't be staying long.

The CSIS agent who let them in closed the door and locked it, then stood before it, at parade rest with his hands joined in front of him. Clearly, they weren't getting out without permission, so this wasn't just an ordinary meet & greet anymore. The eight people had already made up their minds that the chances of having the kid leave with them were 0%, but this was getting weird in a bad way.

The senior CSIS agent seated at the table turned sideways to look them over, then signaled the young doctor for something. The teenager indolently poked at the thin tablet laying on the table before him, the hard-wired device beeping in response. Seconds later, the large Internex monitor mounted on the wall near the dining table activated, split the screen in four images and dialed four separate lines at the same time. Inside of mere seconds, their meeting was joined by Mathilda Webber, Shay Mosley, Justin Trudeau (Prime Minister of Canada) and Andrea Dre (Secretary General of the UEO Alliance).

Marty Deeks could feel a cool shiver of dread going down his spine as the pale skinned, blond haired woman who was the planet's leading figure gazed on them all through the monitor in a manner that could only be described as 'withheld anger' or flat out 'predatory', depending on how pessimistic you were. Either way, the woman wasn't in a good mood, and sitting at her massive metal desk, in her office high atop the UEO building in New Cape Quest with a large part of Miami visible through her windows in the far background, it all made for a presentation that shouted out "You fucked with POWER so now you suffer". Then, looking coldly around the assembly of officers and agents in the room, he wondered if it really mattered what Dre did, given they were at 'ground zero' for the explosion about to happen. He only needed one straight look at Wolenczak's closed-off facial expression to understand that there would be pain aplenty for everyone around, regardless of how guilty they were.

Kensi Blye was having similar feelings to her fiancé, but more because of the accumulated soldiers, policemen and bureaucrats that all had ranks WAY above them. All these people were visibly armed and wore body armor, whilst all their kits had been disarmed before leaving the dorms. Tactically speaking, everybody in this room was more dangerous than all of them, except perhaps for the Delta Forces expert, Jack Dalton, and herself, but for how long? And against that many people packed into such a small space, nobody could dodge anything, plus the boy was known to use poison grenades, just as he did two days ago when he was attacked in the hotel lobby. Their capacity to decide anything was now nil, and any 'soft influence' they thought to use on the kid was neutralized without any way forward.

Tammy Gregorio gave a single sideways look at Sebastian Lund, instinctively following his lead to slowly move backwards, and sideways, to positions directly near the door leading to the hotel's internal corridor. Her gut told her this wasn't their place to be, let alone their fight, and Seb's pale skin, tight lips and squinted eyes told her all she needed. He had seen the situation, instantly guessing they were stuck with bad odds, no leeway, nothing credible in hand to negotiate with, and even thinking about asking for credit due or patience from these people was a no-starter, if not actual suicide given the tense atmosphere in the tightly packed room. Then Tammy saw the kid had a new cane, different model, that he was fiddling with as if it were a toy rather than a murder weapon they all knew it to be. Not good, not good at all, and they were stuck inside until allowed to leave. Damn! What now?

Wilt Bozer had, as a black skinned child living in a fundamentally racist America, developed very good instincts to know when to either bluff through a confrontation with bullies, or retreat actively from genuinely dangerous threats. His gut was now twisting like a damned pretzel, telling him that EVERYBODY in the room was an openly violent threat, none more than the thin sickly blond kid at the end of the table. The fact that face-to-face Bozer could see just how much Lucas did look exactly like Angus had at that age, hair, facial structure, body type, hand shape... It all made alarm bells ring inside his mind. His friend had been surrounded by kindness and support most of his life, so his humongous genius hadn't been turned to violence and destruction. Well, not the criminal kind anyways; he'd been an EOD tech in the army, then had gone to DXS for whom he routinely blew up, torched, acidified and tore apart an exorbitant amount of materials, but all 'legally', as much as those jobs had permission. Bozer was sure that the teenager had no such support, no moral compass, and now, looking at those deep luminous blue eyes that were so much like Angus' when he was 15... Taking hold of Riley's forearm gently to not scare her since she was frozen solid and unresponsive, the prosthetics & makeup expert tugged her backwards, slowly aiming for the entry doorway, only to see that Lund and Gregorio had felt similar instincts that bad shit was going down in earnest, and an egress was needed post haste. Ah, crud! What had they jumped into, this time?

