Gundam Wing: The Phoenix Rising

by Titanic X

A tie-in novel to Gundam Wing: Destiny's Call. The American front in the war is unknown and unheard of. But as the world is embroiled in another war, the Resistance sends a mole to take command of a mighty battle group. This is the story of the Phoenix, and of how the Resistance began their fight to liberate America's citizens from their brainwashing. This is... Phoenix Rising!

3. PHASE II: Pushing Bonds

Hey, peeps~! Here's the next chapter of The Phoenix Rising. And this one is gonna be a doozy. :3

Review replies:

- Gundamvid: Well, they're called the Ghosts because no one has been able to catch or sniff them out that easily. It's close to impossible to find these guys. :3

- operation meteor: I'm glad I could make this well worth the read. :3

- chidoriprime: Oh, you'll have to see. ;3

- Spiceracksargent001: Oh, you'll see what suits I have planned. ;3 And Gundamvid gave me some good ideas. ;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 II: PUSHING BONDS

November 14th, CE 73

The sun was shining down on New York City, only adding to the manufactured ideal of the American Life.

At least, the ideal American Life under LOGOs.

Many people were totally unaware of what was really going on behind the scenes due to how concealed it was. No one knew who really ran the country and therefore the world like all-powerful aristocrats. These businessmen were of the old money, possessing wealth that went back generations, and in some cases, back centuries. These men lorded over the common folk like nobility, holed up in their high-rise estates and guarded by their loyal knights whom were paid obscenely.

The regular people were just peasants to these men.

But in reality, they were servants to the real lord of the world: Lord Djibril himself.

And that, he mused, was one of the things that made him worried.

Yes, worried.

Not for his own safety, no. He was way too high up in the ranks to be worried about that. He had enough clout with Lord Djibril to have some leeway in what he said and did to keep the masses in line with their thinking. But what he was really worried about was his son.

For Benjamin Carson had a secret.

His son was not a Natural.

His son had been enhanced to be a Coordinator.

And for a good reason. He, despite what others thought, wanted his son to be the best of the best, and that included genetically. But while others assumed it was mere vanity, it was far more than that. He wanted his son to have all the capabilities of a Coordinator, which would assure his position as heir to the media company he ran. This way he could be safe from any enemies as well, which consisted of the entire cabal he was a part of.

Benjamin's brown eyes were furrowed as he looked out at the city from inside his penthouse. His grey hair, normally slicked back for meetings with his fellow LOGOs members, currently stuck up every which way, a style he much preferred over having it slicked back. He was a big man, standing at six-foot-five, broad shouldered and powerfully built for his age. Despite being in his late sixties, he wasn't one to be frail and feeble in the physical department like so many others were. Like the man who ran the electronics empire. He wasn't that much older than Benjamin, but he sure looked like it, what with his frail limbs and physique. Benjamin had seen all too often the results of little activity and age in men like him. So he was determined to fight it with everything he had.

Being born into wealth meant he had access to all kinds of resources to ensure he stayed fit and trim. He spent hours in his personal gym, working out when he was not busy counting profits, determining programming schedules or meeting with his fellow cabal members. His efforts had paid off handsomely, ensuring that his physical stamina and strength was beyond that of his peers. Mostly for his own health as well, seeing as how some of the other heads had health issues as they aged. But it was also to ensure that he was able to protect his son at this stage of the game.

When his son, Harry Carson, had been born, Benjamin had bribed the hospital where he was born to erase all records of his Coordinator status, donating generously to help fuel medical research to ensure they kept their end of the bargain. But as time passed it became clear that the doctors he visited would not be able to keep the secret for long. All too often he had to delve into their medical employment records to find out if they worked for LOGOs or not. With the cabal reaching into even the medical field, it was becoming harder and harder to find people who were not keen on harming children. So as a result he had to hire a private doctor and the man had to stay at the mansion to keep tabs on his son's health. This man was one whom he trusted implicitly with his son's well-being.

But recently the doctor had fallen ill due to complications with his own health.

That meant that his son now had to go to a regular doctor, and that put his secret in jeopardy.

And as a result, Benjamin was worried sick.

Not just for his own safety, but his son's life as well.

Despite all the security and guards, he was a prisoner. A man whom was bribed and cajoled into his role as a puppeteer for the news media.

Benjamin was sick of it.

Sick of it all.

The lies, the need for secrecy... all of it.

Some part of him wished to be a normal person, or at least to have the means to rebel against Lord Djibril and actually give him a piece of his mind. True he might be somewhat protected due to his importance in this war, but now that he thought about it, why go to such lengths to keep the people pacified and ignorant of the dark secrets that LOGOs was having their government do?

Benjamin needed answers. But as to how he was going to get them, that was something that he couldn't do. Not since many of his guards were on Djibril's payroll, anyway. The only ones he could trust were those he himself had hired. At least this way he could be sure they would defend only him and not act on Djibril's orders to assassinate him and his son. But despite this, he was still feeling trapped, as if he were in a gilded cage and not a penthouse.

A cage where he was allowed out only if he obeyed like the servant he was.

He glanced around his penthouse before he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small remote.

Benjamin was not normally one to be so paranoid, but since LOGOs was getting bolder and more eager to decimate the Coordinators, it made sense that they'd be trying to spy on their members to see if they were still loyal to their master. The very thought of being treated like a dog made the man sick to his stomach. So he had taken precautions and installed jammer equipment in his penthouse to disrupt any possible electronic survelliance equipment. And he could activate it any time he wished to have some privacy. He pressed the button on the remote, and the light flashed green. A screen on the device lit up. Jammers activated.

The lights flickered briefly before stabilizing and he finally sighed, letting the tension out of his shoulders.

Now he could have some time to himself.

The head of the Atlantic News Network stepped out of the main living room and entered his study, closing the door behind him. Once he was alone, he finally sat down at his desk and booted up his computer. He had also taken to recently detailing his memoirs in preparation for a possible assassination attempt, but also just in case he had the unlikely luck to even survive this war and change things for the people.

Of course, while he did have an idea of what he wanted to do, since he was always being watched, he had to toe the line of extermination.

And he was getting sick of it.

Sure he profited off of it, but was it even really right to subdue the emotions of the people and turn them into mere servants? He had been raised to use his wealth to his advantage, but in this case, he was taking advantage of people and exploiting them in the worst ways possible. Making them into warriors for a genocidal war. A war that was sure to be the last one if what he heard in the underground news was correct.

Yes, Benjamin was aware of the news networks underground. But due to how spotty their broadcasts were, he couldn't keep tabs on them, least of all where they were. The only one that was consistent was the New York Times, and even then they took great pains to hide their true location. In fact, no one was even sure if the PO box the paper was using was even legit. That was the one downside to this whole operation.

Benjamin was slowly growing disillusioned with the whole thing. And since his son was not a true Natural in the eyes of the rest of the cabal, he was bound to be executed or removed in a conveniently timed death somehow. He had seen it happen all too often. And with the public divided and drawn to the lies he and his other media heads spewed, it was impossible to deduce the truth.

And he hated it.

While his empire had been built on bedrock truth and science back during the early days, now all they tossed out were flimsy lies that were backed by pseudo-science. All these so-called documentaries about Coordinators? Just stories sprinkled with the barest of facts, and even then only those selected to make them seem authentic. It was a lie that made him sick to his stomach. Physically ill. Not just something minor. He clamped a hand to his mouth as his stomach churned. He had to struggle to keep the bile from coming out and ruining his computer's keyboard.

He pushed himself away from the keyboard and over to a garbage can close to the door. He leaned over and a sour taste filled his mouth as he expelled his lunch. He grasped the sides and lurched as his stomach heaved a second time.

Benjamin looked up, feeling sweat running down his face. He pushed away from the garbage and grabbed the bag, pulling it out.

He deposited the trash bag into a separate trash can that would be removed by his hired staff outside the penthouse doorway before retreating back into his office. Once inside again, he looked back at his computer, still waiting for his words to flow freely.

The media mogul sat back down and began to type.

As he typed, he was unaware of one of the guards he had hired peeking in through a small slat in the door's window. His keen eyes picked out the man's typing, and he was able to briefly read what it said.

Discreetly, he reached up a hand and tapped the comm. device he wore around his neck. He tapped it three times, and that was the signal his superiors needed to hear.

That done, the man slipped away and resumed his post.

Benjamin was unaware as he finally let out a heavy sigh, closing down his document and shutting down the computer. Now that he had finished his writing for the day, he was supposed to attend a meeting at the cabal headquarters.

A meeting he despised with all his being.

But, for his son's safety, he had to go through with it.

He shook as he stood up, staggering towards the door and opening it. His eyes were slightly glazed as he pressed a hand to his forehead. This stress was not doing him any favors, he knew. If only he could skip the meetings and take some much needed vacation time...

