Hey, peeps~! Here's the next chapter of The Phoenix Rising. And this one is gonna be a doozy. :3
Review replies:
- KentLinuxStadfelt: Glad I could capture your interest. :3
- operation meteor: Heh. :3 Glad I could make you happy with it. ;3
- Spiceracksargent001: Well, been wanting to do something like this for some time now. :3 I can only hope to make it worth your while. :) In all honesty, I doubt I could be as good as operation meteor, but I do hope to make it good. :3
(Shows a small ember flickering as darkness threatens to extinguish it)
START MIKAKUNIN HIKOUSEN BY TAKAYOSHI TANIMOTO
(The ember is strengthened as a wind gust blows the darkness away, creating a raging fire that parts to show a young man with a phoenix tattoo on his left forearm in a field with a tattered American flag draped over his shoulders)
Oh yeah! Be strong, jump on, and become the wind (He looks up and sprints forward, the flag flying off his back as he leaps into the air, the wind catching the flag as it flies off)
Pass the orbit beyond the sky (The young man lands atop a mobile suit carrier, standing as it hovers just above a city, fires raging beneath him)
I can't hold back this rushing speed (The scene then shifts to show it from a mobile suit's camera perspective before pivoting to show the young man in a pilot suit with a phoenix emblem on the right shoulder)
A familiar town becomes a diorama (The mobile suit is shown on camera as it pans out, revealing a black and dark grey clad machine with blue optics as it blasts over his old hometown, riots in the streets)
Burst through the unclear skies (Smoke drifts up as it shows several soldiers running through the streets, firing at other soldiers wearing Atlantic Federation uniforms before a swirl of flames engulfs the screen)
Blow away your worries and discontent (A gust of wind parts the flames, showing the young man's mobile suit standing amidst burning ruins, a Blue Cosmos mobile suit in front of him)
Who needs a journey that's by the book? (The camera pans to the left as the black clad machine lunges, a blue beam saber igniting and flying at the other machine, both pilots shown superimposed over their respective mobile suits)
Even if you're lost or trembling, raise the altitude (A flash of light erupts from the clashing point of their beam sabers, vanishing to show the young man trembling as he pushes his machine's Striker pack to the limit)
Oh yeah! Show off, mess up, and stand back up (The scene shifts to show the man on the bridge of a battleship, battered and bloodied as he faces down another man whose eyes seem to glow red)
I'll watch the unknown horizon with you (An image of the young man's wife flashes in his mind before he is shown lunging for the other man, a knife poised at his throat)
Now be strong, jump on, and become the wind (A fiery image appears in his mind's eye as it spreads its wings, shedding aside the darkness)
Use the sun that lights tomorrow as a guide (The image becomes the sun, and the camera pans to the right to show the black and grey machine, a new Striker Pack on its back)
Fly off to the glorious world of freedom! (The machine's fiery wings spread and it dashes off, becoming a speck as feathers of fire float down, one of them landing on a scorched Atlantic Federation flag, a repaired American flag flying over it)
GUNDAM WING: THE PHOENIX RISING
CHAPTER I: BREAKING BARRIERS
"..."
All he could recall was... nothing...?
His head was throbbing.
He couldn't even recall much else from prior. It was as if his memories were fogged up.
"...risk..."
His brain felt like mush as he struggled to claw his way back from the depths of oblivion.
His eyes hurt, his head hurt, his chest hurt... Hell, his entire body hurt!
All he could recall was that he had been hit. And hit hard.
... Well, that was something, at any rate.
The fog was starting to clear from his memories, and now he had a vague idea of what had happened.
He remembered heading out after lunch to get a drink at his favorite pub with some of his buddies. But along the way, he had a flat tire and had to stop on the side of the road to change it. The whole thing had been a minor issue as it was easy to fix. Luckily there was a car repair place close to the bar, so he dropped it off and made his way inside. He and his buddies had engaged in a drinking game and then one of the men had insulted a former veteran of the war, leading to a bar fight. He had not been keen on being involved, so he tried to leave, only to get smacked hard over the head with something. That much he could recall. And after that, nothing.
"...sure about this!"
And now... where was he?
Slowly, Jacob Ashford pried open his eyes, wincing as light shone into his vision.
Against his will, a groan clawed its way out of his throat.
The voices stopped, and he flinched as someone's hand grabbed his head, forcing it to face them directly.
Jacob blinked his eyes repeatedly to clear the blurriness from his vision. He could vaguely make out humanlike shapes, with splotches of color on them, and then it faded, becoming black. For a moment, he feared he had blacked out again, but then that thought was quickly dismissed as it appeared. If he had blacked out again, then he wouldn't be thinking.
Finally he was able to clear his vision enough to see that he was not unconscious at all. He was definitely conscious, and he could see that someone was indeed holding his head closely in their gloved hand. The person's face was very hard to make out in the darkness, but he could see intense grey eyes locked onto his own blue ones, and thick locks of brown hair fell around a face that had a scar going across the bridge of the nose. The person's free hand reached down and pulled out a small flashlight, flicking it on and shining it right in his face. Jacob winced.
"Good. You're awake," the person said, a deep voice filling his hearing. Thunder rumbled ominously, and he could also hear the pattering of rain on some kind of structure. Maybe they were in an abandoned building of sorts?
"W...Whu...Where... am I?" Jacob rasped, his throat parched.
The person let go of his face and stood up, backing up from him and sitting down in a chair across from him.
Jacob took the time to try and examine his condition. He could feel a bit of blood dripping down his face; he must've been hit on the head, he mused. His back and arms ached from being bound to a metallic chair that felt like it had rust on its structure. Now the only question was where was he.
The man in front of him kept the flashlight aimed directly at his face; Jacob had to blink his eyes so as to keep himself from seeing spots.
"Where you are is irrelevant," the man said sternly. "What is relevant is who you are."
Jacob blanched. Now he was starting to see others gathered around, most of them leaning against the walls or sitting on the rotted floors.
And all of these individuals held weapons.
And not old weapons either.
These were state-of-the-art military firearms. One woman - at least he thought it was a woman - held a rocket launcher against her legs, her green eyes laced with something that he could only describe as pure disgust. A scowl crossed his face as he narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the light.
"Jacob Ashford. Resident of Allandale, businessman. Works for a major defense contractor. Married to Honey Ashford. Two sons, Jake and Jacob Ashford, Jr. Both in eighth grade, potential recruits for Patriot Youth." The man's voice recited off the key facts and Jacob's face drained of blood. He felt his bowels beginning to clench involuntarily, and he shivered. How had this man known who he was?!
The man pulled the light back a bit to allow Jacob to see his face clearly.
"Is that information correct?" he asked.
Jacob glanced around at the individuals armed to the teeth. They looked very dangerous, armed and ready for combat. He knew that resistance groups were not uncommon, but this group was clearly more organized that the previous ones that had been stamped out. He struggled to reach for his phone, but his hands were bound too tightly to even allow them to move much; the ropes were only loose enough to provide blood flow. He glanced up, fear starting to dawn on his face.
"No... You can't...!" he gasped.
Now he realized just who he was dealing with.
A rumored to exist resistance force that no one had been able to catch or sniff out. In fact, it was rumored that anyone who tried to seek intel on them by joining disappeared off the map. And the fact that they were so damned hard to track was one of the reasons why they were so feared. He wasn't sure how they were able to do it, but however they were, they truly were like ghosts. And they lived up to their moniker well.
The Ghosts.
That was who he was dealing with.
"Answer. Is that information correct?" the lead Ghost insisted, shining his light right on Jacob's face.
Jacob winced, feeling terror surfacing in his gut. "Y-Yes..." he squeaked.
The Ghost lowered his light and shut it off.
Darkness once again flooded his eyesight, but now Jacob was able to see that the figures before and around him were backing off.
Or at least almost all of them were.