Riley Davis had frozen stiff to the point of paralysis. She didn't know why, until the object of their mission had raised his head, turning his face towards them fully. She had been unable to hold down the shiver of monstrous dread that crawled down her spine, from her nape all the way to her tailbone, making her wish ardently for a deep, dark hole to hide in. This kid had a predator's gaze, slow, indolent, cold and uncaring as he evaluated her worth in his life. The worse part though, was that he was visually the spitting mirror image of Angus MacGyver at that age, from the family films or photos she had seen from Bozer. Even with a good eleven years of difference between them, the facial structure, body type and overall appearance similarities... It was like seeing differentiated twins side-by-side to compare them, if one had been stuck in ice while the other was allowed to grow. That analogy woke up a nasty thought, niggling at the back of her mind, as she remembered something she should never have seen when she hacked the NSA five years back, before going to jail.

The DAGGER program.

GUELF – Genetically Uniform Engineered Life Forms.

Mold-cast humans, purpose-built, produced in series for a single job...

America's dirty inhumane secret; a vestige of World War II and the Cold War afterwards, inspired by the Captain America comic strips Marvel had been publishing for decades. A somber plot to create super-soldiers on industrial scale to achieve numbers, not just high quality in one unit. It had been a success, of sorts, but too costly, too late, and no longer useful given how changed the geopolitical landscape had become. Now, a quarter of the planet had high-powered fuel-air bombs, smart munitions for machine guns were common, and shoulder fired rockets were being replaced by man-portable one-shot chemical lasers as fast as the workshops could push them out to sell. So the DAGGER's, the 'cheap & disposable' organic super-weapons of America were shamefully hidden away, under permanent military imposed quarantine, on a remote island, in a minuscule prison that took the entire landmass, not far off the southernmost tip of Florida so as to still be inside US national waters. A set of 500 completely artificial humans, their skin colored in a psychedelic polychromatic pattern so that nobody ever mistook them for naturally bred people. All of them were so exactly similar, it was even said to be 'rigorously identical anthropomorphism' by some reports, to the point one biologist had commented they had essentially found a way to "Scan and reliably Xerox ourselves a basic human template a few hundred times" like he was talking about a page in a library book.

Was it possible? Could Angus and Lucas be two sides of a similar scheme of genetics engineering, but destined to produce super-genius technicians and doctors, instead of dreaded super-soldiers? MacGyver's performances in the combat parts of his field missions meant he certainly wasn't the dead-weight of the team, even with his aversion to firearms, although that one seemed to have finally passed. Lucas was an uber genius, equal or above Angus, with official diplomas at younger ages too, and fighting skills that seemed grossly underestimated to date, as the long line of bodies appended to his name proved. And James MacGyver was a superlative field agent, with a mind equal to his son plus a few decades of experience, and known fighting capacities to match any US Rangers veteran still alive. Was that the reason James always kept a close eye on his son from afar, influencing his schooling, his career and the missions he got assigned? Even going so far as to vet and direct who he had sex with, without Mac ever realizing for the better part of the last 15 years? Was it all done to ascertain the status and continuity of the program, the quality and capacities of each new increment in the production line as they churned out newer models with better capacities?

Another shiver of cold dark dread oozed down her spine, this time knocking her out of her pensive state, forcing her to realize that Wilt was holding on to her hand which he had used to maneuver them both closer to the doorway, ready for a speedy exit if – when – things went bad. Man! Just how far out of it was she, that she never even felt her body move in response to her partner's cues? But all that left her mind as she saw the reaction that Angus and Lucas had to each other, now that they were finally face-to-face, and close enough to look each other in the eyes.

They froze.

Both of them froze hard, paralyzed beyond capacity to move or express as they gazed deeply into each other's eyes, clear light green and eerily luminescent sapphire blue.