But no.

Lord Djibril was insistent on meeting the deadlines. Deadlines that no other news agency could match. And being pressured into such things was not what he had signed up for.

The head of LOGOs had also dropped some worrying hints that he knew about his son's Coordinator status. And as a result, he had to act like the good little dog he was supposed to be.

A fact that made him sick to his stomach.

Benjamin leaned over and had to clap a hand to his mouth as he felt his stomach lurch again. He collapsed to his knees, clutching at his stomach with one hand, and his body shuddered.

One of his guards spotted this and he ran over. "Sir? Are you all right?"

"N-No..." Benjamin rasped. "But I...I need to be able to make that meeting..."

"And I'm telling you to skip it and take time off," the guard insisted. "This is not healthy for anyone. Even for someone in your physical shape."

"I have to do this..." Benjamin gasped as he staggered to his feet. "Or else Lord Djibril will threaten my son... And I can't let him find out about my son's status as a Coordinator... You know that as well as I do..."

"I will be sure to inform him that you came down with a mild cold," the guard told him. "You need some time to recover your strength, sir."

Benjamin glanced at the guard with hazy eyes, and he could only see nothing but concern in his eyes. "Orga..."

The guard smiled as he slipped an arm under his employer's arm and hauled the bigger man to his feet. "You don't have to do this..." the man whispered.

"I have to, sir. It's a part of the job to ensure your safety. Whether it be from your own actions, or from the enemy." Orga was dead serious as he said those last three words. Both men knew what he meant when he said them.

Benjamin nodded to Orga Itsuka, the head of the company he was hiring from. Orga was a Natural, like all the others, but their skills as mercenaries were close to those hired by LOGOs. But unlike other mercenaries, these guys only took jobs that required hitting kidnappers and slavers that lurked within certain countries. They also provided excellent guard duty as supplemental income. The name of the company was Tekkadan, and ironically, it had been started by a group of former child soldiers who had had enough of the fighting and torment they were being put through and defected from the Atlantic Federation after they wiped out the lab where they were being experimented on. They gathered like-minded people, both adult and youth alike, and their numbers exploded in just two years. The kids in charge had gone on to go to school using funds they acquired through hits on kidnappers and jobs in rescuing kidnappees from their captors, last Benjamin had heard, anyway, and one of them was on schedule to graduate with a degree in business and law. One was undergoing education to become a counselor to those other children who were suffering because of LOGOs, and another was struggling to become a financer to handle the finances of the burgeoning company.

Orga was Japanese-American, born and raised in a small community in the countryside where LOGOs had little influence. So he didn't really have a hatred of the Coordinators like so many others did. In fact, he could've cared less about that. He was well-built, with lean muscles and several scars crossed his body. He had bright light lilac hair and golden eyes, a side effect of the procedures he and his fellow soldiers had gone through during their time as child experiments. His uniform was a dark grey combat suit with splotches of black, light grey, and even brown for urban fighting. On the side of his combat vest was what appeared to be a flower of sorts, but more metallic in its design - the symbol of Tekkadan.

The former child soldier was now in his early twenties and he was a skilled leader as he was a soldier. And it showed in his abilities to fight with the best of them.

Orga was dead serious as he helped his employer to his feet. "I know a thing or two about stress, but to be pressured into this is not good for anyone. So just let me handle this."

Benjamin felt a surge of relief as he just about collapsed into the guard's arms. His eyes fluttered shut and for the first time in a long while, he felt at ease. Orga was perhaps his only friend in this false country, trusting in him and giving him the benefit of the doubt. With his wife's passing several years ago due to cancer, he was left alone and close to being a recluse. Orga was the light in that darkness, reminding him of his own sanity, safety, and health.

And he felt grateful to the Lord for his decision to hire Tekkadan to act as security.

The former child soldier helped the media mogul to his room where he collapsed on the bed promptly, passing out before his head even hit the pillow.

Now that his boss was resting at ease, Orga stood up and squared his shoulders. He turned and exited the bedroom, closing the door and making his way past the other Tekkadan personnel to the main meeting room where Benjamin often held meetings with the rest of the cabal. He had been present in them more often than not, seeing as how he was the chief bodyguard for one of the most important men in the entire organization. Orga took his seat and swiftly brought the terminal online, entering the password to bypass the jammers and bring the camera online.

He schooled his face into a stoic expression and leaned back, adopting the air of an aristocratic man as the screen came on.

His eyes narrowed as he made out the aristocratic features of Lord Djibril himself. His light grey hair and blue eyes were at odds with his age, which he knew was to be only in his thirties. But he surmised that it was due to the stress of his life that it had turned grey. Or the possibility it was a genetic mutation, which wasn't far off, actually.

"Oh. It's you." The voice of the leader of LOGOs was always filled with disdain when addressing the security head. No doubt because of the fact he wasn't one of those LOGOs shelled out to their fellows.

"Yes," Orga remarked as calmly as he could.

"Where is Lord Carson? I thought he would make it to the meeting," Djibril stated. "Unless something happened to him..."

"He has come down with a mild cold, my lord," Orga explained, his face taking on the appropriate expression of pity and sadness. "He sends his regrets to you that he cannot attend this meeting."

The little white lie worked, as Lord Djibril's frown morphed into a confident grin. "At least he knows his place. We do not want his son to be harmed, after all," he purred.

That last statement was enough to set Orga on edge. He frowned to himself in his thoughts, but kept his face as calm as ever. That right there was a red flag for him. That meant that Djibril knew about the man's Coordinator son. And he was using his safety as blackmail to keep him in line.

Djibril's smirk then turned into a frown. "It is of the utmost regret that he cannot join. Well, there is no way to overcome the common cold, after all. Do send him my best regards for a speedy recovery, will you?"

"As you wish, my lord," Orga said, making sure to stand and bow with grace and precision. It was a trick he had learned after meeting with Djibril over these virtual meetings: to show deference and obedience to him ensured one's safety. And that was something that was equivalent to the dog theme of his entire viewpoint. As a man with obscene wealth and power, it made sense for him to treat others as mere dogs, to order them around and then discard them once their usefulness had come to an end.

And it made Orga bristle in anger.

No human was a dog.

The screen went dark and Orga straightened up, adjusting his uniform before he exited the room.

The jammers kicked back on and the lights flickered briefly before stabilizing.

As Orga walked past one of his fellow Tekkadan soldiers, the man looked up, revealing him to be a huge wall of muscle. Unlike all the others who were somewhat skinny but strong, this man was incredibly muscular, with broad shoulders, chest, and thick arms and legs. He looked like he could walk right through a wall if he chose to do so. His black hair stuck up in spikes every which way, and his eyes were a deep brown, so dark in color they appeared almost black. He wore the same uniform as Orga, but it was much larger to accommodate his massive bulk.

"Talked to the 'lord' again?" he asked, using his fingers to air quote the word lord.

"Yeah. The boss couldn't stomach another meeting, so I gave him a freebie pass. Just glad ol' Lord Voldemort bought the lie I told him," Orga snarled, his fists clenching.

The huge man, one Akihiro Altland, managed a smirk. "Still can't bear to say that bastard's name, eh?"

"After what he put us through? Of course not!" Orga shot back. "I hate that man for doing all this stuff to us, and for what? Some temper tantrum that is totally unjustified!"

Akihiro grunted in response. "But using an old name from some children's story? Seems kinda stupid to me."

Orga rolled his eyes as he looked away. "True, but what else could I do? And trust me, Akihiro, the name does fit him."

The bigger man grinned. "Same here, buddy."

The two stood in silence for a brief moment. "Think I should report to the boss?" Akihiro asked softly.

Orga closed one eye and leaned back against the wall of the penthouse. "Do what you have to do. Just be glad that I'm not firing you for this."

Akihiro merely nodded before he turned and walked off, pulling a communicator out of his pocket.

The leader of Tekkadan closed both eyes and sighed heavily.

'The things we do to get justice...'

. . .

The lab was a mess as the woman shifted through her notes.

"C'mon... where is it?!" she blurted, tossing aside papers and other tools as she searched her lab.

"Hey! Hurry up in there! The President said she was coming by later today to see what we developed!" a man's voice called out from behind the door.

"Dammit, Charles! I know that!" the woman shouted back.

The woman dove back into her notes, finally sticking her hand into a drawer loaded to the top with blueprints for mobile suits and other weapons, some of which were beyond the resistance's current manufacturing capabilities. Her arm disappeared into the mountain of papers, and she grunted before her fingers brushed something smooth and metallic. A cry of relief escaped her as she grasped it and pulled the mystery object out. "Found it!" she cried.

"About time!" came Charles' response.

