The blue orb of energy popped back into existence. December 23rd had arrived, the sun set to peer over the horizon in less than an hour. The orb pulsed blue as the man was thrown out onto the hard, frozen asphalt onto his face. He tried to breathe in, but couldn't. His lungs wouldn't respond to his mental commands. If was as if that part of his brain had turned off. He panicked as his lungs began to burn, and his vision darken-
He breathed in a deep breath of the cold air. He coughed and clutched his stomach, sore from the hard drop. He rolled onto his back as the orb slowly fizzled out of existence, its diameter shrinking until it was smaller than the human eye could see.
He got onto his feet and looked around. The grass and empty farm plots were covered in a downy layer of snow, and his car was still there. He could see three black tire marks, with the fourth being blood-red. He swore silently, and looked up and down the road. Not a car was in sight.
He pulled out his phone and checked to see if his father had called him back. There weren't any new notifications, even after the seven hours that the clock read. There wasn't even any cell service.
He furrowed his brow and put his phone away in his pocket. Maybe the whole orb vision thing had something to do with it.
He walked over to his car and sat on the hood, smoke no longer coming out of the side. He leaned back and looked over the land that surrounded him, admiring the beauty of the humble farmland. He smiled slightly at the sparkling of the snow on the ground from the waning moonlight and approaching sunlight, the few stalks of corn that stubbornly remained in the ground, and even a deer that wandered out of the woods in front of him for a moment.
His father always did that when he was in deep thought, just cracking open a cold one and sitting out on the back porch.
He thought about the strange orb vision. Seeing his family-BEING with his family in an event 23 years ago that never happened. And taken by a glowing, color-shifting ball of something for only a few minutes, and thrown back into the real world-apparently seven hours later.
That was when he realized the gravity of the event he had just witnessed-the dissolution of the United States, headed by Ronald 'Fucking' Reagan no less. He couldn't wrap his head around it-Reagan led the final charge of the Cold War, and saw to most of the final blows to the USSR, which led to THIER dissolution. What could've happened that turned everything around? War? Another great depression? Civil war? Hell, nuclear warfare? Had he been thrown into a desolate, nuclear wasteland of an Earth?
He almost didn't hear the rumbling of a large vehicle down the road, he was so deep in thought. He squinted his eyes, hearing but not seeing it over the small hill. He dove into the ditch beside his car as he saw a large gun on top. He fell right beside his damaged tire, grimacing at the smell of the several hour dead raccoon, which was already starting to decompose. He looked up and saw a few turkey buzzards circling the area. The whole situation was giving him bad reminders of his time overseas.
The vehicle, as it parked next to his crashed car, was identified by the man as a M113 APC. The plating was completely black, with a strange emblem stamped onto it-a fist on a blue background on the left side, with thirteen white and red stripes on the right. The gun he saw was a Browning .50, which was manned by a man in white fatigues and body armor, with a red sash on his bicep and a white single filter gas-mask covering his face that had two circular pieces of polarized glass for seeing and black duct tape covering the area where his mouth would be. He looked around the area with slow swivels of his head, grasping his gun like it was a lifeline.
Four more men dressed in similar uniforms hopped out of the rear hatch, small submachine guns in their hands, which bared a strong resemblance to the AK. One pointed up further down the road, and another nodded and jogged down.
"2, radio it in," He said, his voice heavily distorted by his mask. '2' nodded, a black balaclava covering his face, and touched the side of his headset. An antenna from the large radio on his back extended.
"Columbus Command, this is Patrol 3 Hardin-Hancock-Putnam," He said, his voice normal and light compared to his comrades. Must've been something in the gas mask. "Investigating an unregistered car crash on State Road 103." The other gas-masked soldier turned on a flashlight, scouring the inside of the car. "Make is Ford, model and year unknown."