The next thing he knew, there was a harpy-like shriek and a fast-moving shape tackled him to the ground, toppling his chair and causing him to get a nasty gash on his shoulder. A tough, female hand grabbed him by the throat and he was flipped onto his back. A feminine shape was perched on his chest, straddling him as she drew back her fist, a glint of metal visible as lightning flashed in the background beyond the boarded up windows. Two brown eyes were engulfed in fire, and she thrust the dagger towards one of his eyes.
A couple others lunged into the fray, grabbing the madwoman and physically hauling her off her hapless prisoner. She kicked and screamed, the dagger flashing as she struggled to break free. "He's one of them!" she screeched. "He's one of those who imprisoned my husband and sent my daughter to her death!"
The businessman's eyebrow quirked as he struggled to sift through his still somewhat fogged up memories. He knew her... He was sure of it.
Then his eyes widened as lightning flashed again, this time throwing the room briefly into semi-illumination. The struggling woman was now visible, and he felt a sinking sensation as the light faded, casting the room back into shadow. And in that brief flash, he had seen her face. Wild brown hair cut short, hazel eyes alight in fury and her face twisted into a snarl that made him lose his bowels. He knew her, all right.
Clare Vicar, the wife of former Senator Jason Vicar. A woman who had been a dedicated mother and schoolteacher before her husband's imprisonment for defiling the sacred laws and calling for compassion and decency in war. In a war for survival, there was no compassion or decency anywhere. It was killed or be killed. And he was selected out to be made an example of. But despite being arrested and taken to one of the many prison camps for dissidents, he refused to give up his beliefs, in spite of having been subjected to enough punishment to make a lesser man break. His daughter had been kidnapped shortly afterwards by shadowy figures. The woman herself had evaded execution and retreated into the woods soon after.
But to hear that she had joined up with the Ghosts? And calling for his head?
"Clare! Just calm down!" a second female voice insisted. "Trust us! This lowlife is not worth it!"
"Shut up, Connie! That sack of meat does not deserve that manhood! That animal must not be allowed to breed any more of its offspring!" Clare shrieked, her eyes wild.
"Clare!" her other captor grunted before he finally grabbed her head and gazed into her fiery eyes. "Just... calm... down!" he said firmly, but gently. "Remember! We are better than those psychos! We have an obligation to prevent such things from happening again! You taking his... junk... in retaliation for what happened is understandable, but doing so would only prove that we are the animals. We are humans. That is what we are! Vengeance will not get you anywhere right now. Remember, we control it. It does not control us. And your daughter... she would not want this. Would she?"
Clare's eyes went wide, and for a moment it seemed like his words had no effect on her. But then she let the knife fall to the ground and she relented in her struggles. She collapsed to the floor, held only by the other two Ghosts. Quiet sobs broke the silence of the room, only to be accented by the rain as it lashed down around them.
Jacob watched with a small sense of relief as she was guided to a corner of the room and she collapsed into it, curling into a ball and wrapping her arms around herself as she wept.
The lead Ghost sighed. "Sorry. I apologize for her behavior," he admitted, surprising the businessman. "But she's been through an awful lot."
"Why apologize?" Jacob asked warily. "I have heard stories that any rebels are to be considered lowborn barbarians."
"Don't always believe what you hear," the Ghost replied. "We're not uncivilized."
"Oh?" Jacob arched an eyebrow. "Her behavior suggests otherwise."
"You try being a woman whose daughter was kidnapped and turned into a weapon of war," the Ghost shot back. His grey eyes hardened. "And I assume you know what I mean, do you not?"
Jacob honestly didn't. He had no clue what the man was talking about. When he mentioned as much, the Ghost merely narrowed his eyes in response. "..." He was silent as he studied Jacob's face critically.
The businessman took his chance to finally ask a question of his own. "There's something I would like to know." The Ghost directed his eyes at Jacob's, and he squirmed a bit under that steely gaze. "You obviously are rebels. And you have a chance to kill me. So why am I still alive?"
The Ghost didn't even flinch. "You're a man who has kids. And any father would not want their thirteen year old boys to go to war for something as trivial as how one is born. So let me ask you something. What would you do... if your sons went to war, and died at the hands of people who are fighting to be recognized as humans?"
Jacob was baffled at the question.
"What are you talking about?" he asked, now wary.
The Ghost commander shifted as he lowered his gaze a bit. "You honestly want your sons to go off and die in some war that is just an overblown temper tantrum, don't you?"
"Like you would understand being attacked by those abominations called Coordinators!" Jacob spat.
"And do you have any proof of this?" the Ghost asked. "Any personal experience? Where is the evidence? Are your sources really viable? And if so... are they just playing lip service to an even greater authority? Or are they doing it themselves? Think, Jacob. Think things through for once."
Jacob was surprised at how calm this man was. In spite of his obvious anger and disgust, he was as calm as a cucumber. The Ghost commander looked directly into his eyes, and he felt a sense of fear creep down his spine. This man was way too calm given the circumstances. And given Clare's reaction, he was surprised that he had not given into his primal urges.
And just what was he talking about, regarding the sources he obtained information from? He scowled, trying to regain some modicum of control in this situation. "I'll have you know that all sources I obtain information on those manufactured abominations is viable and a respected institution!"
But the Ghost wasn't buying it. He mere scowled. "Is that so? Then tell me. What evidence is there to prove that those other human beings have brutally attacked innocent women and children, like you claim?"
"What evidence?!" Jacob snarled. "Why should any evidence be needed?! The last war proved it!"
The Ghost didn't respond.
For a fleeting moment it felt as if Jacob had regained control of the situation. He sneered as he sat up as best he could, pointing his nose into the air arrogantly. "That should be all the evidence you nee-"
He didn't even have a chance to finish.
The man's fist whipped around faster than he could blink, and then his face was in searing agony as he was thrown back by the force of the blow. Jacob groaned in agony from the hit. His left cheek was going to be sore tomorrow, he mused as he tried to sit up, but due to his binds, it was close to impossible. Instead, the Ghost commander knelt and grabbed his chair, hauling it upright and placing one of his hands firmly on his head.
"You honestly believe that is how all the Coordinators act? You are stupid if you believe that fake news!" he spat. "That's all it is! Fake news, lies spread to keep the people content and out of sight of the truth! The truth they have worked so hard to suppress is the fact that both Naturals and Coordinators are capable of acting like barbarians!"
"And how do we Naturals act like barbarians?" the businessman growled, feeling angered.
"For one thing, think about this. How may children have you seen go missing since the whole Coordinator controversy began?" the Ghost asked. His eyes were hard as he stared into Jacob's blue eyes with his steely orbs. Those eyes were starting to unnerve the man, not that he would admit it, anyway.
"What does that have to do with anything?!" Jacob snapped.
"Everything." That was all he said.
Jacob had not even really paid attention to that kind of stuff, feeling that it was out of his jurisdiction. He was a businessman, not a police officer. He had focused solely on keeping his family provided for, and his sons in school. But now...
His captor merely snorted. "Unless you have something to say, we'll have to assume you're just a lowly grunt in the grand scheme of things. And we do not have time to hunt down another one of you."
His hand that had been hidden in the pocket slowly pulled itself out to reveal he was armed with a silenced pistol. Jacob was no expert on guns, but he had a feeling that thing belonged to one of the special operations units.
Jacob's bowels clenched and he felt something warm running down his pants leg.
"So... I'll give you one more chance. How many children have you seen go missing since the whole Coordinator controversy began?"
Jacob's Adam's apple bobbed as he gulped, trying to wrack his brains for information. Much to his surprise, he did recall several cases where several kids of political figures had gone missing under unusual circumstances. Cases that had never been solved, and still weren't solved.
"F-Forty-two! For this area alone!" he squeaked, unable to stop the words from escaping his throat.
The Ghost lowered the pistol and nodded. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" he asked, placing his sidearm back in his pocket. Then he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "I don't like having to resort to coercion to get the information we need. But given how a lot of you are the same, it makes sense in reality."