The woman turned and ran back to the door of the lab, opening it to reveal her companion.

Charles Rustal was a man in his late thirties, with spiked brown hair that was dyed green on one side, and his eyes were a deep blue color. Unlike so many other scientists in the Atlantic Federation who were trying to modify the human body using illegal methods and medical torture, he was a man who was into using technology to push the boundaries of both man and machine. But without the use of invasive surgeries and drugs given to children. And without the use of brainwashing equipment, either. In fact, he was a former Lodonia laboratory employee, having fled several weeks before the war's outbreak after his own son was tormented and turned into a weapon of war. Jason Rustal had not survived the procedures. And that had shattered Charles' faith in everything he believed in. After fleeing the lab with vital intelligence on the procedures on the modifications to the memories and minds of the future weapons, he went off the grid and actually lived in the wilderness of the Rockies like a caveman until the resistance found him stealing from one of their warehouses for food storage.

After learning who he was and what he had done, many wanted him dead. But Charles had made a plea bargain, stating he wished to repent before the Lord instead of continuing to sin. A few Christians in the group realized he was being honest, and after a meeting of the resistance leadership in that area, they agreed to give him a chance, as long as he was serious about his repentance. And he was. He revealed the intelligence he had gathered, and that, many said, was a huge boon, as now they knew how the mental modification was done. While they knew how, they didn't know how to undo it. That was the downside.

Charles' efforts in bringing this to light brought him to the forefront of the efforts to understand how it could be removed or countered in some ways, and while the majority of the resistance leaders agreed it could be removed as a result of this, there were still ethical risks associated with it. So until the war was won and America was reclaimed, that was put to the backburner. But this also gave Charles an idea on how to meld man and machine together using a new variation of technology he had been considering on patenting to the government.

But due to LOGOs being in command, he chose instead to show it to the resistance.

The device he had conceived was a special one.

And it had taken years to develop a set of working prototypes.

The woman hurried out, her blonde hair falling about her face as she blew some out of her green eyes. Sayla Yamaki looked up, running her hand through her hair.

"Got it!" she said.

She held up the object in her grasp and Charles nodded, taking it in his own hands.

"Finally... We'll have a serious advantage with this," he murmured. He caressed the device, as if lovingly. "And we won't have to go to such extremes anymore."

Sayla was in agreement. "Yes," she replied.

Sayla, like Charles, was a scientist. But she worked in producing and manufacturing mobile suit components for the resistance mobile suit forces. So to put it more specifically, she was a mechanical engineer. And she was damned good at her job, too.

Having been raised in a military family, she always wanted to become an engineer on planes or tanks. But with the advent of mobile suits, she had taken a keen interest in that, instead. She worked on Daggers, mobile armors, and other models until the purge removed all competent women in the military, and as a result, she lost her job. Forced to take up teaching to survive, Sayla was banned from working in the electrical fields or teaching automotive classes or even woodshop classes. She was able to get a job as a math teacher, as it limited her spreading propaganda to the next generation. Due to her skills in engineering though, a few people had taken note of this and word spread rapidly, earning her a recruitment into the resistance and she was allowed to work in the engineering field again, but this time at an underground mobile suit factory, overseeing the installation and inspection of mobile suit systems and components.

That was where she met Charles, and together they formed a friendship that bordered on unlikely and downright dangerous, in the eyes of some other rebels. But surprisingly, the two proved to be a competent team, oftentimes collaborating on new machines or sometimes even modifying existing machines to make them stronger or faster.

In fact, it was during one such meeting that she had learned of Charles' idea to enhance mobile suit reaction time without damaging a child's brain or implanting mechanical components or even drugging them. It was simple, but effective in its operation, and all it needed was to rely on the pilot's own brainwaves to boost the reaction time of their mobile suit.

And it was this device they were going to show to the President of the United States today.

The two scientists hurried out of the lab, the door sliding shut behind them.

The base where they were stationed was hidden deep within the Rocky Mountains, close to an old Extended laboratory that had been abandoned after the child soldiers went missing. All the skeletons of the personnel were buried in a mass grave and left to rot, unnamed and forgotten. The corpses of those children that died were, in contrast, buried in a cemetery with their names and former numbers on the graves, a reminder of just what they were fighting for.

The lab had been stripped of all its equipment after it had been taken over, and all of it sent to different areas to be disassembled. Some components were even used in the production of their own mobile suits, one of which was finally coming off the assembly lines. This gave a sort of... presence... to the pilots of those machines, several of which had been christened with unique names as per a tradition harking back to the Second World War.

To Charles, the decision was a sound one. It meant that the souls of the deceased were watching, to see if these people were honest and trustworthy.

At least in his eyes.

Every day he had lived in the wilderness, he had sensed he was watched. Not by man, but by those whom he had killed with his bare hands. Even his own son was watching him.

As they made their way down the hallway, Sayla glanced to him out of the corner of her eye. "Thinking about the implications?" she asked.

Charles shook his head in response. "No..." he admitted. "I was thinking about the results of what I've done..."

Here the blonde narrowed her eyes. "The ghosts of your past," she surmised.

The man nodded. "Yes." He held up the device in his grasp and clenched a hand around it. "Is this the right thing to do? I mean... there's so much about this we don't know yet..."

"And yet you still chose to present it to the President," Sayla remarked. "That shows you want to make amends for the sins you committed. And that you are willing to use whatever means you have at your disposal to make that happen."

"But what if it's not enough?" Charles asked in a worried tone.

Sayla rolled her eyes as she glanced back at the ceiling above them. "Then we just keep trying," she stated. "Simple as that."

The two continued on, passing by other scientists and engineers as they darted to and fro, either carrying clipboards with notes, laptops, or pushing carts with tools to and from the main assembly floor.

The trip from their lab to the main assembly floor for mobile suits took only forty-five minutes on foot. That time was spent in silence, but when they got to the main assembly floor, the silence was immediately drowned out by the whir of cranes, machinery, and servos. Parts were shuttled across the floor via trucks and platforms. Off to the side, stood several completed mobile suits, and five more stood in the middle of the room, cranes lifting the lower arms to be attached to the rest of the machine.

Sayla's gaze swept over the newly completed mobile suits, taking in their design.

The new machines possessed a vague resemblance to the Strike Daggers in use by the Atlantic Federation forces, but they were far different than those machines. Unlike the Daggers, though, this machine was more durable, and its design was more rugged. Its armor was thicker, and it was built to specifications indicating it was a general purpose mobile suit. The shoulder armor covered the entirety of the joint, making it more difficult to hit the servo motors in that area of the mobile suit. Its torso was also clad in heavier armor, ensuring the survivability of the pilot. The lower segments of the legs had armor that was more flared, but also had thrusters that granted greater power, therefore increasing the maneuverability significantly. The head was also slightly different, being less based off of the Strike Dagger and more meant for intimidation. A communications and sensor antenna stuck up from the left side of the helmet while the faceplate seemed to possess more armor near where the mouth would be on a human. A single glass visor covered the optical cameras.

This was the MSA-003 NEMO, or New Extension Mobile Operator.

The Nemo, as it was known, was clad in light grey with dark grey blue chest armor and accents along its ankles and feet. Its chest vents were a golden yellow color, and on its left shoulder was the insignia of the American resistance: a rectangle that was pure black in color, but with an eagle spreading its wings, thirteen stars expanding out behind it.

The Nemo could be armed with a variety of weapons, including the ES01 beam saber, the same make as that used by the Strike Daggers. But unlike the Daggers, the Nemo's beam sabers were stored on the back of the rear skirt armor to keep them from being stolen. However, out of the weapons that could be equipped to the resistance machine, the one that had become its signature in the Battle of Los Alamos, was the AE/ZIM.C-BAZ-531 300mm Clay Bazooka. This weapon was able to be armed with a variety of rounds, including sticky adhesive to immobilize enemy mobile suits. Such a round had made it invaluable to capturing a few more Atlantic Federation machines to reverse engineer.

And one other machine was currently undergoing assembly as well.

The machines being completed were of a unique breed, combining both the versatility of a mobile suit with the frame of a tank. The result was dubbed the Loto. Unlike the rest of the machines used by the resistance, the Loto was the smallest of the bunch, standing at a measely twelve meters in height. This small size, however, was its biggest advantage. Testing done during a small skirmish revealed that the Loto was able to evade detection visually due to its smaller stature when compared with its bigger brethren. This made it ideal for stealth missions, and its ability to transform into a tank also facilitated this. That further reduced its profile, and allowed for transport of up to eight soldiers fully kitted out. The machine could also be used as a mobile headquarters should the mission allow for it. However, unlike other machines, the Loto needed three crew members to operate it: a driver, a communications officer, and a vehicle commander. This necessitated the three members being able to work as a team.