The man slid under his car as the radio operator made his way around the passenger side to check the damage. "Cause of crash; small animal sucked under tire." He turned on a flashlight, checking the tire in the light. "Creature seems to be racco-" He flashed the light over the man, who covered his face with an arm, shielding his eyes from the harsh white light. "Hey, you! Out of there!" The soldier that had been checking the road peered down with him, grabbing his leg. He pulled the man out, keeping one hand open so his gun was on him.
"Stand up," He ordered, grabbing his sleeve and hoisting him up. He didn't get much rest, as his back was slammed into the car. The apparent squad leader walked up to him as the other soldier pulled his backpack out of the hiding place by the strap, throwing it at his feet and aiming his gun at him.
"Who are you?" The squad leader asked. The man opened his mouth, but quickly closed it with wide eyes. His name. He burrowed into his mind to find the thing that should've come on impulse, but couldn't remember it. As he kept trying to remember, he couldn't even think of his parents' names.
Something in the portal-ball thingy must've given him partial amnesia.
"Where's your identification papers?" The squad leader asked after the man remained silent for a few moments. The man's mind raced as he pulled out his wallet, opening it up and pulling out his military ID.
"Does this count?" He asked, trying to look at it to see his name. The squad leader didn't respond, snatching it from his hand before he could read it. A second later, he dropped it on the ground and fired an extended burst into it, utterly destroying it. The man jumped, not expecting the move.
"You're under arrest," He said harshly, slowly changing his magazine for a fresh one.
"What for?" The man asked. The soldier growled and slammed the butt of his gun into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The two grunts took him by his arms while the radio operator grabbed his pack. Iron cuffs were slapped onto his wrist.
"Columbus Command, Patrol 3 Hancock-Hardin-Putnam," He said into his mic, "Picked up suspect in procession of US Armed Forces identification card. Suspect was active member of American Republic Armed Forces." 'American Republic?' The man thought, 'does he mean the United States?' "Bringing it to Hancock Command for termination. Over." The man shot his head up.
"Wait, I'm being executed?" He asked, close to hysterics. He was thrown into the APC, hitting his unprotected head on the hard metal floor. The squad leader got in first, walking towards him menacingly.
"Why wouldn't we, you scum," He said. His foot rose up and kicked him in the face, knocking him out. He heard a few more words before losing consciousness.
"Welcome to the new world."
Findlay, Ohio was known as, before the dissolution, Flag City. The city kept that name to heart, being one of the most patriotic towns in the country before the dissolution of the United States. Now, it was a drab, desolate town of the worker. The old Marathon corporation building was now the hub of workers' unions from the four counties surrounding it, and the local tire factory that been quadrupled in size in the 'boom of new, free workers'.
The man only knew that they were going there was from the chatter of the men who had thrown him the APC. They only referred to it was 'Hancock Command'. The APC was apparently doubling as a prisoner bus; Four other people sat by him, fear in their eyes.
Eyes that hadn't yet left him.
They stared at the patch on the bicep of his fleece coat, staring at the Stars and Stripes. They looked like they had never seen it before, with something else in their eyes that he couldn't place a finger on.
He glanced over to the soldiers/secret police that brought him in, and saw the radio operator looking at him and his patch too. He saw the same look in his dark brown eyes. He quickly looked down upon making eye contact, choosing to look over his gun instead.
"Columbus Command to Patrol 3 Hancock-Hardin-Putnam," The radio screeched, the words almost drowned out by the insane amount of static, "Divert to Execution Ground 2 for extermination."
The vehicle turned sharply, almost throwing a few of the prisoners out of their seats. It slowly stopped, and the door flew open. The secret police climbed out, with the squad leader standing next to the door while brandishing his weapon.
"Everyone out," He growled. The other prisoners slowly got out of the APC with short, shaky steps. The man, however, stayed in his seat, defiant. "Hey, American! On your feet!" He spit on the ground in defiance.