Then Lucas snorted inelegantly, shrugging off the paralysis and whatever emotional 'thing' had happened just now, between adult and teenager who had never met before in their lives. Leaning backwards in his dining armchair, the adolescent caressed the hatchet edge of his pommel with the pad of his right hand thumb idly, as the left hand held the tool right under the molded pistol grip. Making a completely artificial smile appear on his face, more a smirk of satisfied superiority in truth, the boy looked at MacGyver from his hair down to his shoes then back up, as if he were evaluating a farm animal for purchase. The feel of the situation wasn't lost on anybody, but it was Jack Dalton who broke the aggressively silent moment with his interjection.

"Hey! Kids!" he said while moving a hand up & down between the two blonds to get their attention focused on his movements. "You can have your 'mutual admiration' thing later on, when we know what's gonna happen. Capisce? The important people here don't have all day." he insisted by pointing at the table full of agents and officers who were all waiting silently for a cue from someone higher in the food chain.

The teenager responded in venomous tones, without ever looking towards Jack; "I do hope nobody cares for this one's life, as he just forfeited it. The BEAST needs something to quell its hunger, if you want it to be patient during the meeting. You are all wasting enough of my precious time and tolerance, but you have the ranks, jobs and positions in society to justify it. This, however, I will not accept. NEVER have I suffered fools. Not even my birth parents! I will not remain silent or inactive before this. Remove him and the other useless grunts from the room, or accept that they are part of the offering you tithe me to purchase my patience." he finished with an enraged snarl.

Angus MacGyver reared backwards as if he'd just been slapped, his eyes blinking rapidly, trying to look everywhere all at once to ascertain threats, as he woke himself up in a clearly visible panic from an episode of dissociation similar to what Riley had experienced. Moving purely by instinct, the 27 year old male grabbed the shoulder of his fifty year old comrade-in-arms to pull him backwards from what he now understood to be a catastrophic threat to all of them. He couldn't tell you in words WHY he was so certain, but he'd bet his life and all his friendships that the little teenaged boy seated in front of them was the worse menace in the entire hotel complex at the moment. And that was while taking into account the presence of some of the NCIS and DXS top hitters on site during the same time-frame.

{ SQ } - { What the fuck did we get into, this time? } - { SQ }

Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:12pm

Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:12am - noon

Any objections Jack, Angus, or anybody else could try to verbalize were cut short when the Internex monitor so kindly beeped an 'emergency broadcast' coming in, for all citizens to hear. The four images of the persons on remote conference were automatically reduced to small mortises stacked one atop each other in the left side of the monitor while a single great image now took 80% of the screen and the sound automatically ramped up to 50 decibels.

It was an official message from the White House, in Washington DC in America, being violently pushed across the planet by the recently instituted automatic censorship software and systems that had given the Papal Lord control over the USA's private broadcasters for a few short hours this weekend.

The message was being filmed live from inside the Oval Office, but it wasn't the Lordly Papal Conclave of Bishops, nor even just Trump himself that were the origin of the broadcast.

Dressed in modernized christian crusader clothing of white cotton, wool, kevlar and silvery thermoplastic plates on top, was the vice-president of the USA, Michael Richard Pence. He was seated at the Papal Lord's massive custom wooden throne and desk, which were both covered in blood smears, evidence that something 'juicy' had exploded in the chair, splashing all over and around the area while somebody was sitting in the throne. The 61 year old man looked far older and more fragile than he had ever looked during the last four years in his elevated office. In fact, even at the heart of the embattled second run at the job, he had never seemed so worn out, so dead inside.

The population would soon know why.

"My fellow Americans" he began in a somber, listless tone, "It is my immeasurably sad duty to inform you that our most beloved, our cherished above all others, Donald J. Trump, the man styled Papal Lord Amerikus the First, has succumbed to grievous injuries inflicted to his body. He was assailed most scurrilously, in a fashion only an immoral anti-christian coward could accept, by way of sniping him from a distance through the enclosed walls of the Oval Office. The projectile entered his chest, whence it exploded in a most unholy, unacceptable, act of profanation of his nobly exalted corpus benedictorum, that had been given to him from On High, by Jesus our Lord God the Redemptor, directly without intercessions from man or beast. The foul creature that dealt the fatal deed has committed suicide by immolation, a cowardly act too, rather than face publicly before the Roseanic Chapel assembled the price of his heretical felonies."