The Lotos under assembly stood in mobile suit form. The legs formed the front of the vehicle while the chest made up the middle and rear. The arms and shoulders could fold against the collapsed legs and chest, and on the rear of the machine the second pair of treads was folded down. The head could withdraw into the chest to protect it from damage. The helm, in place of the blue visor of the Nemo, had an intimidating red visor, and it had a red sensor unit on the left side of the helmet. Another thing that set the Loto apart from its larger brethren was that it lacked standard manipulators of most mobile suits. In their place were two large missile containers, each armed with twelve small missiles or four larger missiles. However, in leu of these containers, some Lotos possessed grenade canisters on the forearms with standad manipulators hidden inside for surprise attacks.

However, due to the need for power, both the Nemo and Loto were driven by ultracompact energy batteries - at least until they got their hands on a working nuclear fusion reactor.

Sayla tore her gaze away from the resistance's mobile suits as she saw Charles continue on. She yelped and jogged after.

They made their way through a series of hallways until they came to the door leading to the outside. Sayla gulped as Charles licked his lips.

Both waited as the door slowly slid open, revealing the sun as it touched their skin. They both stepped outside and around them several guards materialized from the brush to act in case the Jeep coming their way was not who she said she was. One couldn't be too careful these days, even with all efforts done to keep communications from being seen or heard by LOGOs.

Charles felt nervousness welling up inside him as he gripped the device in his hands.

The single Jeep pulled to a halt in front of the base's entrance, and the two scientists stood at attention as the door opened.

President Marie Eisenhower exited the vehicle and glanced at the driver who nodded. The President shut the door and the Jeep drove off down the beaten path, leaving a trail of dust behind.

Both Charles and Sayla had been expecting her to come, but it still was a big deal to them. This, after all, was the President of the United States of America, the leader of every single resistance cell in the country, and the woman who was outwitting even Lord Djibril himself.

And that was saying something.

The President made her way over to where the two stood, and a few guards saluted before disappearing back into the trees to resume their sentry duties. A few remained on standby, observing for any possible intruders.

President Eisenhower made her way over to the resistance scientists as they saluted.

"Madam President, welcome to the Greenwell Bunker!" Charles said.

"It's an honor to be here," she stated, extending a hand. Charles lowered his hand and grasped hers tightly as he shook it.

"Likewise," he remarked. "And trust me, you'll be impressed with the machines we're working on."

"I don't doubt that," Marie said with a grin. "Your team's efforts have really proven themselves in the desert back then."

Charles felt pride swelling in his chest as he smiled. "Yes, ma'am. We wanted the best machine possible for the coming fights." Then he became serious. "But that aside, there is also something else that I've been wanting to show you for some time now."

The President pursed her lips at this. "Oh?"

Sayla gave a nod as she lowered her own hand. "Yes. We've both been working on a new method of enhancing a mobile suit's overall reaction time, and we think we may have found a solution to doing so without all the invasive surgeries, mental modifications, and drugs being done on children."

That threw Marie for a loop. "Wait, what?!" She blinked in confusion.

"You heard me," Sayla repeated. "We found a way to improve a mobile suit's reaction time without putting children through all that medical abuse and torture."

Given how Coordinators had enhanced reaction time, it made sense people would want to combat them in some way. But to use children to develop enhanced soldiers was going below the moral lines of humanity. That was something Marie wanted to rectify. But to hear this...?

This was a serious development.

The only question was, could it be used for good... or evil?

. . .

The conference room was silent as the trio sat around the table.

Marie had her arms crossed as she looked down at the object lying on its surface.

It looked like a three dimensional metallic letter T at a distance. But the more one looked at it, the more different it was. It was more mechanical, possessing what appeared to be 'fins' of a sort on either side, nestled within the 'arms' of the 'T'. This was the device that Charles and Sayla had been working on.

"So, this is it?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Charles remarked. He leaned in and gripped the device, holding it up in one hand. "This is the very project I wanted to show you."

"What is it, exactly?" the President queried.

Here Charles gave a grin. "The Neuro-Wave Communicator."

Sayla took the chance to explain. "It's also known as the NWCOMM system," she explained. "It's unlike any other device we've developed." Here she shifted a bit. "Thanks to the data from Dr. Rustal, we were able to deduce that there is a way to translate brainwaves into computer code. But, what we also discovered, is that by scanning brainwaves, the same method could also be done. Testing on mice revealed that brainwaves can also be translated into computer commands, rather than code."

"The NWCOMM is designed to scan the brainwaves of the pilot and then that is translated through the device itself into computer commands that are linked wirelessly to the machine it is equipped to. Through this, the mobile suit's reaction time is increased, because we humans tend to react on instinct in life-or-death situations," Charles continued. "It effectively makes the mobile suit an extension of the pilot's body, not like the suit of armor it's currently acting as. Even experienced pilots don't have the reaction time of those equipped with this."

He handed it off to the President who took it and turned it over in her hands a few times, examining it from all angles.

"And this thing allows the machine to have human-like reactions, is that it?" she asked.

"Yes, Madam President," Charles said.

She looked up from the NWCOMM and handed it back. "And how exactly will that be of a benefit against the Extended?" she pressed.

"Since those monstrosities were completed, we have reason to believe that they may have two or three on standby here, or even four. One we know is going to be sent to Germany, but other than that, details are rather sketchy," Charles admitted. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "My contacts couldn't get that data yet."

"As for how, it's simple: it allows our machines to react with greater agility when compared to those things," Sayla explained. She leaned back in her chair, tenting her fingers in front of her mouth. "Given their size, it makes sense, really. Smaller, more agile suits could do some damage to them. And given how they only have five completed, with four others under construction, that means we could take them out."

President Eisenhower pursed her lips. "I see." Her eyes narrowed in contemplation. "And the shields?"

"Again, the NWCOMM will come in handy," Charles assured her. "With the increased reaction time, it would be much easier to hit that thing before the shield came online."

The room was silent for a moment as Marie pondered what she had learned.

The recent superweapons being developed were a huge problem. Given their size and power, it made sense to have something that could improve reaction time so as to allow others to dodge and attack faster. And with their immense power, that meant it was of the utmost importance to find out as much about this new system as possible.

And soon.

"What about standard mobile suits of the AF?" Marie wondered. "How will those equipped with this system fare against those?"

Here Charles cast his gaze down at the table. "In all honesty, ma'am, we're still unsure about that," he admitted. "The mobile suits we've tested it against were piloted by experienced members of the resistance."

"We did baseline tests with one of our new mobile suits to see how well it would handle against experienced pilots of the Alliance. And the control tests went well. The pilot proved to be skilled enough to dodge the Daggers," Sayla explained as Marie narrowed her eyes. "But when we equipped the suit with the NWCOMM, we discovered something... rather odd."

"Odd?" The President cocked an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well, this technology does scan the pilot's brainwaves, remember," Charles said. "So, we discovered that there is a bit of a... side effect... of using this thing." He tapped the NWCOMM device on the table before them.

"What side effect?" The President was now concerned. "Because if it is life-threatening, then we can't use this."

"It's not life threatening," Sayla assured her. "But the tests showed that the pilot's reaction time didn't really so much improve as it did when the whole suit was... for lack of a better term, supercharged."

Now that threw Marie for a loop. "Wait, what?"

The ex-Lodonia scientist ran a hand through his hair. "You see, ma'am, the device not just increases the reaction time, but also, if the pilot is sufficiently driven, it can boost the mobile suit's power, as well."

Marie looked down at the small device, surprised. "And this effect lasts for a limited time?" she asked, trying to get more information.

"From what our tests have shown, yes," Sayla clarified. "It lasts for only a few moments, but it is usually enough to get the jump on our enemies. The reaction time alone is the only thing that remains constant."

The President picked up the NWCOMM and looked it over. "And how many of these devices have you managed to produce?" she wondered.

Charles shifted a bit in his seat. "Given how few resources I had at my disposal, I was only able to produce a dozen at most," he explained. "I have enough to make one more, but after that, I'm out."

"A dozen..." President Eisenhower pursed her lips. "And given how there are nine of those beasts... Hmm..."

A thought crossed her mind. "If there are more, we'll be needing as many of these as you have," she said. "Which means we'll need all twelve to be equipped to the mobile suits of our best pilots."

"Hold on! I'm not done explaining this!" Charles exclaimed, standing up and slamming his hands down on the table. "There's more to it that you have to know!"

"Such as?" President Eisenhower asked.

"If the NWCOMM system is pushed beyond its limits, the pilot could suffer brain damage," Charles admitted, looking down. "It's got a safety limiter placed on it so it can't go beyond a certain limit in power. If it goes beyond... then the pilot's brain damage could be anywhere from minor to severe, depending on how long they push it."