"Eat my ass!" He shouted back. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the back of his head that appeared alongside the crack of gunmetal to bone. He was thrown to the metal floor again, banging his forehead against it. He felt blood run down his face as he was hoisted up from behind. He turned his head for a moment, and saw the man who had been mounting the turret. He was thrown out of the door, landing hard on his side.
"Get up, patriot," One of the secret police snarled, kicking him hard in the gut so he was lying on his back and grabbing the front of his jacket. He hoisted him up and shoved him towards a brick wall. The man turned his head to see the same policeman jerk his gun toward the wall, where the other prisoners were standing. Turning toward, he paled as he realized he was looking at the place where he would die; Confused, angry, and yearning for his home.
Despite the familiar scenery, this was not home.
He walked to an open spot between a man and woman in plain, worn out clothes, faces blanked by terror. He saw that there were several more people about to be sot by these white-armored men, almost 15 in total. He turned his back to the wall, staring defiantly at the force of strange cops in front of him. There were two more M113s, and about 10 secret police not counting the ones on the APCs' guns.
The man caught the concealed eye of the duct-taped secret police, who was pulling back the receiver on his heavy gun. They locked eyes, and he cut his own neck with his hand.
'You're dead.'
A man dressed in a heavy black coat walked out from behind the other APC, a sharp military cap on his head. The man was instantly reminded of the pictures he had seen of Russian Commissars from World War II.
From how the backs of the secret police stood straighter as he walked past, he probably was.
The commissar turned to the gathered crowd, most looking half starved and dressed in ratty clothes. Only the ones who were dressed in decent clothing and looked well fed matched the young commissar's hawkish expression.
"People of Findlay!" He shouted, "Standing here are sixteen enemies of the state! They stand accused of conspiracy against the state, possession of fake and illegal identification papers, and active rebellion!" The man looked down the row, and saw a man close to his age staring defiantly forward, a bandanna with the Stars and Stripes around his neck.
"Following the Montpelier Accords of Vice Chairman Sanders, these criminals are sentenced to death! For the glory of the American People's Commonwealth!" The man's mind was in a whirlwind of confusion, but one thing was for certain; these were his last moments.
The commissar locked eyes with him, making the coated man smirk. He looked to one of the secret police and pointed at the man. The secret police nodded, stomping up to him and slugging him in the face. He grabbed his forearm and grabbed him on his knees to the commissar. The man looked up to see the commissar grinning evilly.
"READY WEAPONS!" Weapons were loaded, and he could imagine sadistic grins behind the masks. The commissar himself drew a pistol, an M1911 from the looks of it. He leveled the pistol right in front of his face. The man gulped, but held his ground, staring into the cold, evil eyes of the commissar.
Behind them, the radio operator that had brought him in was backing up, behind all of the secret police. He leaned into the APC he came into, pulling out his backpack. He carefully placed the large radio on the ground-attaching his headphones to its back panel-and replaced it with the pack.
"AIM!" The weapons' barrels were lifted up to point at them. The commissar's gun was cocked.
The radio operator pulled a grenade from his belt and primed it, looking up to the roof of the building before nodding. He tossed it into the turret of the left one, right behind duct tape.
"FI-" The explosion blew duct tape out of the vehicle-the top half of him, that is. On the rooftop, a rocket flew straight into the other one, detonating the munitions inside the and sending it flying backwards in flames.
The radio operator lifted his weapon and fired an extended burst, killing three of the secret police, their white body armor doing nothing. The commissar turned around, looking upon the flaming husks with horror.
The man took the opportunity, getting up quickly off of his knees and tackling him to the ground. The other secret policemen would've done something if five large guns hadn't opened up on them from the roof, along with a few handguns from the crowd.
The man flailed on the commissar as best as he could, his hands still cuffed. The commissar screamed shrilly, freeing a hand and punching him in the face. He raised his pistol and fired, though the man lurched back. The round hit the iron links of his cuffs, blasting them apart. Utilizing the commissar's shock and his new-found freedom, he punched him in the face and grabbed his gun. He fired a quick round into his skull, spraying his brains on the snow-covered pavement behind his head.