Jacob was now confused. "You would prefer to resolve things through diplomacy?" he asked.
The Ghost glared at him, and the businessman recoiled under that steely gaze. "Oh, now you want to negotiate? Well forget it. As long as your masters remain controlling of the government, that will never happen."
Then he leaned back a bit. "But back on topic. You noticed forty-two children go missing in the area alone. And the most recent was Clare's daughter. Doesn't it tickle your curiosity to know what happened to those children, by any chance?"
The way the Ghost commander was staring at him made Jacob uneasy.
The silence in the room was profound. Only the patter of rain on the building they were in broke the silence, coupled with Clare's muffled sobs. The businessman could feel the eyes of the other Ghosts drifting to him and a few of those gazes held nothing but contempt. One pair of those eyes narrowed dangerously and he swore he saw the woman with the rocket launcher start to heft it in her grasp, but not aiming it. It was an intimidation tactic, some part of him insisted.
And he was feeling intimidated for sure.
In truth, Jacob had been curious. But he didn't bother to pry. It was probably a camp of some kind, selecting the best and brightest to become cogs in the Atlantic Federation's grand war machine. But the way this Ghost brought up the death of Clare's daughter in regards to the subject started to stir thoughts that he didn't want to think. Thoughts that reminded him all too much of stuff he had thought to be fiction. His eyes started to widen as the Ghost looked him directly in the eyes, and he suddenly got a feeling like this man could see into his very soul. The way those steel grey eyes never wavered, never changed emotion, and the longer he stared into them, the more exposed he felt.
Just who was this man?!
Jacob struggled to speak, but only one sentence escaped him. "Who are you?!" he whispered, fear filling his voice.
"That I cannot say. But if you wish to know, then answer the question," the Ghost commander insisted.
Jacob nodded frantically. "Y-Yes, sir!" he squeaked.
"Then answer." Just those two words did it.
"Yes, I have been curious!" Jacob admitted, terror and self-preservation finally overriding his pride. "But I never bothered to ask! I thought they were going to some kind of camp dedicated to finding the best and brightest!"
"That is far from the truth," the Ghost said. His eyes narrowed as he turned to face one of the other Ghosts. He nodded before the designated woman - the one with the rocket launcher, he saw - hopped off her perch smoothly, slinging the launcher over her back. "Hela, tell him everything."
. . .
November 14th, CE 73
Steven 'Spray' Krane was nervous.
And that was saying something, considering just who he was involved with.
Well, not because he was worried about getting ousted. Oh, no, His fellow resistance fighters had provided him with a very convincing cover story and expertly forged transfer documents. So that was covered, at least. And it helped they had a contact up in the transfer office so as to 'confirm' his transfer to the new unit.
What he was really worried about was the task ahead.
Or more specifically, the elimination of those political officers aboard the battle group's ships. He had to plan this carefully, because if one suspicious thing was noticed, then the whole operation was compromised and they'd have to try again. And to try again would mean having to find another mole, and then the whole process would start again. And if they started again, then that meant that the Cabal had more time to harden the people against their full range of emotions. And if the people were turned against their 'weaker' emotions, then there would be no going back, and the world would be left to LOGOs to control. And that was a fate he did not want to have happen.
Spray closed his eyes as he sat in his hotel room, hands laced behind his head as he lay on the bed.
His transfer had yet to be approved, but already he was trying to plan out his takedown of the political officers. They were the biggest threat, he knew, to his mission. If even one of them lived, then he would be caught and ousted.
Steven opened his eyes as he looked over at the clock. The time read 1:35, its green digits flashing a bit in the dim lighting of the hotel room.
It was close to two in the afternoon, he mused as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with his hands.
His eyes flicked down to the phoenix tattoo on his left forearm, and he absentmindedly rubbed it. He could feel a faint tingling in his forearm, right where the tattoo was. The design was unique, as it had around it an angled triangle, and within it was a futuristic version of the phoenix bird. Around it were flames, a bright reddish orange color while the bird and triangle itself were the purest blue possible.
He lifted his gaze from his forearm to look out the window at the base not too far off.
That was where his battle group was stationed.
He could only hope that his transfer was approved by the puppets so he could begin his task.
And that brought him back to another issue.
He wasn't just a potential mole for the resistance. He was also a mobile suit pilot, an ace with a fair number of kills under his belt. But unlike most others who went after the enemy with bloodlust in their movements and voices, his attacks were aimed at taking out the leaders rather than the grunts. He was not a bloodthirsty monster who attacked at the command of a whistle like a dog. No. He was a skilled hunter, patient and cunning. His mobile suit reflected in that, using only a bare armaments package to get the job done; he also was very skilled at improvising things on the battlefield, a tendency that marked him as a threat, he knew. But as long as he directed his attention towards the "enemy" and got the mission done, that was all that mattered to his so-called superiors.
But since he was going to be commanding the battle group, he wasn't supposed to be a pilot.
And if he was right, he would need to be on the battlefield as well.
That was something that he had insisted on in his transfer orders, to be allowed to continue piloting his machine while commanding the battle group.
The officer in charge told him that he would do what he could to allow it, but he wasn't sure if it would be approved. So he had to wait and see.
That had been close to three days ago.
And the wait was agonizing.
But Spray was patient. He knew the value of that.
Unlike so many others.
A scowl crossed his face at that. That was something that had to change, he knew. But right now, there was nothing he could do but wait the results of his plea.
He finally heard his phone ring and he reached over to grab it. He hit the button and the number appeared on the screen. "Steven Krane here."
"Ah! I wasn't sure if I would get through," the officer remarked.
"I assume you have good news if you're calling me then?" Spray asked nonchalantly, but inside his heart was racing big time. He felt sweat forming on his palms and he had to clench his phone tightly so as to not drop it. He needed to know about the results.
"Ah... Actually, I have both good news and bad news," the man stated.
Spray tensed. Bad news as well? That wasn't good.
"The good news is that your transfer was accepted, and you will be allowed to pilot your machine still, but the bad news is that it will be under certain conditions outlined by the political officers," the older man said. "Apparently they don't want the commander of their most powerful battle group to just do whatever he pleases."
'Hah! Fat chance of that!' Spray thought. However, he said something different. "Well, rest assured, I will not do anything stupid. I'm an ace, remember?" he remarked, trying to put disdain into his voice. And actually, he didn't have to act on that one. He really did despise the ones in charge for limiting his piloting. But the young officer thought that he was directing it at the Coordinators.
"I am well aware due to your records," he said. "But it's what the higher ups ordered."
"I'll deal with it when the time comes," Spray assured him. And he meant it, too. In a way that would make the resistance proud.
"Very well. Your transfer has been approved. You will be sent to the 1776th Battle Group within the month. You are then to remain on standby until further notice." The officer's voice was curt and professional and Spray nodded.
The older man hung up, and Spray's lips curled into a smirk, a savage grin that reflected the predatory nature of his mission. He hated to admit it, but he was looking forward to the challenge that lay ahead.
In some ways, he was both nervous and excited. Nervous about how this could go, and excited for the challenge of liberating the battle group from their indoctrination. And he could not wait to get started.
He tossed his phone aside onto the nightstand and stretched his arms over his head. "Well, time to get started."
Spray glanced over to his laptop, the one that the resistance had provided for him, before he grabbed it and booted it up. The device was already connected to the base's wireless network signal, so he took the time to delve into some of the files of the personnel. Best to know who he was working with before he went to the battle group, he mused.
The files he hoped to get access to were those of the political officers. But much to his surprise and dismay, the files were not there. They were apparently locked to all but the base's commander. Spray knew he could hack it, but that was not something he wanted to do unless he wanted to risk getting caught. And he was not about to risk that. Especially since he was so close, too.
He could put in a request to know who they were, but that he was sure would be shot down. After all, from what little he could gather from other moles on the same base, any such request would be met with a summary discharge or execution if done more than once. That meant that these guys had to be some of the most devoted and ideologically driven. That made sense, given how this was their most powerful battle group and they wanted to keep it under their control.