"So there is a risk..." she mused. "But you seem to have figured that out ahead of time."

"Yes. But not without cost," the ex-Lodonia scientist muttered. "It cost us several lives to get to this point..."

"Lives that will be remembered," Sayla added. "Remembered as soldiers who gave their lives for the cause."

Marie placed the NWCOMM back down and leaned back in her chair. "Well... in spite of the drawbacks, it seems this device has the potential to be a game changer," she stated. Then she narrowed her eyes. "For good or evil."

"Yes." Charles sat back down, gazing at his clasped hands. "And I am very terrified at what I was about to do before I defected. This technology is a good and bad thing, so it needs to be in the hands of people we can trust with it."

"I assume people will need to be trained in its use?" Marie asked, getting to the point.

Sayla and Charles both nodded. "Yes."

"Hm." Marie closed her eyes and began to think on what she learned.

The very idea of a system that could read the pilot's brainwaves and then translate that into computer commands was a big Pandora's Box. There was much that could go wrong with it. But it had been tested to the best of their abilities, using willing volunteers. And it had been refined as much as possible to hone in on the fight or flight instinctive reactions. And given how much was on the line for the resistance, they needed as many assets as they could get their hands on to increase their chances of success. So to have mobile suits with human-like reaction time was a benefit that outweighed any possible risks in the long term. And with the information gathered on this device, it made sense to use it. Even with the risks involved.

She finally looked up.

"When can these things be installed?" she asked.

"As soon as you give the order," Charles explained. "The rest are in my lab."

"Okay." The President nodded. "I want these things installed in the mobile suits of our top best pilots. If anyone is to face those monstrosities with this device, it's them. Experience when coupled with human-like reaction time will be of the utmost necessity. And I want to know possible locations where those superweapons could be stationed."

Charles gave a solemn nod. "I can give you that much data, at least," he stated. He closed his eyes. "I definitely know where one will be. And it is in Los Alamos."

"I figured as much when they sent those Daggers after our Nemos," President Eisenhower remarked. "Any others?"

Here the scientist shook his head. "Not off the top of my head. I'll see what my contacts have to say about that," he replied.

"Okay. Make sure that you get that intel and then forward it to me as soon as you have it," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am!" he said, saluting crisply.

The President got to her feet and proceeded to leave the conference room. But before she left, she paused at the door. "Doctor Rustal..."

The man held his salute and gulped.

Marie turned to look back over her shoulder, a smile crossing her face. "Your NWCOMM system is just the answer we need to our problem of matching the Extended. And without going to such brutal lengths to make super soldiers. This is what we need to do: use our technology and industrial might to end wars. Not barbarism and child soldiers."

Charles felt his hand fall limply to his side as he heard the praise. His mouth fell open as she turned back to face him directly. "If I didn't know any better, I'd have to say that your soul has been redeemed by this," she added.

'Hardly the case...' a small part of his mind insisted. And he was sure he still had much to do in order to repent. But this... this was a good first step.

And the rest of him agreed on that.

It was a start.

There was still much to be done, but it was a step in the right direction.

. . .

Spray looked up as he heard his laptop beep.

The pilot grabbed the device and brought it online from standby mode.

Once it was up and running, he could see the small icon indicating a communications signal coming in from the Resistance Headquarters.

Spray's eyes narrowed before he typed in a specific command to encode and encrypt the signal. The device flickered before its screen stabilized and he hit the flashing icon.

A window appeared on the lower right hand corner of the screen, and he frowned as he recognized the grey eyes of the man who had first questioned him before he even joined the movement. His eyes were narrowed as well.

"Ah. Agent Phoenix. I hear your transfer was approved," he stated. "Congratulations are in order then."

"Yeah. But there's a downside," Spray remarked.

"Really. I wonder what that could be," Grey Eyes mused.

Spray leaned back on the couch in his hotel room. "It's got to do with those political officers," he explained. "They want to limit my piloting, seeing as how I'm the commander and all that jazz."

"I see." Grey Eyes was silent for a moment. "I assume you found data on them?"

Here Spray shook his head. "Negative. There's nothing on them in the databases," he remarked. He narrowed his eyes. "And I have a feeling - rightly, mind you - that even asking for their information is paramount to treason, and that could lead to my execution. This leads me to suspect that maybe they don't want these particular men to be known of, given that this is their most powerful battle group after all."

Grey Eyes was silent as he tented his fingers in front of his mouth. "Hmm... Seems to me like they may actually be in league with their Black Fleet... or what was once their Black Fleet."

Spray's eyes went wide. "Wait. Black Fleet?"

The man nodded. "Yes. A fleet that was designed to function under one man, and for the utmost secrecy. Their mission was to steal prototype mobile suits from ZAFT, but it failed in the end. The man responsible for the leadership of that fleet was one that we thought dead, but he surprisingly made a return somehow."

Spray frowned. "And you know this... how?" he asked, wary now.

"I still have my connections," was all Grey Eyes said. "One of them served under the creator of Project Phantom Commander. A vanity project for one man. And he is one you should watch out for, if you do succeed in your mission, of course."

"Who is this man?" Spray asked, getting a bad feeling in his gut. Oh, he had heard of the man, yes. From fellow resistance pilots prior to the end of the First Bloody Valentine War who had served with the man. Murata Azrael. Thought to be dead at the end of the war. But to hear he survived somehow? This Project Phantom Commander also set off warning buzzers in his brain. The very name itself implied some sort of ominous intentions. And the mere thought sent a chill down his spine.

"Murata Azrael." Grey Eyes was serious as he explained about it. "Azrael was a man who was incredibly vain and he hated Coordinators with a passion. He would do anything to see them dead. And that included commissioning a group of scientists at Lodonia with creating a clone of himself. This clone, we were able to gather from what scattered records remained, was actually genetically enhanced to be on par with a Coordinator, but not termed a Coordinator. There were also minor other enhancements made to put him on par with the man known as the Demon Lord of Avalon. I'm sure you remember that name?"

Spray nodded. "Yeah. I do remember that," he mused. He tented his fingers in front of his own mouth as Grey Eyes leaned back in his chair. "But I suspect he's going by a new name now, right?"

His contact nodded. "Yes. His new name is Colonel Nazara." Then he paused a bit as he noticed Spray giving a wry smirk. "What?"

"Sorry." Spray chuckled. "It's just that it reminds me all too much of a certain Biblical figure who died for others."

Grey Eyes blinked at the implications. "Oh... Oh! I see what they did there..."

Spray lowered his hands a bit to expose his smirk. "Yeah. He thinks that he's the next one, huh?" he purred. "Well, he's about to learn the hard way that he cannot evade death forever."

"Yes. But as good a pilot as you are, Phoenix, you have to be very careful," Grey Eyes cautioned. "As I stated, he has been enhanced to match the Demon Lord of Avalon. Even with your reflexes you'd have a hard time against him. And that's with the extra endurance your machine has."

Spray gave a nod. "I understand, sir."

"Also, we have the data you requested." The computer screen blinked as an email popped up. Spray brought it up, and his eyes narrowed. "You were correct on a few things. Some of those aboard the 1776th Battle Group did have family members that went missing and relatives who they couldn't find. And a few of them may even have their family members still alive, but they may not remember them at this rate."

The pilot pursed his lips. "I see."

"One last thing, Agent Phoenix." Spray looked up from the data as Grey Eyes placed his hands in front of him. "I implore you. Be careful when up there. Do whatever it takes to take out those political officers. And when you do free the crews..."

The black-haired pilot caught a glimpse of his last words before Grey Eyes cut the connection.

Spray knew what he had to do now.

He stood up and grabbed his uniform.

He despised having to wear the uniform of the enemy, but given what he was about to do, it made sense he'd need to blend in. He stopped close to the mirror and glanced at his reflection. He could see a young man with messy black hair and a scar on his face, dressed in the uniform of the false country he lived in. His eyes, on the other hand, told a different story. They were the eyes of a human being, not an attack drone or dog. He grimaced at the thought and tore his gaze from the mirror. He grabbed his coat and left the room.

Thankfully the hotel was close to the base's perimeter. He did a quick check to make sure his forged documents and ID were in his pockets.

Spray had every intention on getting the documents on those political officers.

The only question was... would his plan work?

. . .

It didn't take long for him to reach the commander's office.

As it stood, the only reason he had even been allowed in was due to his status as the new battle group commander.

Spray walked briskly through the hallways, his strides purposeful and for all intents, confident in his beliefs and superiority. At least that was the image he was projecting.

His uniform was crisp and neat, his hat at its proper angle and his badges - which were real - neatly arranged on his chest.

All the more reason to project himself as an able, competent commander.