"WOLVERINES!" Someone shouted on the rooftop. Turning around, he saw a young kid, no more than fifteen, standing on the edge of the roof, an LMG in one hand.
"Wolverines!" The bandanna man shouted, standing over a dead secret policeman with his rifle in his hands. At the shout, the former prisoners split up, ducking into buildings and cars, or into alleyways. The fugitives melted into the city, now almost impossible to track and recapture for the 'American People's Commonwealth'.
The man felt a tap on his shoulder, which he responded with shoving his new gun in the person's face without looking. He turned around quickly, and saw the radio operator, one hand showing that his finger was off his gun's trigger an the other holding his pack. He lowered the gun, accepting the pack and standing up.
"Who are you?" The man asked, looping his straps around his arms. The radio operator pulled off his mask, revealing a face around the same age as his framed by shoulder-length brown hair.
"Sullivan Rivers," He said, "Hancock Cell of the American Rebel Alliance." He looked down to his patch. "Who are you?" The man looked down, thinking hard.
"John," He said after a few moments, "John Washington." Sullivan smirked, looking up to the roof and waving his hand. One of the 'Wolverines' acknowledged him with a thumbs up as they disappeared. He turned back to John, offering him his pack. He grabbed the strap, looping it around his shoulders as Sullivan grabbed the radio and reattached it to his harness.
"Follow me, John," Sullivan said, running down the street behind the smoking M113s. John stooped down to grab a fallen SMG before following him.
John slammed his back into the wall that Sullivan had stopped at, peaking over the edge. John kept his gun trained down the street, towards the carnage.
"So what's the plan, Sully?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the smoking APCs, "Got an exfil down that street?"
"That's the good news," Sullivan said, leaning his head out a little too far, "The bad news-" A bullet slammed into the edge of the wall inches from Sully's head, blasting away some of the brick and sending him scurrying back behind cover. "That's the bad news." John crouched down and waddled over to the ledge himself, peaking right behind Sully's knees. He saw a squad of soldiers in Cold War-era camouflaged uniforms, complete with 'Nam-era flak jackets and what looked like M1 helmets. One sighted him and took aim with an AK, firing a burst of 7.62 at him. He ducked back, watching the vapor trails fly right past him.
"That's some bad news," He commented, taking a quick peek over again. He tapped Sullivan's thigh. "Got any frags?" He asked. Sullivan pulled a fragmentation grenade off of his belt and handed it over.
"Watcha plannin'?" He asked, his eyebrow cocked up in curiosity. John pulled the pin.
"Just give me some cover," He told him, releasing the spoon. He lunged forward out of cover, throwing the grenade over a few crashed cars in the middle of the street as he dove behind a car. He hit the ground with a grunt as the grenade detonated, taking out a few of the soldiers, slicing their bodies apart with the shrapnel. He looked over to Sully and nodded. The nod was returned, and Sullivan began blind-firing behind the wall.
John hopped over the hood of the at, making sure to keep low as he landed. A soldier was maneuvering around the trunk of the next car, and was immediately plugged by a quick three-round burst. John was quick, speeding past the man's body almost immediately after it hit the ground. He moved to the next car, emptying half of his magazine on two unsuspecting hostiles. Another popped up from behind the next-and last car on the street, firing a few rounds. One of the rounds grazed his left shoulder.
"Fuck!" He shouted, still managing to raise his own gun and send a suppressive burst over his head. One unguided round hit his assailant in his left shoulder, sending him to the ground. He got up and hopped over the car's trunk, shoving his gun's barrel into his mouth and pulling the trigger.
John noted his PASGT helmet before it was penetrated by half a dozen rounds through the back of the soldier's throat.
He got up and scanned the surrounding, only finding Sullivan standing out of cover, a look of disbelief on his face.