Spray pursed his lips as he delved deeper into some of the files. A few notes stood out, such as some of the doctors whose backgrounds seemed questionable. That was something he could delve into, seeing as how there were a few others aboard who's status was also questionable. That sent a tingling sensation racing down his spine. His stomach clenched as he accessed the data records on those individuals, and he instantly realized what he was going to be dealing with.
Extended.
Three of them.
All of them from a top secret lab hidden within the desert of the United States. His eyes narrowed and he clenched his left fist. "So... that's it, huh?" he muttered.
His fingers danced over the keys as he brought up what little data existed.
"Extended Project No. 10929093 - Codenamed Sandra Deloris. Enhancement level three, bioaugmentation level four. Mental Conditioning Level 4 - notes: block word is life," he read. The first image depicted a young woman with green hair and bright orange eyes, her face showing a serious look and her eyes holding the look of a killer. She looked to be no more than fourteen. Spray's chest tightened in anger as he minimized the window.
The next picture showed a man in his late teens, with bright red hair and one green eye, with the other one being a startling gold color. Unlike the first Extended though, his eyes were showing no emotion at all. Like it had been stripped from him. Spray pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. "Extended Project No. 11002989 - Codenamed Pantelis Vasilis. Enhancement level three, bioaugmentation level three. Mental Conditioning Level 4 - notes: block word is compassion." And frankly, Spray could understand why, judging from the look in his eyes. He minimized the second window.
The third picture revealed a young man in his mid teens, with a shock of brilliant white hair and jade eyes. His posture indicated a sort of weariness, but his eyes told a different story. He was cold, calculating, and a man to watch out for. Spray skimmed his data. "Extended Project No. 12099673 - Codenamed Julian Wilcox. Enhancement level three, bioaugmentation level four. Mental Conditioning Level Four - notes: block word is aluminum." That was a weird one, but the more he thought about it, then there had to be a reason for it.
Spray minimized the last window and started to delve into the doctors aboard the ship.
According to the records he pulled up, all of them had been surgeons and worked with others who created drugs to help people recover faster in combat. That meant that they had come from the lab that was eliminated: Lodonia. His eyes hardened as he tented his fingers in front of his mouth as he examined their images. While they did look like doctors who would help people, in their eyes he could see nothing but sadism. They were not doctors at all; they were psychopaths posing as doctors.
His next objective, he mused, was to take out the psychopaths and get real doctors aboard to help those victims and bring them back to their original selves. But from the files he read, it seemed like they were mentally conditioned to be ignorant of their pasts. Or possibly even worse. Maybe those codenames were not their real names after all, but false identities given to them so as to keep their real personalities suppiressed or something.
There was so much they didn't know about the conditioning of the Extended. But maybe...
Already his mind was racing as different scenarios ran through his thoughts. Spray knew that only the doctors responsible for their maintenance knew how it worked. So maybe if they offered one of them a plea deal, then that person could teach them how it was done so they could reverse it. Or even maybe reverse it themselves. That was the best case scenario, he figured, but from the looks of things it wasn't going to be easy to crack one of those psychos.
He was tempted to inform his superiors about the Extended aboard the battle group, but he hesitated to do so. Some part of him was urging him to do so, because then they could be removed and treated at the hospital hidden in Denver. However, that would put him at risk of being exposed. And with it went their one chance to turn the battle group to the side of justice and humanity. In the end, he decided to let it go, and take care of it himself. He would inform the leader of the resistance later, he figured.
That is, if all went according to plan.
He closed the files and exited the base's wireless network.
With that done, he closed the laptop and placed it to the side.
He leaned forward on his knees, his fingers resting in front of his mouth as his eyes narrowed.
'Okay. So three Extended are aboard the battle group. And nothing on the political officers. That's troublesome,' he thought. 'It's almost like the men don't exist. It means that I can't plan how to take them out. That puts me at a huge disadvantage. I can't figure out what their vices are so I can use them to my advantage. And it means that I have to tread carefully around them. My old plans are scrapped. That means I'll have to adapt on the fly. Not like I haven't done so before, but still... doing it on a ship with five political officers? That's just asking for trouble.'
Spray glanced at the outdoors, and a snort escaped his chest. The scene outside seemed too good to even be real. It looked more fake than anything, with people going about their daily lives, women doing the shopping with their children and men going to and from work. It reminded him all too much of the 1950s in the old AD calendar, where women were supposed to be confined to feminine jobs and roles, or even 1930s Germany. With the root of the war not addressed, it made sense that things would repeat themselves. But to think that the United States was heading down the path of Nazi Germany was enough to make him sick to his stomach.
He finally tore his gaze away from the outside and stood up. He made his way to the window and threw the curtains shut. He didn't want to see a phony ideal life. He wanted to see the real America. The country before the whole Reconstruction War happened. That was the ideal America he believed in.
And that was what he was fighting for.
. . .
He had to admit it.
Sparring was hard. Especially given how he was not a soldier, but a businessman.
The man was panting now, his right eye bruised and blood dribbling down the left side of his mouth.
Jacob Ashford was not enjoying his situation right now. No way.
Everything he had just learned...
He felt sick.
Sick to his stomach.
He wasn't sure how it happened. But after he made direct eye contact with the Ghost commander, he felt something... something happen deep within his psyche. He didn't know what it was, but as he ducked a blow from his sparring opponent, he felt like that whatever happened opened his eyes to the deep truth, a truth his government was keeping hidden from everyone. A dark truth that had to be revealed.
The truth about the Extended and the real government behind their own.
That was enough to make him rethink his very beliefs. He spent the last three days pondering, trying to rationalize it all, trying to make sense of what he was raised to believe and what he had been told. He always believed that the Atlantic Federation had been just, righteous in their crusade against the vile, Devil-men known as the Coordinators. He believed that they were in the right. He had known it.
Or so he had been raised to believe.
In reality, he had not known the truth at all.
No one had.
Great pains had been taken to hide it from everyone. Kidnappings were left unexplained. Missing children never turned up at their local police station or back to their parents. Fake death certificates were issued, and the worst part was, no one even bothered to question the oddities on some of them. Like a bear eating a child out in the middle of the desert? Or a landslide where there were no mountains? Drownings in the middle of a city? That alone was enough to make most people suspicious, but since no one bothered to question, it was a real red flag in his eyes.
Jacob ducked a roundhouse kick as the woman he was sparring with attacked again. He lashed out in a punch aimed for her cheek, but his blow missed and she spun around, completing a full three-sixty degree kick.
The businessman was barely able to dodge it by scooting back, panting heavily from the exertion he was putting himself through.
He often questioned why he even chose to do this to begin with.
But in the end, the same answer resonated in his thoughts every single time.
This had to end.
It was like a mantra, a reason to drive him forward. In the aftermath of what he could only call his reawakening, he felt robbed of a purpose, a reason to even fight and exist. And something told him that it was wrong to live only to exterminate other human beings just because of their genes. He didn't like the feeling of being without a purpose. And that made him feel all the more sick because he felt like he had been... programmed... like a mere machine. And he needed to find a way to remake himself into a man.
When he mentioned this to the Ghost commander, he offered him a surprising choice. To find his real purpose in life and to restore American values to the country as a whole. Jacob was baffled as to what America's values were, but somehow he knew what they were deep down in his soul. At least that was what he felt. He didn't know for sure, in all honesty. But he did have a passion to end this atrocity that was a country.
Jacob didn't like the idea of being programmed to think a certain way.
So through this effort, he hoped, he would be able to change his way of thinking and redefine himself as a man.
Memories floated through his mind as his body reacted to an incoming punch.
Memories of the revelations.
His thoughts were interrupted by the impact of the second punch his sparring partner threw his way. He was sent sprawling from the force of the hit, his injured eye starting to swell shut.