The commander's secretary - about the only position left for women in the military - was waiting for him. "Ah! Commander Krane! What can I do for you?"

"I need to speak to my superior officer," he said, trying to hide his pity for this woman. She had that glazed look so many soldiers held in their eyes, and he had to resist the temptation to go SEED to break her conditioning. If he did, then there was a risk he could expose himself. And he did not want that.

"Unfortunately, he is unavailable right now," the woman said, shaking her head. "I can take a message for him if you would like."

"No. This is urgent!" Spray insisted, leaning in. "It has to do with my command. And this cannot be ignored!" His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Besides, if I can't know who I am working with, then how am I to succeed in our glorious crusade?!"

The very words made his stomach churn, but he kept it under control as best he could.

The woman's face paled as he finished the sentence. "Y-Yes, sir! I'll let him know at once!"

A mild sense of satisfaction pulsed in Spray's chest as he stepped back and let her do her work.

The idea of going on a 'glorious crusade' to wipe out Coordinators was not something that America needed to do. They needed to end this war once and for all. And the first step was to reclaim the country, and then reinstate the United Nations.

In all honesty, he wished that the UN had not been bombed during the meeting in the lunar city of Copernicus. In fact, he had every reason to suspect that LOGOs was behind that attack because there was no way that it was a coincidence. But without any solid evidence to back it up, his theory was just that: speculation. Spray pursed his lips in thought. If there had been evidence, then it had to have been destroyed, or barring that, confiscated and hidden from the investigators. But the more he thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed that a full investigation had even taken place. The blame had started so suddenly and the anger directed at the PLANTs only escalated into full on war shortly after. That alone was enough to make Spray suspicious.

How come the countries had not worked together to conduct a full-on investigation? And the Earth Alliance suddenly forming sometime after? Almost immediately, too. Spray's brow furrowed as he folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. It was almost as if someone had planned for this... made it work in their favor...

And the name that came to the fore was LOGOs.

He gritted his teeth and clenched his hands on his arms.

"Commander Krane?"

Spray's thoughts were interrupted by the secretary and he had to actually bite his lower lip in order to prevent himself from squeaking in surprise. He regained his composure and straightened up.

"What?" he asked.

"The base commander has said he would see you," she stated, stepping aside and opening the desk gate.

Spray gave a single nod. He made his way to the door and opened it, stepping into the commander's office.

The resistance pilot wasn't too surprised to see that the commander was a man. But it was this man's appearance that put Spray on edge. For one thing, he looked like he was overweight, and he reeked of tobacco. He looked to be in his late fifties, with greying hair and blue eyes that seemed to be sagging. He had a thick moustache and beard combo, and he had several notebooks on his desk, each detailing the ships in Spray's battle group. His uniform was crisp and neat, a stark contrast to how he carried himself.

"Commander Harkens!" Spray gave a crisp salute to the man before him, clicking his heels.

Commander James Harkens snorted as he rolled his eyes. "So, you interrupted my meeting for something as trivial as this?" he asked. "You'd better make it fast, Krane. I don't have all day!" He reached for a cigar and some wine on his desk.

"Sir, I humbly request that you give me access to the personnel files of the political officers aboard my ships," Spray stated, making sure to salute perfectly.

The base commander paused in his reach for his drink. He looked to the man before him and narrowed his eyes. "And why would you want that information, Commander Krane?" he asked, his voice low.

"Because, sir, if I do not have it, then how will I know who I am working with?" Spray retorted, finally dropping the salute. "I, as you know, have a tendency to get to know the men under my command. And that has included some political officers in my last unit. But if I have nothing on these men, then how can I work with them?"

Harkens narrowed his eyes even further as he stood up to his full height; Spray had to cast his gaze up a bit - the guy was at least six feet. "That may be, but this is a far cry from your other units, Krane! This is an elite unit, and as such, some information is classified in order to keep potential troublemakers from sniffing them out and offing the officers," Harkens remarked. "I do not have authorization to hand over such sensitive information to even our best commanding officers."

Here Spray gave a smirk. "Oh? Is that so?" he asked, the condescending tone in his voice being real. "Because if that's the case, then I think you might be trying to hide something else, as well."

The base commander paused in his motion to sit back down. "And just what are you insinuating, Krane?" he growled. "Insubordination will not be tolerated in this fleet!"

"Oh, I am well aware of that. I am not trying to rebel against your orders," Spray admitted, maintaining the façade. "I'm only asking for the information so as to be prepared to work with these men." He paused, seeing the veins on Harkens' neck bulging a bit in anger. Spray kept the bombshell hidden for a few more moments before he dropped it.

"And to ensure that no traitors are amongst them," he added.

Harkens perked up. "Huh?"

"You heard me," Spray stated, holding his head up. "I want to make sure that these men are truly trustworthy. After the debacle of the Black Fleet, I am kind of suspicious of their true loyalties..."

"H-How did...?" Harkens was surprised. "How did you know?!"

"I have my connections," was all Spray said. "It comes from having a reputation as a competent soldier, unlike those buffoons of the Black Fleet." He paused a bit. "In fact, rumors have started to swirl in the upper brass that the reason the Black Fleet was incompetent was not just because of the Demon Lord of Avalon, but also because they housed among them traitors. And I am not too keen on having traitors in the ranks." He narrowed his eyes a bit. "If you know what I mean, Commander."

The commander bit his lower lip, his anger fading into worry. Spray could see it in his eyes. He was concerned about hiding a potential traitor amongst the political officers. And hiding a traitor was a sure way to secure the death penalty now these days.

The resistance pilot kept his gaze on the man before him, watching him squirm. The commander was torn now between following protocol and giving in to his survival instincts. Spray was gambling on this, and even if he failed, at least he would've tried. It was best to exhaust all possible avenues before he decided to wing it.

But much to his surprise - and relief - Commander Harkens slumped back in his seat, resignation on his face. He sighed heavily as he rubbed his face with one hand. "Okay... I guess I can't fault you for wanting to root out traitors," he admitted. "But I still can't accept that the Black Fleet was as incompetent as you claim. They were the best of the best, and well..." He shrugged. "They failed."

"All the more reason to sift through all possible data and root out any traitors," Spray insisted. "So, the data, Commander?"

Harkens nodded. "Very well. But you are not allowed to take any copies, photos, or notes on any of it."

Spray gave a wry smirk. "I don't plan on it," he purred. In fact, the only method he needed to take notes was just by looking at it; his memory was as close to photographic as anyone's could get. That was all he needed.

The base commander sat back down in his chair and opened a drawer before pulling out a folder. "All their data is in here," he explained. "I will let you look at it in private. When you are finished, leave it on the desk and I will put it away."

"Thank you, sir!" Spray remarked, giving a perfect salute.

The commander nodded once before he stood and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Spray sat down and opened the folder.

"Okay... time to see just who you are..." he whispered.

He leaned back in the desk chair and began to read.

The files did hold the records he sought.

The first of them showed a man in his late forties, with shaggy brown hair and dark brown eyes, almost like coals. He had a condescending sneer on his face and he had his arms folded across his chest in the image. His face had a scruffy beard on his face, and he possessed several medals on his chest. "Let's see... Political Adjunct Hank Jarvis. Age forty-seven. Served on the Black Fleet for several months prior to its destruction at the hands of the Demon Lord of Avalon. Has fourteen missions against ZAFT under his belt. Two kids, one in the Patriot Youth, the other in grade school. Married. Hates Coordinators with a passion. Skilled tactician..." Spray narrowed his eyes as he read that. "Also known for having drinks on the bridge during battle." That right there was a possible advantage in battle. If he got drunk, then his judgment would be impared, but that point was moot if he could handle large amounts of booze. Some people had that, he knew.

The pilot flipped the dossier over to show the next man.

The second officer was a big bull of a man, clearly a brute in power. His uniform was barely able to cover his massive physique. To Spray, this showed that he was formerly a soldier, maybe a Marine before being assigned to the battle group. He had slicked back brown hair and deep green eyes. But it was what was within those eyes that made Spray's breath hitch in his throat. Those eyes held within them the cold gaze of a killer. A war criminal. He scanned over the exploits of this man. "Political Adjunct Harris Davidson. Age fifty-five. Served in the field for a number of years before being assigned to the battle group. A renowned officer." That alone made Spray's body tense and he gritted his teeth, seeing as how the way his eyes held no soul. "Savvy, skilled ship operator. Has over twenty missions against ZAFT. A wily battlefield operator." That was enough for Spray to mark him as a priority target. He would have to be the first one to go. And it would be swift, too.

Spray turned the second dossier over and went straight to number three.