"Dude!" He shouted, jogging over, "That was incredible!" John shrugged.
"Not really," He dismissed him, bending down to the soldier he just killed. He began taking off the dead man's combat webbing, fastening it around his torso. He dropped his SMG in favor of the man's FAL. "Who are these people?"
"8th People's Rifles," Sullivan answered, with a small amount of disgust in his voice, "Regular APC Army."
"APC...American People's Commonwealth?" John received a nod in response. "What is that?" Sullivan narrowed his eyes.
"What are you talking about?" He asked, "The Commonwealth's been around for over two decades. They're Republic's biggest rival, AND they have DC in a military stranglehold." John blinked, slowly looking up to Sullivan.
"What?" Sullivan's brow cocked up in utter confusion. It took him a moment to find his next words.
"W-what's the capital of the American Republic?"
"If you mean the US, Washington DC."
"Who's the president?"
"Barrack Obama." Sullivan stepped back with a bewildered look on his face, hands falling onto his gun.
"I don't believe this," He said after a moment, "You got the questions wrong, but you seem so...sure of yourself."
"Because I'm right!" John exclaimed, his patience being worn down quickly by a growing feeling of panic.
"Donald Rumsfeld is the current president," Sullivan said, "And the government has been in Atlanta since '88. Since the Panic..."
"What Panic?!" John got up and shook Sullivan's shoulders. "What the hell happened!?" He pushed him off of his body, grabbing his gun. He heard a few shots go off somewhere in the city, followed by a few shouts.
"There's no time to explain," He said, putting both hands on his gun, "We have to get to the extraction point now." John cursed under his breath, but nodded.
"Alight," He said, "Where to?" Sully waved his hand forward, more down the street. He pulled a cell phone out of a pocket as they set down the street, quickly dialing a number. John noted its similar appearance to a Nokia phone.
"Haymaker, this is Incog," He said, "Moving to exfil with rescued VIP." He stopped at the corner of another drab brick building, peeking around the corner.
"Wait, I'm a VIP?" He asked. Sullivan turned his head and put a finger to his lips, gesturing to the street beside them. John peeked around behind him, seeing a squad of secret police walking down the street towards them, oblivious to their presence.
Behind them, parked on the next street, was a white van. A completely generic white van. Not suspicious in the slightest.
"Got an idea," Sullivan whispered, closing the phone with a quiet clap and putting both hands on his gun, "Get behind that car." He pointed behind them about thirty meters, the entire length of the street, to a grey sedan parked on the curb. John didn't respond, simply doing as he asked. He opened the glass door and went inside, making sure to keep the barrel of his gun pointed outside.
He watched as Sullivan tensed up, no doubt the secret police coming ever closer. After a few moments, he randomly dove backwards towards the street, spraying his gun. He caught one with a hail of bullets, and wounded another. Sullivan quickly got up to his feet and made a break for it, but the secret police recovered a lot quicker than he must've thought. One raised his firearm-A P90-a fired an extended burst. More than a few slammed into his back, sending him flying onto the street face first.
Before the secret police could check his body, John had taken aim of one of them through the windows of the car and fired. A single round penetrated all of the glass and the man's gas mask, which kept his now-liquidified brain in one place as he fell backwards. John quickly took aim of another over the roof of the car and fired again, sending a two round burst into one's chest. The last two-one of them the wounded one-noticed and fired at him, sending him ducking behind the steel protection of the car.
He came back out of cover and saw Sullivan quickly roll over, pulling out a pistol from its holster and firing three bullets into the non-wounded secret police. He sent down with a scream, leaving one more standing, armed only with a pistol. The last police's life ended quickly after that, a single 7.62 from thirty meters away all that it took.
John sprinted down the street, coming to a halt by Sully. He offered a hand, which he graciously accepted. As soon as he was pulled up, Sullivan took off the radio and checked it over.