The woman remained in her attack stance a few seconds more before she was sure he was down. Jacob grunted as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
"Well, you're not too shabby a fighter given your profession," she admitted, dropping her stance and holding out a hand to help him to his feet. "But that's nothing compared to what we can do."
Jacob took her hand and he was hauled to his feet. "I'm not going to lie. You wiped the floor with me," he said, rubbing his eye and wiping the blood away from his mouth.
"Well that's what you get for choosing to spar with me," the woman said as she tossed him a towel. "You'll need to recover from that eye injury before we do anymore sparring."
He nodded. "Right."
Jacob wiped his sweaty face with the towel as he made his way to a nearby chair and sat down, the metal structure groaning ominously as he did so.
Now that sparring was over, he could actually take some time to sort out his addled mind and figure out where he stood now.
The man leaned back, reaching for a nearby ice pack and placing it on his bruised eye.
Jacob closed his good eye and sighed heavily.
He could still recall the moment the truth had been revealed three days ago clearly...
FLASHBACK
"Hela, tell him everything."
Those four words brought dread to his heart as the woman nodded.
"Yes, sir," she said, saluting crisply.
She turned to face Jacob and he gulped. Those green eyes were as hard as emeralds and he shivered.
"To be frank, Mr. Ashford, you should have not gone to the bar that day," she said. Her hand dove into her coat pocket and fished around. For a brief moment, fear gripped Jacob in its grasp and he was terrified she'd shoot him or worse. But then she pulled out a small sheaf of photos, along with a flash drive.
A second Ghost came over and placed a portable computer on a nearby table. Jacob was suddenly grabbed by a huge hand by his neck and he gasped for breath as he was lifted - still bound to his chair - off the floor briefly. He struggled to breathe, and his vision began to get hazy. For a moment he feared he was going to die. But then he felt his chair slam into the ground and he was released, gasping in the air of the old building. While it was not as clean as a properly constructed building, it was still life-giving air and he gulped it down greedily. His vision cleared and he looked up, surprised to see he was placed in front of the table with the laptop. And his guard - a huge man who looked like he had been a former bouncer at a nightclub - backed off.
"But you did, and now you're here with us." Hela grasped the flash drive and held it up. "Hope you have a strong stomach, Mr. Ashford, because what you're about to see is utterly inhumane. And that's saying it lightly..."
She booted up the computer and within mere minutes, she plugged the flash drive into the device. A small prompt came up and she clicked the affirmative. The screen went dark for a moment...
And then everything he knew came undone right before his eyes.
Jacob was flooded with sounds of children in pain and agony as scientists cut into them, inserting biomechanical implants to boost their strength and reflexes. He could see the suffering on their faces. The indifference to their suffering the scientists displayed. The glee in some of the doctors' expressions. The very clinical precision and crisp notes discussed without even regarding the children as humans. Instead, he could hear the scientists conferring, referring them as to mere subjects and even... dare he say it... equipment. He tried to look away, but the guard clamped his huge hand around his forehead and whispered into his ear in a surprisingly calm and educated voice, not the big dumb voice he had been expecting. "Watch this, animal!" he hissed. "This is what your kind have done to so many children!"
The businessman couldn't turn his head away now. He tried to close his eyes, but the horror leapt out at him and grabbed at his attention like a barb. It couldn't be ignored.
Then came the drugs.
Children.
Given drugs.
Drugs designed to bolster their loyalty through their potency and threatening withdrawal symptoms.
The children got addicted to the drugs. Their cries in agonizing pain that lasted for hours. Even days. Those that lived given differing doses to make them faster and stronger. Testing the combinations for the right cocktail to tune them for maximum performance. His face turned green and he felt his stomach churning.
The kids had no idea as to what was going to happen next.
The conditioning.
He watched as two children - one of whom was Melissa Vicar - were strapped down to a table and hooked up to machines. Devices were inserted into their skulls and jacked into their brains, specifically the parts responsible for memory and emotional control. Melissa screamed and thrashed, trying to tear herself free from the device, but then it was activated and she screamed in agony before falling limp. Her eyes became glazed and then the camera angle panned to show the monitor... displaying her memories and emotions... as lines of computer code. Code that could be altered and adjusted at will by the person manning the machine.
"You animals did this to them..." the guard hissed. "And robbed them of their humanity! You are worse than animals! You are even worse than scum! You are even worse than monsters!"
Jacob's spirit sank and his heart clenched as he watched the boy undergo the same treatment. There was no way he could stomach this. Not much longer.
"Violation of human rights... how low have we humans sunk?" his huge guard muttered. "Well, how low have you businessmen sunk should be the question. What happened to ethics? To restraint? To compassion? To decency? To morality? The answer, I think, is obvious. And you know it, don't you?" As he said that last question, he clenched his hand on Jacob's head, and a knife was pressed to his crotch.
Oh, he knew. He did know. But he had denied it. And being faced with this reality right in front of him... it broke him.
It literally broke him.
Jacob couldn't take it. He finally broke down crying.
No. Not crying.
He wailed.
Wailed and wailed. Wailed for his involvement in this suffering. For having cost Clare her daughter and her husband. For having caused so many children to be subjected to this horrible treatment. For having been complicit in the breaking of so many young boys and girls. For having been ignorant to what was going on under his nose this whole time.
For having forgotten the human nature within.
For losing sight of the truth regarding children.
For failing to protect them.
He wailed.
...
He wailed for three hours before he calmed down.
The man was no longer the same.
He looked up as Hela shut down the horror show. "Do you see now, Mr. Ashford? That is but a mere sampling of what the Government has been doing this whole time," she said. Her eyes narrowed as she flicked some of her short brunette hair out of her face. "And I do not mean Copeland's puppet government."
Jacob's mind was still reeling from the horror show he had just witnessed. But that caught his attention. "Puppet... government?" he rasped, his voice hoarse from screaming loudly.
A firm nod was all he got from her as she pulled the flash drive from the device. "The truth is that this insidious experimentation has been going on for longer than we realized. And it was signed off by those that lurk in the shadows," she explained. "Everything that they said about finding the best and brightest in special camps is a lie. What they have been doing from the get-go is imprisoning political dissidents and then kidnapping their children, or kidnapping their children and threatening them to keep them in line. It's happened with a lot of influential religious leaders to keep them on the sidelines and marginalized. Moderates have suffered the same fate. A sick process."
Jacob's eyes widened, his soul still reeling with the fresh horrors he had just witnessed. Even the hardest of evangelicals he guessed would decry this sickening treatment of children.
But if no one knew about it, then what could they do?
Now he understood why no one was told.
To keep them ignorant and obedient like dogs.
Like...
Dogs.
Dogs.
DOGS!
Jacob felt anger stirring in his chest at that. Someone... only wanted them to come when called and then go after the Coordinators without questioning?! What was going on here?! How could Copeland do this to his countrymen?!
"How... how dare that man! HOW DARE HE DO THIS TO US!" Jacob cried.
"Copeland may be in charge, but he's not the real governing body of this Nazi Germany," Hela clarified as she tented her fingers. "He is only a mere mouthpiece."
"A mouthpiece for whom?!" Jacob was angry now. No. He was furious.
No. Not even that.
He was livid.
Hela's eyes narrowed dangerously as lightning flashed and threw the room into illumination. "The ones who use him to carry out their will... they're referred to as LOGOs. And they run the country. Not the President, not the Senate, not the House, and not the courts. They are the real government. They only use the governing branches to carry out their will. Mouthpieces. Puppets. Whatever they say, they do. It's all a part of the dog theme."
Jacob couldn't speak. His mouth fell open at those words. "But... is that even...?" he rasped, trying to get a grasp on his roiling emotions. "That's just a conspiracy theory..." The words that he always said to dismiss such concerns sounded hollow to his ears now. And did it even matter now? "...isn't it?"