This man was a it more average, and although he didn't look like much, he did possess a sort of ruthlessness that he had come recognize. The Black Fleet had had no shortage of psychopaths. His eyes were a stormy grey and he had blonde hair that curled everywhere. His face was soft looking, almost boyish. Spray scanned the dossier. "Political Adjunct Scotty Grey. Age forty-two. A former commander of Force Alpha. Survived by sheer luck as his ship was left to drift. Was rescued some time later and was shifted to duty on base for several months before being sent to the battle group. Is known to harbor thoughts of compassion on the battlefield." Spray pursed his lips as he read this one. 'Seems to me like he's not too indoctrinated. I can use that. Hopefully it will only take mere words to sway him to our side,' he thought. He resumed reading. "Is known to be a smoker. Known to defend women from the advances of fellow officers." Now he was more interested in this former Black Fleet officer. Hopefully he could be turned to the side of the resistance. But something told him to be careful regardless.

He flipped to the next dossier.

The fourth officer's appearance sent shivers down Spray's spine and his eyes narrowed dangerously. This man was scarred. At least his left side was. He had bandages on the right side of his face, clearly left over from a prior assignment. What hair was visible was red, and his exposed eye was a deep hazel color. His face was clad in bandages below the mouth as well, and he was apparently lean, but strong. Much like Spray himself. "Political Adjunct Carlos Henkel. Age fifty-two. Survived his ship explosion and was left in a coma for half a year. Was left scarred across the majority of his face from the explosion. Assigned to the battle group at his own insistence. A charismatic, caring officer to his men." Spray's eyes narrowed at this man. His dossier was clearly clean, as it mentioned no war crimes. But something about him seemed... wrong. He'd have to ask his contact to delve into the records of these men when he was done here. "Known to be a drinker."

The rebel pilot tossed the dossier to the side and looked at the final officer.

The last officer was a man in his late sixties, clearly a veteran officer. He had no facial scars or anything remarkable. His face was chiseled, however, giving him a lantern jaw and a strong nose. His shoulders were broad and he looked to be the dutiful officer of the Atlantic Federation. His eyes were a sharp blue color and his blonde hair was swept back, making him seem aristocratic. He wore his uniform crisp and clean, and it looked like this man didn't leave anything out of place. Hell, there wasn't even a wrinkle on his uniform! But it was those eyes that made Spray pause. Like the others, they held within them a sinister glint. But this man seemed to be more dangerous than the others. Not in his build, his mental state, or his quirks. It was in his soul that the danger lurked. "Political Adjunct Christophe Hayes. Age soxty-five. A former commander for Force Alpha. Assigned to base command for several months before assigned to the 1776th Battle Group. Ideologically pure. Ideal specimen of the Atlantic man. Possesses a keen intellect in ship-to-ship combat." Spray pursed his lips. It appeared that this man was the leader, if his records were any indication. But then again, all of them had been in the fleet's command.

Spray was no stranger to killing. But he was above going to extremes. But in a few cases, there were exceptions to the rule.

He was about to close up the file when he spotted something else. He glanced at it, and although he had completed his mission's tertiary objective, something about this file just set him on edge. Spray bit his lower lip before he glanced around and finally pulled it out. His eyes widened as he read the name of the man shown in the image. Like Hayes, he was of blonde hair and blue eyes, well built and muscular. He had a scar going across his left cheek, no doubt from a fight, Spray mused. He clearly was a man to watch out for, if his gaze was any indication. He had known about the first five men as political officers, but this man... He was not a political officer. His files proved that. He skimmed the data swiftly. "Name: Dennis Kranz. Age forty-two. Mobile suit pilot. Known to have served with Colonel Nazara aboard the Black Fleet prior to its destruction. Assigned as second-in-command to the 1776th Battle Group. Devout supporter of Blue Cosmos. Master of psychological warfare."

Now that was something he had not expected. Sure he could handle a second-in-command, but this man... Something about him put Spray on edge. He'd have to be extra careful to not expose his resistance ties to this man. At least until he took him out, too.

After skimming them a few more times to commit the information to memory, Spray put the dossiers back in the folder and left it on Harkens' desk. He filed out of the office, spotting the commander as he exited.

"I take it that things are in order?" Harkens asked.

"Yes," Spray said, adopting a clear attitude. "Their records are sound."

"Very well. It is good to know that they are not traitors to the cause," the commander remarked.

Spray gave a firm nod. "Yes. They are perhaps the only competent men of the survivors of that fleet."

"Good. This will go a long way to rebuilding our public image," Harkens stated. "I do not wish to be on the receiving end of the short stick though, like so many others have been."

"Trust me, things will work out," Spray said, giving a mysterious smirk.

The base commander nodded. "Very well. Good day, Commander Krane."

"Good day, Commander Harkens."

Both men gave each other a firm salute before turning and heading off in the opposite directions.

Spray smirked to himself as he left the commander's office.

He had all the information he needed.

. . .

Spray felt a huge sense of relief when he returned to his hotel room.

The first thing he did was strip off the uniform and toss his hat to the side so it landed on the table. He ran a hand through his hair and slumped back in his seat, shivering.

The atmosphere of the base had reeked of male bravado and toxic masculinity. He decided to hold off on making his report to his superiors for the moment. A shower was of the utmost priority to him.

He made his way into the bathroom and stripped down to the bare skin. He turned on the shower not even a moment later and stepped into the icy cold water.

A gasp escaped him as he shivered, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, his muscles tensing under the icy onslaught. He ducked his head under the stream of water and he gasped out loud, closing his eyes as he stood like that for a brief moment. The very cold of the water was enough to cause a spike in his mental activity and startle him to alertness. He finally pulled his head out from under the icy stream and threw his head back, his messy black hair flying back briefly, splattering water droplets everywhere. Spray finally lowered his head and turned the water to a warmer temperature. Once the water had warmed sufficiently, he started to scrub down his body. As he cleaned himself up, he pondered his next move.

He knew he had to take out the political officers. That was of the utmost priority. And from what he had read on them, they were assigned to ships suited for their roles. Hank Jarvis was assigned to the ship carrying the bulk of the Daggers. Harris Davidson was in charge of the ship with the foot soldiers. Scotty Grey was in command of the escort ship. Carlos Henkel was aboard the ship with the Extended. And Christophe Hayes was on the flagship. The way that Henkel looked though with that gaze... That made Spray sick to his stomach and he had to force the bile aside as he started to savagely scrub his face. He reveled in the stinging pain of the soap on his raw skin. It was a lifeline for him at this point.

He finally finished washing his face and rinsed off the soap. He opened his eyes and gazed at his reflection in the mirror, studying his face closely.

He reached up his hand and touched the scar going across his right eye before he lowered it and glanced down at the rest of his lean, but toned body. He could see a few scars crisscrossing his muscular frame, reminders of each fight going back to the beginning of his service. Each one was a reminder of what the real cost of this war was, and of why he was fighting. His gaze drifted from his scars to the tattoo on his left forearm, and he rubbed it absentmindedly. He remembered the day he got it was also the day he had signed onto the resistance force. And that tattoo was a symbol of what was coming: rebirth. A real rebirth of the American people and their values.

The pilot finally finished his shower a few minutes later, drying off and donning a simple black T-shirt and blue slacks.

Now that he was cleaned up, he could make his report.

The pilot grabbed the laptop and booted it up. Once it was booted and running, Spray activated the secure communications channel and waited.

Not even fifteen minutes later, the screen gave way to show the darkened form of Grey Eyes.

"Ah. Phoenix. I assume you have something to report?" he asked.

Spray nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. Then he proceeded to outline what he had done. The whole time, Grey Eyes was in shock. Not only had he risked his own safety, but he had managed to get the data on the officers he was to be working with. It was a coup de grace, he knew, but also an enormous, dangerous risk.

The man pursed his lips as Spray finished his report. Silence filled the room briefly before he sighed.

"What you did... it was incredibly dangerous and risky," he muttered. "You could've been ousted, and then you'd be executed, and we'd be back to square one. In all honesty, I'm surprised it even worked."

"I gotta agree. I'm also shocked," Spray admitted. "I was actually half expecting to be outed on the spot and denied any chance of getting that information."

Grey Eyes gave a nod. "But frankly, however you avoided being outed, I'm impressed. To gather that information is something that was needed. Also, we have orders for you."

"Orders?" The pilot cocked an eyebrow. "I thought I already had orders."

"You do, but these are new ones to go with the mission." Grey Eyes narrowed his eyes before he brought up a smaller window. "After you liberate the crew of that battle group, you are to head down to one of our bases to get that battle group a proper crew. Meaning both men and women are to man those ships."

Spray's eyebrows flew up into his hair. "You want to reassign half the men to other duties?" he asked.