"Fuck," He let out, turning it around so John could see its back. About fifteen bullet holes were clearly visible on the black surface, most likely destroying the inner components.
"I'm assuming that was important," John remarked. Sully sighed.
"You could say that," He said, standing back up, "That thing can theoretically communicate to any radio on the planet." John raised his eyebrows.
"Impressive." Sully made to move forward, but was stopped by John's held out hand. "Woah, man!" He picked up the disabled radio and thrust it into his hands. "Just because its destroyed doesn't mean it isn't useful. Hell, it could still be functional." Sully shrugged his shoulders and took it, attaching to his back again.
"Sound point," He muttered, "Now come on, exfil's down the road." The two jogged down the street, past the dead bodies of the secret police and towards the van.
"Who are those guys, anyway?" John asked.
"State Security," Sully answered quickly, "Secret police of the APC." John chuckled humorlessly as they slowed to a walk.
"SS, huh?" He looked up the road in front of them to see a group of corpses, one SS and two rebels, noting the red sash on his bicep. He could see the clenched fist of the American People's Commonwealth, the nation that had tainted his home state beyond recognition. "Fitting."
The door of the van slid open, and the same man with the Stars and Stripes bandanna appeared, a UMP in hand.
"There ya are!" He exclaimed, waving them in, "Now get in before someone sees!" Sully hopped in first, and John hesitantly followed. The door was closed by the bandanna man and the driver floored it, the tires squealing as it left the scene.
John settled himself into one of the many seats in the van, which seemed to be a modified-and discreet-personnel carrier. Five other rebels were in there, dressed in all kinds of military gear and wearing the same American bandanna, staring at John with the same intensity as the prisoners. Now, in his otherwise relaxed state, he could see the emotion in their shining eyes beside the longing.
Hope.
"So," Sully said beside him, "You okay?" John nodded.
"Yeah," He said, smiling, "That must've taken some planning." Sully nodded.
"I've been getting the Alliance information on the inner workings of the SS for months now, and when Haymaker here-" The bandanna man across from him nervously smiled and waved while the woman beside him punched him in the shoulder- "Got himself captured, we organized a Purge operation to get him out. Sheer coincidence that you were there." John nodded, frowning slightly.
"A Purge op?" Sully grimaced. 'Haymaker' answered for him.
"We deploy teams all across the area, usually by intersections and points of main transportation, and kill as many of the Northeasters as possible." A quiet murmur broke throughout the van, in agreement with the tactic.
"Well, if it works..." John muttered.
"Any other questions?" Haymaker joked.
"Yeah, what's with the old phones?" Sully cocked an eyebrow.
"Old?" He asked, pulling out the cell phone, "I got this before I went undercover, during a trip to Atlanta. It's the latest addition, a Nokia 10K." John stifled a laugh, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his iPhone.
"Ever hear of the iPhone 4?" He asked, smirking at their stunned faces.
"It's just a screen and a few buttons," Haymaker said after a few moments, "How the hell does that even work?"
"Touchscreen," John answered, showing Sully as he opened his phone and put in his code with a few presses. He stared at the screen as he opened up an app-Angry Birds.
"You're playing a game?" He asked, flabbergasted, "On your phone?"
"Yeah," John answered, "They've been around for awhile..."
"Where'd you even get that?" The woman who punched Haymaker asked.
"In a New York Apple store, when my leave started a week ago." Sully looked to John, then to the phone, then back to John.
"Well, I believe you now," He said after a moment, sighing.
"Believe what?" Haymaker asked. Sully nodded to John.
"I believe that this man is from some sort of...alternate dimension."
The Panic: At the conclusion of Ronald Reagan's Final Speech in 1987, American society completely broke down. Looting, murder and rape spread rampant as the 50 states were released to their own devices. The Panic officially ended in 1992, when the final new nation was formed, but the first of these new countries only truly stabilized in 2005. But for those five years, America was an anarchic hellhole.