Hela merely shook her head. "No. It's not a conspiracy theory. It's legit, Mr. Ashford. In other words... It's real." Her eyes were still hard as she continued. "And for that matter, that's why we're fighting to reclaim our country. The Atlantic Federation is just a puppet. They don't want us to do what we were famous for in the past, despite our own spotty record on human rights. They don't want us to unite and be tolerant. We are not warmongers. We never were. Most people, it turns out, are rather skeptical about this whole thing, but don't know where to turn for the truth. So they are ripe for molding. We want people to be tolerant and respectful of human rights once more. Especially in regards to children. And that is why we are not going to let this continue."
"But how can your group make a difference?!" Jacob blurted. "You're too small!"
The exclamation made the room fall silent as the Ghosts all looked at one another before they suddenly broke out into laughter.
Hela shook her head. "You're right in one regard. We can't make a difference. But..." Then she smirked. "That's only if we were acting alone."
The commander of the group stepped forward. "She's right. We're not alone, Mr. Ashford. We never were." His own smirk appeared as he crossed his arms. "Besides... did you really think we were the only resistance group around?"
His eyes widened as he heard those words. "T-There are more of you?!" he shouted.
The man gave a firm nod and his smirk grew into a predatory grin. "Yep." Then he became serious as he leaned against the wall. "But as for how many and how widespread we are, it's classified. Top secret intel only we know of."
Jacob was silent in shock.
"But what I can tell you is that there is a reason the resistance has not been found, nor have they sniffed us out." The lead Ghost grinned. "Let's just say we have eyes and ears everywhere... including in the Government itself."
As soon as he said those words, Jacob felt himself become lightheaded. And then...
The Ghost suddenly grabbed his head in both hands, making direct eye contact with him, and then his eyes... his eyes seemed to change. The pupils shrank down to a mere pinprick and his irises grew in size slightly as they widened and then Jacob... he didn't know how to explain it, but it felt like something was blown away in his own head. His own eyes widened as he saw, for a brief instant, a small rippling effect before he passed out, his vision going dark. The last thing he heard was the commander of the Ghosts calling out to get him to a bed to lay down on.
FLASHBACK
Jacob looked up as he heard footsteps beside him. He turned his head to look at his unwanted companion, and his uninjured eye narrowed a bit at seeing the Ghost commander.
"What?" he asked.
The Ghost sat down on Jacob's other side. "Just wanted to see how you were holding up," he remarked casually.
Jacob snorted. "I'm holding," he stated.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence between the two men. Jacob didn't know why this man was here exactly, and he was very tempted to ask him some of the questions on his mind. But whenever he tried to force himself to voice the words, they just died on the tip of his tongue. He opened his mouth at one point, but then closed it when the words stalled.
He sighed and looked away, feeling ashamed.
"It's not easy, is it?"
Jacob's head snapped to gaze at his companion. "What's not easy?" he asked.
"Trying to muster up the motivation to speak freely. Right?"
"What would you know?" Jacob muttered, looking down at his knees. "You never went through what I did..."
"You'd be surprised," the Ghost said seriously. "You may be right in that I don't know what it's like, but I can get a basic idea given how many we've snapped back to reality."
"No. You don't." Jacob slowly lowered the ice pack and looked down at it. "You don't know what it's like to be told something all your life and then believe it. You don't know what it's like to have everything you believed in shattered right before your eyes. You don't understand the kind of...limbo, void, gap, hole... you feel once your purpose has been removed. You don't know what it's like to be drifting in that void, trying to scramble for some sense of purpose in your life. You are alone, no one to help, support, or back you up. All those you thought you knew? Who are they? You don't know anyone's real personalities. All you know is lies." His voice was bitter as he said those words.
The Ghost was silent as he closed his eyes. A sigh escaped him. "You're right. Maybe I don't know fully, but I do understand what it's like to be without a purpose."
Jacob glanced to him critically. "How so?"
The Ghost smiled. "I was once a police officer. I was fired after I actually tracked down a missing child and she was brought back to her parents." Here he chuckled and shook his head. "That was not what I had been told to do. How ironic was it that I, a police officer, was fired for doing what I thought was right?" He became serious as he looked down at his hands resting in his lap. "That day, everything I thought I knew had been shattered. I was told that police were to uphold the law. I honestly believed that. But then to hear I was supposed to falsify a kidnapping report and tell the family a lie?" Here he gritted his teeth in anger. "That was the last straw for me. If the police weren't going to do their damned jobs, then I was not going to be there."
The businessman was shocked. The Ghost commander had been fired for solving a kidnapping?
Just what was this country coming to?
He wanted to know... and soon.
He directed his gaze back to the Ghost commander. "What made you decide to join this?" he asked, gesturing around them.
The Ghost ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "It all had to do with my job. The police were not helping people whose children were kidnapped," he admitted. "I wanted to help someone, not take their child away and then lie about their death. That was the final straw. After I was fired, I packed up my stuff and moved out of the apartment. I traveled for a while before I met up with the Ghosts. They gave me a home, a purpose, and took me in. I provided them with training in law enforcement knowledge and on how to avoid it. I also gave them a fresh perspective on what was happening within the law enforcement agencies nationally." He then looked up, his eyes as hard as ice.
"I want to bring compassion and respect for the law back to the police," he continued. "But mostly I want people to see the police as helping them, not taking away children and then selling them to some shady group to be shipped to labs and then cut up in an effort to create supersoldiers to combat humans who just were given a better chance at life when their parents could not."
Jacob felt the blood drain from his face at those words. "What...?!"
The former policeman nodded. "You heard me, Mr. Ashford. The police, behind the public's back, sells children to a shady group and then ships them to labs across the world and the country to turn them into supersoldiers."
Jacob felt physically ill now.
His eye was wide as he glanced over at some of the other Ghosts, wondering just what their stories were. Why had they joined the resistance? What was their purpose here? What drove them to resist?
He turned his gaze back to the Ghost commander. "Just... Why? Why would they even do that?!" Jacob cried, getting to his feet. "It's..."
"Sick? Inhumane? Barbaric? The list goes on, you know," the commander rumbled. "It's not just the kidnapping and selling of children."
"Then what else is there?!" Jacob shouted.
"The doctors? What good are they if they knowingly submit drugs to the children to get them addicted to them?" The Ghost commander held up a hand and started to tick off the offenses. "Teachers? Why go to school if all you're learning is propaganda? Historians and curators of museums? Why go to learn history if it's always censored to keep people from the truth? Why not address the root cause of all this racism? Psychologists are constantly undermined by the government to keep them silenced. Politicians? Honesty is nonexistent at the highest levels of government. President Copeland?" The commando sneered in disgust. "Just a puppet. A mouthpiece for the real masters of the world."
Jacob looked on in horror, realization dawning on his face. "You don't mean..." he whispered.
The man gave a curt nod. "Yes. Them. LOGOs." His eyes were hard as he said that one word. "And we intend to break their hold on this country... for good!" His eyes narrowed into dangerous slits at those words.
"But how do you intend to do that when they control all media?" Jacob asked, horrified.
"You underestimate people, Mr. Ashford," the Ghost remarked. "We do have media influence, but it's limited to underground newspapers and networks, some of which were once very prominent before they took command. One of those is the New York Times. They run as an underground newspaper now these days, seeing as how they're always revealing the sinister aspects of what's been going on."
Then the man did something unexpected. He clenched his fists and snarled. "But we, despite our efforts, lack any sort of influence in the big media corporations!"
Jacob pursed his lips as he pondered this. "But surely your underground news sources are able to reach people, aren't they?"
"Not as much as we'd like them to," the Ghost admitted darkly. "They're usually censored or are forced to find new places to lay low until further notice, which makes it difficult to reach large numbers of people in key areas where we have very few agents."
Now Jacob got the idea as to what was truly hampering the resistance. Their lack of a truly centralized media center was holding them back. And if they didn't have it, then they would just remain a resistance with very few assets but lots of intelligence.