Taking a minute to compose himself, it was visible that the old man was shaken to the core, and it wasn't a spectacle or a fake-out like his boss used to put on for donors and voting base. His hands were shaking, his eyes were wet from tears that kept on falling, his lips trembled from the effort of saying words he didn't want to be true, and his entire posture was that of a man broken, someone who had finally seen that the fight was lost.

Mike Pence had genuinely cared for the older man, and followed him due to real belief, not political calculus, unlike many thousands who would have gladly dumped him once he had named his second judge on the Supreme Court. Even inside the Republican side of politics, there had been vast hordes waiting, not so silently, hoping fervently for Team Trump 2020 to collapse and lose the second race so that 'normality and logic' could once again rule the country's top agencies and policy-making.

A multitude of factor conspired to rob them of those hopes: Bob Mueller was taken out so his investigation was dead-on-arrival. Several anti-Trump politicians and officials resigned or were bought off to leave both politics and the country. The popular psyche was carburating on right-fringe anti-government conspiracy theories of the worse sorts. Christian religiosity was unbridled across the land. White racism was now openly peddled in several state or municipal government seats anew. And the entire world structure of NATO and the UN had been trashed, replaced by the end of their first year in office.

Team Trump were the full winners of all they undertook, so much so that even their worst hard-core detractors had to admit the reality, all the while shredding their shirts like the treasonous Pharisee Caiaphas before Pontius Pilate, screaming through the pains of denial, that they were in fact 'redoing the world' along the plans promised in 2016. Very few, however, would ever be privy to just how much of that success was due to the inhumane efforts of Mike Pence as he lobbied the white power movance, the right-wing fringe, the mainstream evangelicals, and several christian denominations who were weary of the extremist apocalyptic preachers Trump had surrounded himself with over four years.

No; no one would ever truly understand the depth of devotion this man had for his leader.

The Japanese would compare it to the relation between a samurai and his shogun; living only to serve, and honored to be allowed to serve such an honored master in such times of turmoil.

Some people were born to lead, to be the beacon of shining hope, whilst others were born to carry that torch aloft across the land, seas and storms so that it's cleansing light shone on the worshipers, bolstering their faith in the Divine Creed yet again. Mike Pence was born so, a simple bearer, and he accepted his position in life with all the honorable humility, and Blessed Grace, that he expressed for all things given him in life by Jesus, the Truly Pure Christian Christ, his Divine Creator. He saw his position similar to the apostles in the Time of Prophecies; he was helpful in the picture, but in no ways was the story about himself or his actions. It was about the God-Made-Flesh in the middle; HE was the reason they were all so much better now. And so, to see this leader, his best friend, his great light of pure undiluted hope laid low, had truly affected him beyond his capacity to express in human words.

But they would know all the same. There were ways other than words...

"I see now. I see it clearly now. With my eyes wide open, illuminated by the glowing purity of Jesus' redeeming light of Truth and Grace! AMEN! I have said AMEN! I see the Light of Salvation at the end of the dark tenebrous passage, through the fiery sulfurous planes of Gehenna! The mere and meek worshipers will be led into the wilds of Perdition, as Moses did with the Jews in the desert, and only the True Faithful will be left at the end of the pilgrimage, martyred unto Exalted Purity, to witness the Godly Mercy of Salvation as they are Raptured into Heaven's ranks of crusading angels! AMEN!"

Looking into the camera with empty, soulless eyes that no longer sought to perceive reality, the vice-president took out a small blue plastic box, a rectangle barely the size of a cellphone but two inches thick, that he placed on the bloodied tabletop before himself. Opening the box's lid without actually looking at it, he gazed pensively at the camera, as if he were actually in the room, speaking with the people at the other end of each line. Shaking his head sideways in a slow, negative movement, the old man turned the box towards the camera so that the contents could be seen by all.

It was an electronic transmitter with a digital countdown, balefully ticking down the last 87 seconds that were visible on it. Mike Pence spoke slowly, softly, devoid of any wrath, anger or any feelings at all. It was the most chilling fact of it all, that total absence of feelings for anything.