Alt-left wingers, socialists, anarchists, and syndicalist answered the call of Noam Chomsky and fled to New England, eventually securing land as far west as Chicago to form the American People's Commonwealth. Gus Hall the CPUSA took to arms and forcibly took control of the West Coast-California, Washington, Oregon, and most of Nevada-to form the United American People's Republics, or the UAPR. Vice President George H.W. Bush-along with the US Government and the majority of the United States Military called to 'Any and all loyal Americans' to the South to 'Keep the American Dream alive'. They secured territory from Dallas to the Kentucky side of the Ohio River, and are considered one of the most dangerous nations in the world, with there possession of the US nuclear launch codes and their jingoistic public.
State Security: Full names State Security Services. The secret police of the American People's Commonwealth, feared across the world for their anti-insurgency and interrogation methods, as well as their ominous acronym, SS. The SS is also the APC's premier special operations forces, with their Task Force 666. They have been named the main rival of the German Stasi, both for their double role as a spec ops unit and their perfect practice of Zersetzung. In addition to their headquarters in the old UN building in New York and their multiple safehouses and listening all across the country, they have constructed several extermination camps outside of the major cities, most likely for fear tactics or a massive government purge. It has been said by an Arabian foreign inspector that was invited to Philadelphia in 2003 that "The State Security would give both Hitler and Stalin nightmares."
Recruits are mostly taken from the upper crust of Commonwealth society, but a select few have volunteered from the dregs of society. Only one instance of infiltration has ever been reported, the infiltrator eventually defecting and rejoining the ranks of the American Rebel Alliance, the report taken from the classified documents of the APC government at the conclusion of the Reunification Wars.
American Rebel Alliance: After George H.W. Bush's Call, most of the loyal Americans either packed up and moved if they weren't in newly proclaimed American Republic's territory, or secured as much territory as possible if they were already there. However, many Americans couldn't move down to the Republic, either from the distance, the danger of their travel route, or circumstances where they couldn't leave their towns or states. Many of these Americans buckled down and formed the American Rebel Alliance, an international paramilitary/terrorist organization that only had one demand to the countries they operated in-the Reunification of the United States.
They have taken responsibility for many attacks since their founding in 1992, and not all of them have been good hits. The World Trade Center Bombing in 1993 is one of those examples, headed by Neo-Nazi Matthias Koehl. He had since then been disposed of as the leader of the NYC Subcell of the APC Cell. Since then, the majority of the Rebel Alliance have taken to other methods, mostly targeting uniformed military and government personnel in "Purge" operations, as well as helping out the local populace in any way possible, in "Goodneighbor" operations. Goodneighbor deeds include policing, guard duty, humanitarian assistance, assassinations, and much more. It has proved to be a success, and many people in New America support them and-to an extent-their cause.
The people of the Rebel Alliance come from all walks of life. Former FBI and CIA agents, fighting alongside former drug dealers. Buckeye and Wolverine, tackling communists to the ground together. A popular story among the ranks include a prison warden in Maine ordering his guards to release all prisoners so they could join the resistance of the newly formed American People's Commonwealth. The American Republic and United Kingdom have been known to deploy special operations units to help train the rebels-the newest generation of whom the first ones to not be born when the United States was still standing.
The American Rebel Alliance has scourged up a significant portion of their supplies by themselves, the first generation of fighters having used their own firearms. Later on, they began receiving material aid from the few countries that still supported their cause, including the UK, Ireland, Brazil, and (of course) the American Republic. From receiving material (Weapons, ammo, clothing, etc.) From so many different sources, there isn't an official uniform and equipment in the Alliance, the only requirement is the possession of a bandanna with the Stars and Stripes printed on it and worn in some fashion. It is the easiest way to identify a rebel, and it has been known in the UAPR and the APC for people to be dragged out of their homes and shot if they were found in procession of one.