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Unidentified Resistance base

SC-80 awoke in a small room…his first impression was of a cell, but the space was far too large and far too comfortable to be a detention chamber. He was lying on a narrow but pleasantly soft bunk, aware of a gentle murmur of voices in the background. He sat up and his head swam; shaking himself and administering a slap to one side of his face, his awareness crystallized and he was better able to ascertain just what manner of place this was. A toilet was located in the corner, a sink and shower alcove set into the adjacent wall. A small table and chair stood by the head of his bunk, and a television rested on a stand in the nearer corner, beside the door. The Captain sat for a moment, considering…he clearly remembered the tablet he had swallowed, and he wondered what precisely the Resistance members might intend to do with him and his men. Standing up from his bunk, he found that the door was locked from outside…which he rather expected…the relative comfort of the room, however, indicated that he was not here as a prisoner. Offhand, he could not think of any particular reason why the Resistance should have felt it necessary to drug him, but then again he did not know the full situation. Oh, well. Nothing to be done for it at the moment.

Turning, he started to investigate the television, but then he noticed the neat stack of linens piled on the table. Picking it up, he found the bundle to consist of a towel and a set of clothes. A note was placed on the top: "Please place uniform in receptacle for repair and laundering." Looking around, he identified a chute just to one side of the door that must have been the receptacle in question. Looking down at his uniform, he grinned and shook his head as he imagined the Fuhrer walking in to perform an inspection and seeing him in his present state. His clothes were a mess: muddy from his fall in the swamp, twisted and wrinkled from being both run and slept in, and torn in several places where he had fallen. Shrugging, he took off the uniform and deposited it in the chute before showering and dressing in the fresh clothes provided. The fabric felt strange…much coarser than what the Captain was used to…but not uncomfortable. Locating a remote control, he flipped through stations on the television, which was obviously streaming public broadcast signals being hijacked from a satellite. And while the programming was not particularly interesting for its own sake, he found himself fascinated. Most of the channels were government programming of some kind…the winged sword was everywhere, and the Captain had never seen more blatant propaganda. The news of the attack on the Tower of London was being publicized, a massive reward being offered for information leading to Bucket's recapture…the Captain changed the channel, and watched as an anchorman described four Oompa-Loompas "in foreign uniforms" being sought by authorities. Finally, he turned off the television and slept, finding that a tray of food had been delivered upon awakening.

The Captain spent the next three days in his strange little suite. Breakfast and dinner were delivered to him, yet he was allowed out for lunch each day, being escorted to a small dining area. The other Deepstar crewmen and Jonesy would join him there, the Loompas' time in proximity being closely but politely monitored by a handful of armed guards standing casually at the exits to the room. Though they had to limit their speech, he managed to devise a rough code by substituting words and phrases. It took the others a bit of time to catch on, and it was exceedingly difficult to maintain a natural-sounding conversation, but two important points were nonetheless clarified. First, the Captain revealed the plain and terrible truth: Charlie Bucket is the key to all of this, and we denied his chance at the Golden Ticket. Second, the others agreed that, when explanations were demanded, the Captain would lead the conversation…whatever he said, the others would do their best to follow, improvising where necessary.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, the door to the Captain's room opened. Carver entered followed by a trio of Resistance fighters, one of whom placed another pile of neatly-pressed clothes on the Captain's table. Carver nodded politely. "I'm sorry to have kept you in the dark like this, but I also hope you can understand our need for caution. When you're ready, General Bucket would like a word. One of my men will be waiting outside." With that he was gone and the door hissed shut. SC-80 rose and picked up the new set of clothes: his uniform, which he had identified immediately from the color. I have to hand it to whoever does their laundry, he thought wryly…his uniform was not only spotless, but all of the damage had been repaired. Placing his current clothes into the laundry receptacle, the Captain donned his uniform and stepped out into the corridor. The soldier waiting outside nodded politely.

"If you'll follow me, sir." The other man led the way, taking the Captain through a maze of corridors and rooms…the officer tried to keep track of their course at first, but it soon proved impossible. Some of the walls were concrete, while many more were smooth rock. Wherever they were, it was clearly underground. The two men reached an elevator, went upward for the space of several floors, and passed through another maze to finally reach an office. A large oak desk occupied one corner, General Bucket seated behind it; on the opposite side of the room was a large device with a flat glass top…likely a tactical display table of some kind. National flags stood on poles around the perimeter of the room, each representing a different country…many of these flags were torn and singed, damage obviously acquired in combat. But what truly held the Captain's attention was the globe that stood on one corner of Bucket's desk…rather than the usual patchwork of differently colored countries which typically occupied a desktop globe, at least three-quarters of the landmass was a single monochromatic entity…national boundaries were still represented as faint outlines, but many of the names had been replaced by new ones, all of them followed by the word "district."