"You wish to create a media empire to combat that of the enemy..." he murmured.
The Ghost nodded. "Yes. Even with our sources, while we could unite them in theory, without enough reach, we're left with very few people and little manpower in key areas like Chicago, Silicon Valley, and even New York itself."
Jacob bit his lower lip as he shifted. There was something he didn't want to have to do, but given the circumstances, now that he thought about it, it seemed more likely that they would get wind of the man's own secret. And with the Ghosts, no the resistance as a whole, it seemed like he would have a way out. Not just for his son, but his entire family.
He had promised to keep the man's secret safe until his dying breath. But right now, what other choice did he have? His fellow industrialists and plutocrats were going to find out sooner or later, and he did not wish for the man's son to become a casualty of a war that didn't make much sense. He sighed, finally wondering if what he was doing was right.
"Actually... there's something that..." Jacob's voice trailed off as the Ghost commander glanced at him.
"What?"
The former businessman licked his lips before he sighed. "Nothing." In truth, he was torn on the issue. He didn't even know if he could even trust these people! They had just captured him, taken him in, treated his injuries, questioned him and exposed him to so much brutality his own country was performing it didn't even make sense to tell them. Who knew if they were really the good guys here?!
But the Ghost was savvy. He knew Jacob was hiding something. "Mr. Ashford, you're hiding something," he noted.
The businessman got to his feet and backed away from the commander. "So what if I am? How do I know that you're not the bad guys here, and are just feeding me a load of bullshit lies?! You captured me, questioned me, showed me brutality you claim my own country is pulling, and you expect me to believe you?!"
The Ghost looked up, his blue-grey eyes meeting Jacob's own blue eyes. "I understand your frustration. But the truth is, it's all real. You saw the footage. We have moles in those labs, and they send us that footage for us to use in our recruitment efforts. It's all raw, unedited stuff. Not fake, Mr. Ashford. Real." He glanced down at his hands. "And it makes me sick every time I see it."
Jacob's eyes narrowed as the commander continued. "But it's up to you what you choose to believe," he added. "It's your choices that will determine the future of this country. What you're hiding could either be of a benefit or not. And despite what LOGOs claims, Coordinators are just as human as we Naturals. They bleed red blood. They eat the same food. They have the same biological functions as we do. They defecate and urinate. They eat. They sleep. They breathe. They dream. They love, they hate. They even share the same shadows as Naturals. They are both capable of great good, and great evil. Just because one Coordinator tried to wipe out Naturals does not make them all bad. It's all in how one looks at it from their perspective. Everyone, Natural and Coordinator, is capable of good and bad actions."
He paused for a moment before a sneer crossed his face. "So, are we so different in that regard? We of the resistance see them as people. Not abominations, monsters, or any of the other stuff that LOGOs puts out there."
Jacob shivered under that sneer, but he could see in this man's eyes the truth. The way he spoke was a dead giveaway. Despite the genetic differences, how could two separate races actually act the same, yet claim to be so different?
In the end, it came down to one thing: Jealousy.
Those old Naturals with outsized power were jealous of Coordinators! And Coordinators elevated themselves to make themselves feel better!
Jacob couldn't believe it. It was so absurd, so simple, and yet people made it out to be some massive difference. How could they be so foolish, so ignorant, and so narrow-minded? It started as a mild chuckle, making the Ghost look at him in confusion before Jacob burst out into full-on laughter. He ducked forward, clutching at his face with one hand, trying to keep it from getting out of control. The commander of this cell got to his feet and he looked ready to strike Jacob down, but instead, he glanced to the other man. "It's so stupid..." he gasped, "...this whole thing! Those old fools are just jealous over Coordinators! Jealous! And they're taking out their tantrum on the world!"
The Ghost lowered his arms and gave a wry smirk. "You hit the nail on the head, Mr. Ashford." Then he became serious. "But it's also more than that. We know some of the factors and how to counter them, but the biggest one, as you said, is jealousy towards the Coordinators. And now, it's gotten out of hand. LOGOs has gotten too greedy as well. Their power now allows them to buy out countries and plant puppets in place. They act like the Lords of Earth. And we are not serfs or peasants. We will break their hold over America. But it has to come from someone who knows their conditioning process."
"Hence the media empire," Jacob deduced, his laughter finally having died down.
The man nodded. "Yes. So, we need to know. What were you about to say earlier?"
Jacob finally told him.
. . .
The warehouse was silent as the woman stood in front of one of the capsules containing a child's corpse.
The whole place was empty, as well, save for her and the capsules of the deceased.
It was just as well, since the rest of the resistance leadership had to keep their covers intact.
Unlike her, of course.
Marie Lennette Eisenhower was not about to go back into public life until LOGOs was purged from the highest levels of leadership, including the courts.
The sunlight coming into the huge facility hit her form, revealing her to be an imposing woman at six-foot-six. Her pure white hair glinted in the sunlight, the braid coming down to her upper back shimmering as she moved. Her green-blue eyes were as sharp as gemstones, and her skin was marked by scars, not just from her time in the service... but also an attack that claimed her family's lives. Her left eye had a burn scar going across it, only adding to her imposing stature. Her trench coat was missing, revealing her in a tank top, her toned arms and shoulders exposed. Scars crisscrossed those arms, more marks of her military career prior to her discharge, or purge as she saw it. Her biggest scars, though, were internal.
Born into a prominent military and political family, Marie's family had strived to create a better nation, but with the influence of LOGOs creeping into every facet of governmental life and institution, her grandfather, Douglas Eisenhower, and her father, Alan Eisenhower, both renowned senators, made it their mission to make sure the Presidency remained free of LOGOs control while ensuring that Coordinators were to be given equal rights. The efforts had been very noble, and they actually did act as a check on LOGOs' growing influence. They kept the group in check until the day Copeland was elected... or rather was placed into power at a whim. Then, abruptly, everything changed for the worse.
Moderates were mysteriously silenced, other religions sidelined, and all opposition was squashed out. It happened so swiftly and suddenly it made both men very suspicious. They tried to get to the bottom of it, but their efforts proved to be in vain. They were eventually forced out of the Congress when they lost reelection, no doubt to falsified scandals, she mused. In truth, she would never know, because just days after they lost reelection, she had gone to visit her grandfather, only to find him scribbling stuff down on notepads in code. He had always been interested in that kind of stuff, and although he had given her his notes prior to shoving her out of the house, he had forgotten to give her the cipher needed to decode his notes. His house went up in fire two weeks later while he was still in bed.
And her father...
That was the one that stole him from her.
Marie remembered it as clear as day.
The moment she entered the house to say hello to her father... he had lunged at her, spewing what appeared to be nonsense. She still recalled what he had told her because it, even today, still chilled her to the bone. She tried to talk to him, but he only told her to run. He had given her what she needed to triumph and reclaim humankind. Then he suddenly calmed down and bid her farewell. She ran back to the house to try and get answers, only for the whole house to suddenly explode.
The sudden explosion threw her off her feet and knocked her out cold for a full week. When she came to in the hospital, doctors were surprised she had survived such a thing. Her only injuries had been physical ones, but it wasn't until a few months after her recovery that she had been hounded by people she didn't know, threatening her and calling her names. They dragged her family name through the mud by spinning a scandal that no one in their right mind would believe. They even accused her of bedding other senators to continue her family's legacy of criminal activity. With her family's work now being denounced, she was forced to go into hiding.
Men sent to execute her failed to find her. Scouts couldn't track her down.
She never went outside unless in a disguise. She faked a limp on her right leg to go with her hair, which had turned white due to the stress she was under. She developed a habit of hunching over when walking to get groceries, acting like a feeble little granny, even resorting to using a cane to add authenticity to her disguise. She even wore contacts to disguise her eye color. Her most defining feature, the scar over her left eye, she always said was a remnant from an attack on her as a youth.
The men hunting her always overlooked the so-called granny.