"You, the peoples of the Earth, are unrepentant heathens, unbelieving cads, scurrilous knaves and base-born heretics who dwelt lower than the worms in the soil. We have tried... All of us have, but HIM more than any other, to show you the way in the Light of Jesus and his creed. How did you thank HIM? Tell me, curs, how did you thank your Blessed Papal Lord, Amerikus the First? You didn't! You lied about him! You scoured his past in a despicable WITCH HUNT of unimaginable proportions! You conspuated his name, his reputation and his history with nothing but bile and vitriol! He gave his life and part of his soul so that you could all stand tall, atop his grand, broad, titanesque shoulders, small men given a chance to become giants in the eye of God, the way he was! But you spurned him... And in the end of things, you murdered him crassly, without honor or dignity, without even having the courage to stand in his face as you pulled the trigger..."

Looking around with madness in his eyes and erratic movements in his hands, the old man dressed in soldier's clothing, even though he had never served the military in his life, seemed to be mentally too disordered to line up his thoughts anymore. But, he managed one last comment for them to hear.

"You don't deserve it... This city, this nation, the technology and the money, each dollar a solid credible proof of God's Just and Graceful Mercy upon those who clutch them... You don't deserve any of it anymore, you filthy swine who conspire with Jews, Romani, niggers, yellows, browns and all manner of slave-spawns, women and rebellious children out of hand! And so, by the command of my God, as it was left to me personally, spoken by the very mouth of Amerikus the First, in his Last Testament which he had written so... You are to be deprived of this luminous city of wonders, that you cannot hold in the Name of the One and True God, Jesus, of the Christian Bible. Amen, I said! Amen to the Cleansing!"

The Internex signal was changed over to show an outside view, from somewhere south and east, as the municipal infrastructures were destroyed in an instant. The information banner at the bottom of the screen said the signal had to roam for two full seconds before it found a camera functional in the area to show – anything – from the zone affected. It was a surveillance camera mounted high atop a metal pole, in the Point Lookout State Park, on the Point Lookout Lighthouse that guarded the entryway to the Potomac River. The image showed lasted for only four seconds before that signal was lost as well.

There had been three massive spheres of light, exploded at 10 meters above ground, forming a triangle that covered the entire city of Washington DC, blasting, pulverizing, incinerating, irradiating, craterizing and breaking the tectonic plate of the entire zone as it succumbed to the relentless might of nuclear fire. The molten slag of a city collapsed into the river, which rose up in a response-surge tsunami, flooding out of its banks for hundreds of miles both ways, as well as sending up a cloud of hyper-heated steam boiling at several million degrees Fahrenheit as the blast wave, hot air front and sonic boom traveled for three hundred kilometers all around the zone of explosion.

The American capital had just been erased from existence, leaving an irregular, vaguely triangular depression, that would quickly fill with the Atlantic's cold waters as the ocean would now be able to reach that far inland, due to the catastrophically lowered river bed and surrounding land masses.

{ SQ } - { PREVIEW ch.9 } - { SQ }

Washington DC is dead.

The Russians, Chinese and Montagnard leaders were having a secret/classified meeting over the Internex to discuss the current American Madness when the capital city of their greatest rival goes up in flames. You may be surprised to learn that nobody is pleased with that turn of events, and why.

The meeting in the Daleminton Hotel aborts badly when Andrea Dre declares unilateral rights to move Lucas over to SeaQuest to protect him from further madmen and their fanaticism.

An explorative post-portem of the demised city is done by multiple parties, including the SeaQuest which is dispatched to analyze the damages to the oceanic floor, the outer banks and the Potomac river itself. The anti-ICBM sattelites are put to profitable use, scanning from above at many angles to produce raw data for analysis, and to take over as comms relays to guide the civil security measures to assist what few survivors will be found past the 300 kilometer perimeter of annihilation.

Plans are finally made to move Lucas, but put on hold until the planetary climate recycling grid has managed to reduce temperatures, restore visibility and tone down radiation as many communications are being heavily impacted by the damages the blasts did to the gases and energy layers around the Earth's protective envelope. Against the desires of everybody, Lucas employs his LEGAL autonomy equal to a 21 year old, granted by his status at the World Bank, to move himself to his manorial holding of Sault-Sainte-Marie, in Ontario, to pass his birthday and the holiday period in safe, friendly surroundings rather than besieged by strangers.