"Impressive when you see the Empire laid out this way, isn't it?" Bucket asked, giving the globe a little spin. The Captain's escort saluted and stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him. Bucket extended a hand, indicating the other chair. SC-80 sat, trying to keep his features neutral. He was not entirely sure that he trusted Bucket any longer and, either way, he was most likely about to engage in the most fanciful and extensive lying he had ever done. He had spent the last three days concocting a story that might halfway justify the presence of himself and his men; what he had come up with seemed weak to him, but it was hardly as outlandish as announcing that he and his compatriots had originated in a parallel universe. He fought off the urge to laugh as he imagined the alternative: Well, sir, as it turns out your son was basically the key to the world as we know it, and my friends and I accidentally doomed the entire future while travelling through time in a spaceship. The urge to laugh grew stronger, and the Captain could feel his features desperately trying to form themselves into a grin. It sounds like an episode of Star Trek. "Is something amusing?" the General asked calmly, and the Captain shrugged.

"Sorry. Just one of those thoughts, you know? I couldn't explain it if I tried."

"Always seem to strike at inopportune moments, don't they?" Bucket did not smile.

"Yes, sir. You wanted to see me." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes." Bucket sat forward in his chair. "Well, as far as I can tell, you're not spies. We took the liberty of scanning you while you were unconscious…other than a sort of identity chip thing which was not actively transmitting, we found nothing on either yourselves or your uniforms." He sighed. "I realize the strain which your…abduction…has undoubtedly placed on the relationship between my organization and your men, and for that I can only apologize. For what little it is worth, I hope you can understand our need for caution. It would not be the first time that the enemy has tried to slip an agent into our camp."

The Captain nodded and gave a slight smile. "Yes, sir. All the same, it makes for a hell of a first impression."

General Bucket still did not smile. "In our defense, we had reason to be suspicious…and we still do. We're no longer treating you as an enemy, but we also don't know that you're a friend. As a matter of fact, we don't know anything about you. You and your men don't match any faction we know of, and your identity chips read on a frequency which no communications system in the world uses. We don't even know your names. Before we go any further, I would like to know several things, if of course you don't mind."

SC-80 was sweating in his freshly laundered tunic, but he kept his face impassive. I guess we're about to find out the extent of my acting skills. He held his hands out in a sort of shrug, palms up. "Not at all, sir. Ask away."

The puzzlement in Bucket's expression was genuine. "Who are you?"

"Personally, or as an organization?"

Bucket made a steeple of his fingers, his gaze intense. "Let's start with your organization."

"My men and I are part of a private military operating under one Mr. Charles Wonka, cousin to William 'Willy' Wonka." SC-80 desperately hoped that Bucket would not know much about the original Fuhrer…whose fate the Captain still did not know himself. "Charles was and remains reclusive…it seems to be something of a Wonka family trait. Regardless, when things…went as they did…" the Captain was trying hard to make it sound as if he knew the history of all that had transpired and did not need to repeat it, even though in truth he knew nothing "…Mr. Wonka took several of his cousin's technological inventions and a great deal of money, and he essentially created his own independent state."

"How can that be? After the lawsuits from that Golden Ticket Tour, the Wonka Company collapsed. Chadworth took everything." The Company doesn't even exist in this timeline. It felt as if someone had punched SC-80 in the gut, but he still kept his features neutral, letting Bucket's input help him craft his story.

"Not everything, sir. Charles Wonka is an extremely resourceful man. Our leader gathered a large group of like-minded individuals, many of them Oompa-Loompas. His idea was to create an independent, hidden enclave…a sort of technological Shangri-La if you will…which would provide refuge for political and social malcontents. We named it New Atlantis…it's not exactly a lost city, but Mr. Wonka thought the name appropriate because we're essentially a myth to the rest of the world."

"And where is this magical hidden city, exactly?"

SC-80 sighed. "With all respect, sir, I can't tell you that. If you were ever compromised…" Bucket's stare did not waver, and SC-80 was overcome by a horrible sinking feeling. We're screwed. But he kept his face pleasant and open, his expression completely calm and serene.

The General sat back in his chair. "So how did you get here?"

SC-80 smiled. "You won't believe it."

"Try me."