After buying much needed supplies, Marie went off the grid for good, finding a small cabin in the woods near Denver that had been abandoned for years. While in rough shape, she did a lot of the work to fix it up and make it livable. The whole effort took a full year before she could finally call it home. It was also then that she came across one of the many resistance cells in the country. Denver alone had three, and after meeting with all three factions, it became clear that they were more potent together than alone. She discovered that despite differences, they shared the same goal. And being from a prominent political dynasty, she had an innate understanding of politics. It took a week, but she managed to unite the three resistance cells into one unified force. And that had just been the beginning.
The next few years saw her making contact with other cells scattered across the country, some of whom even sought her out. The resistance forces' leaders all met with her in a large abandoned factory, finally crafting a new leadership system that allowed for the streamlining of command. The system was modeled on the United States government, and the old constitution was drawn up for the purpose of uniting them under one government. The United States of America.
Now she was the leader of a fully fledged resistance force... No. Not a resistance force. More like a resistance army. But even an army needed public support.
And boy, did they need it now.
She glanced back at the building's labeling of its former owners, and she scowled.
"'Atlantic Defense Industries'..." she growled. "What I wouldn't give to kill the man behind this sickening process..."
"A dream that many of us share, Madame President," a familiar voice mused from beside her.
"What are you even doing here? Your cover could be blown," she noted, turning to face the speaker.
"Yes, but there are times when one can take advantage of their cover to slip away for a moment, are there not?" her companion remarked as he stepped out.
The female President gave a firm nod to him. "Yes. There are. But it's still a risk."
The man nodded only once. "True to that."
"So, what brings you here?" she asked, not even looking at him.
"It's from Commander David Wilkins."
Those five words caught her attention. "Hmm?" She turned to face the man directly. "A message?"
Her companion nodded and held out a transcript of the entire conversation. "See for yourself."
The President took it and scanned it over, her eyes narrowing in suspicion before she got to the juicy part. She had to reread it three times before she lowered it and looked up. "And he is sure of this?"
"He told me his guest repeated it five times," the man said seriously. "You know him, right?"
Marie did know the commander of the Ghosts. He was an honest man, never hiding information from his subordinates unless his superiors ordered it to remain classified. His tendency to share information earned him great respect amongst his unit because it allowed them to stay ahead of any possible rebel purges in the industries in that section of the country. She nodded once. "Yes. I do. So if he's contacting us about this, then it's legit."
The man gave a small frown. "So, what's the plan?" he asked.
"We do our research to confirm this, just to be safe," she stated. "The more we know, the better the decisions we can make."
"But you do know that plans go awry," her companion noted.
Marie gave a nod. "Yeah. I do know that. But in this case, we need to know as much as possible about this whole thing," she explained. "If this is indeed true, we may just have an edge that could get us a much-needed mole in the heads of the media industry."
A wry smirk crossed the man's face. "True. And that, as you have stated before, is our biggest disadvantage," he told her. "And if it is true, what will your plan be?"
Marie pursed her lips here. "Actually, we may have to wait for a bit. If this is true, then we decide on what to do after we watch the two for a while. This way we can make plans accordingly."
The man frowned, but he did see the point in her logic. "I see. Well, if that's your call, I won't press it."
The resistance leader gave a nod before she turned back to face him. "And what of Agent Phoenix? Has his transfer been approved?"
"It has," the man replied. "He'll be en route to the battle group within the month. And once he's aboard, his mission begins."
"Good. Hopefully it goes as planned," Marie mused. "And what of the forces for the lab? Has the team been assembled?"
"Yes, ma'am. They're ready to move out as soon as you give the word," her companion said.
"Then send them. The sooner they get that data, the better a chance the mission has for success," Marie ordered.
"Yes, ma'am!" The man gave a crisp salute before he turned and began to walk off as she turned to look at the containers of deceased children experiments. Then he paused. "Marie..."
She glanced back. "Yes?"
"You're sure we can win?" he asked.
The President gave a hesitant look, biting her lower lip before she looked up, her eyes hard. "Yes. I know it."
"All right. But just remember, our position is still precarious, given how much power they wield, LOGOs." Her companion looked back at her, his grey eyes hard. "And I am all for shutting them down. But in order to do so, we need a much more stable position."
"I know," Marie remarked. "Especially since they have more media control and we don't, despite the underground news networks we got set up."
The two stood there for a moment before her companion turned and exited the warehouse, leaving her alone to her thoughts.
Her gaze landed back on the transcript of the conversation she had just read and opened it again, eyeing one name in particular.
"Who'd have thought one of LOGOs' members would have a Coordinator son?" she mused.
The whole idea was kind of ironic, really. One of them had purposely made his son into a Coordinator as a means to show off his wealth, but he had to keep it a secret lest his little 'buddies' find out and execute his son or his entire family. And on top of it, donating to hospitals to bribe them was an ironic twist of fate. In a stark contrast to what the rest of LOGOs did to children, this one man was donating to facilities dedicated to helping their patients and researching cancer and whatnot. A kind of irony that was not lost on her. Maybe he was also trying to make amends for what his kind were doing? If so, then why was he not coming out publicly? Maybe he had to keep quiet for his own safety? The idea did seem plausible. But something told her that he could've cared less about the former children and was only doing this to cover his own ass. A typical coward who lacked real spine to stand up to his fellow cronies. More specifically him. The one in charge of it all.
Target Fallen Angel.
Otherwise known as Lord Djibril.
Her eyes narrowed as she recalled the image of the man she had seen during the last meeting of the resistance leadership. The man's very appearance screamed aristocratic, and he did act like the Lord of Earth, a notion she wished to smash right over his head. The Earth was not his to lord over like some king or all-powerful aristocrat. He was just a man. A man with way too much political power and money. While he was shrewd and manipulative, she was just as cunning as he was, but she relied not on blackmail or money to get the job done. She was more into forming connections that reached far into his own global empire, finding sympathizers and turning them into assets and moles to get intel on who was on his payroll or in league with him. That was something she was determined to use to her advantage, and so far it was working.
But now came the hard part. In addition to forming a spy network, she had to try and reach out to the other faction that had helped to end the First Bloody Valentine War.
Terminal.
Or at least that's what she was sure they were called.
But how to do that when they were left with no one to call upon in the PLANTs?
Her only option at this stage of the game was to try and have the communications team sniff out the frequency used by the former Earth Alliance ship the Archangel. And given the necessity of making contact, the only option was to try and keep an ear to the ground for any mention of them. Seeing as how Terminal was now a faction in its own right, much like they were, perhaps by forming an alliance the two sides - the United States of America and Terminal - could make a dent and impact on the war and Djibril's designs for the world. And perhaps they could learn what was happening within the PLANTs as well.
That also brought to the fore another issue that was bothering her.
Their mobile suit forces.
While they did have access to factories to build the components and places to assemble the suits, the types they had in their possession were far from ideal. In fact, most of them had been Atlantic Federation models. That was a dead giveaway that there was a resistance right under their noses.
Oh sure it would be handy for causing some chaos amongst the ranks, but once the resistance made their move, they needed a breed of mobile suit that Terminal could recognize as not being of the enemy. So they had spent months reverse engineering the technology needed to create new mobile suits, and their first true models were coming off the line. The first one was based around the idea of the Strike Dagger, but it was a lot more rugged in its design. This was due to its manufacturer choosing to go for reliability in combat. Already a few had been field tested in a small clash near an Extended creation lab within the deserts of New Mexico, and they had performed to expectations and then some.
But it also meant that more work had to be done to make them stand out from the AF forces when the resistance made their move.
There had to be more research and reverse engineering to make better machines. But it was a start.
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced out the windows of the old warehouse, spotting the sun starting to sink below the horizon.
She grasped her coat as it hung over one of the chairs in the middle of the room, throwing it on over her shoulders before she walked out, closing the door behind her and making her way into the shadows as night began to creep over the deserted facility.