"Yes. This way we can show to those machoistic bastards in power the unified efforts of the human race, regardless of gender or not," Grey Eyes explained. "If President Eisenhower is any indicator, then women can be dedicated to the cause as much as men, regardless of what it is. And this will show that men are just as capable of treason as women."

"I see the plan, but what if we have to maintain our cover?" Spray asked, becoming skeptical.

"We have that covered," Grey Eyes explained. "Once we have the necessary crew aboard, we will be using photo and video-doctoring software to adjust the women on camera so they resemble men. And voice altering software will be deployed to alter their voices to seem masculine."

The pilot pursed his lips as he hummed thoughtfully. "I see what you're getting at." Then he looked up. "I assume that the programs are developed by people we can trust?"

Grey Eyes gave a wry smirk. "Who do you think is in charge of maintaining this encrypted channel?" he asked. "There is a reason we haven't been caught all this time. And it comes down to who controls the technical side of things."

Spray's eyes narrowed. "You mean the people who man the communications and programming aspect of things," he mused.

His contact nodded. "Yes. And those people work for us, not LOGOs." He became serious at this. "It took months, but we were able to turn most, if not all, the technical staff on the electronic communications infrastructure to our side. They have every means to keep us hidden from the Logos' eyes and ears."

The rebel pilot cocked an eyebrow at that last statement. "Excuse me, sir, but 'the Logos' eyes and ears?'"

Grey Eyes gave a small smirk. "Yes. They are not a breed of human anymore. If what they do to children is any indicator, they are a breed of demons and monsters. So they need to be recognized as such. Hence why they have been named 'the Logos.'" He leaned back in his seat as he continued. "That also shows they have been stripped of their title as humans."

Spray leaned in a bit, resting his hands on his chin. "I see. A good move to dehumanize them instead of the other way around." He smirked. "I like it. I may actually use that if I encounter one of 'em."

"Something tells me you may down the line," Grey Eyes cautioned. "Now that you have the data you need, do you know how you'll take out the political officers?"

A frown crossed Spray's face. "Not a firm plan yet. There's still much I need to learn, but I have a vague idea," he admitted.

"I see." Grey Eyes frowned. "Then I assume you plan to wing it?"

"Like I have a choice," Spray remarked. "I'm not too thrilled on it, but I can do it. I'm no stranger to winging it, on or off the battlefield."

And it was true, too. He was no stranger to killing. He knew how to kill a man in several brutal ways, and others more subtle. He also knew how to make a man talk. His only problem was that he tended to spare those men on occasion, including some who deserved death. But that mercy never extended to those who were amoral criminals in every sense of the word. A few times he had had to take down some individuals in ways that he had not planned on doing. It was something he didn't like doing, but he was able to be flexible. That was what made him such a prized soldier and pilot in the resistance. He was adaptive.

And that was one of the things that most AF soldiers lacked.

Oh sure they could adapt, but not in the way that Spray did.

"I'm well aware of that," Grey Eyes stated. "You have your orders. I know you'll make us proud."

"Wait. Before you cut the line, there's a request I want to make," Spray said.

"Oh? What request?" Grey Eyes asked.

Spray pursed his lips before clearing his throat. "It's about the political officers aboard the battle group. I know I read their records, but the way those men looked in the images... something about them seemed... wrong." He narrowed his eyes. "And I don't like it. Can you try and see if it's possible to dig up their records?"

"Hmm... You suspect that they're hiding something about those men?" his contact inquired.

Spray nodded. "Yeah. If you could, I'd be appreciative."

"I'll see what can be done. But it will take time," Grey Eyes clarified.

"I understand." Spray looked down. "I just want to know who those men really are. Not just what their public records say."

Grey Eyes frowned, then nodded. "I understand. But it could take up to a few weeks. If we do get that information, it will be sent to you as soon as possible."

"Thanks. That's all I ask." Spray gave a firm salute before he closed down the channel and the window vanished.

He finally sighed and leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes in relief.

"Thank God..." he murmured.

He opened his eyes and his gaze was focused on the ceiling above him.

Now that he knew who he was working with, the real problem came. And for that matter, the real problem for the resistance was also on the horizon.

Attaining total media control.

Both missions were facing impossible odds, he knew. But if there was one thing the resistance was good at, it was figuring out ways to make the odds work in their favor. It all came down to the people within the needed sectors of the country moving at the right moments, and right now things were not in their favor. One major thing was missing: intel from the PLANTs.

Yes, he was in the know about that. Grey Eyes had made sure of it. From the way things were looking, Terminal were the only ones with key assets in the PLANTs. And the President, he understood, was looking to get in contact with Terminal somehow. But that all hinged on what was coming next.

Despite not liking all the disgusting propaganda of the fascists in power, he did glean some useful information from it. He knew that all that talk about the 'liberation' of Europe was a guise to fool the masses: it was an invasion. And now that things were looking like a reverse of Operation Overlord, the resistance was sure to make contact with some elements of the Eurasian forces who went underground. A few people for the AF forces served there as unofficial intelligence agents for the rebels. And that would be of the utmost necessity.

But how much resistance remained was an uncertainty, and no one knew if any of those elements would have contact with Terminal.

But it was a start.

A start that they sorely needed.

Now all that mattered was trying to make contact with them.

. . .

President Eisenhower finally returned to the warehouse they had dubbed as the makeshift White House that evening.

The door was already opening for the Jeep as the vehicle drove inside. Guards stood atop the roof with their guns aimed, sweeping for any possible attempts to assassinate her and her driver.

This was not something unusual, but it did cause a bit of a stir when the public first saw them. But the guards had already thought ahead, and taking advantage of the rumors of ghosts and satanic entities, they dressed up in white garb, donned masks that looked like something out of Hell, or just wore plain black. The hidden mist generators only added to the illusion that the place was haunted.

If it hadn't been for those rumors, then the warehouse would've been bulldozed to the ground months ago.

The Jeep came to a stop as the huge door formerly used to deliver cargo started to slide shut.

The sun was already slipping below the horizon when the door to the Jeep popped open. The President got out and glanced back at the fading rays of sunlight as the warehouse door finally slammed shut. The interior lights were still dark, but she ignored that as she made her way to the tables in the middle of the room.

The rest of the resistance leadership had gathered; or rather those that could make it. A fair number of them were still maintaining their covers, but a few key members had come, the main one being the Secretary of State. And with her, was a surprising guest.

"Madam President," the woman said, saluting crisply.

The assembled members saluted as well, which President Eisenhower returned.

The leader of the resistance made her way to the center of the table and sat down. "What's the report?" she asked, getting right to business.

"It has to do with the Patriot Youth Act," Secretary State replied.

"And I see you brought your husband," the President mused, tenting her fingers. "Care to explain why?"

The woman nodded. "Yes. As you know, they have submitted it again, but our moles have done their best to alter it to raise the age and limit the numbers. It's been working, but people are catching on. We need a new plan."

The man beside her slammed his hand down on the table. "And for good reason! I had every belief that you would step up and do something to stop such actions!" he growled. "I may be against Coordinators, but I am against sending children to war!"

"Trust me, Senator Durbin. We are doing everything we can to stop it," President Eisenhower remarked. Her green-blue eyes glinted sharply as she looked him directly in the eyes. "I'm not saying we're stopping our efforts. We just need to buy time until we can get the real player in. We need media influence. And despite our own networks, they are strictly underground and cannot reveal themselves that often. And when they do, they are often portrayed as conspiracy networks."

Senator Richard Durbin was a man who was in his early fifties, and he certainly looked the part of a senator. He possessed balding grey hair and his sharp blue eyes were covered with a pair of grey glasses. He wore a dark grey business suit and a bright red tie, and he was a bit paunchy in the gut. He had been in politics for over a decade, and he was going on two decades this coming month. Being raised in a Blue Cosmos household, he held a hatred for Coordinators that bordered on fanaticism. But he had also been raised in a stark contrast to others. His parents, despite being hateful towards Coordinators, were against the Hitler Youth of the Cosmic Era. He wished for Naturals to earn their supremacy, not go down this path of barbarism. He was also into using technology to surpass Coordinators, not biological enhancements in such brutal conditions and what amounted to medical torture.

His wife was the one who had alerted him to the barbarity behind the Extended program. And it turned out that had been all it took to get him on the side of the rebels. His efforts to stop the Patriot Youth Act had sparked an outcry amongst the fascists in power, and a few others had signed on as well, seeing the futility in creating an all-male army. That right there was a recipe for disaster. People just didn't know it yet. And that was something that had to be rectified soon. No matter what it took.

"Senator, you must understand our position is precarious at the moment," she admitted. "We have power, yes, but it can only go so far before we expose ourselves."

"Dammit...!" Senator Durbin punched the table. "Had I known, I wouldn't have signed on!"

"Too late to back out now," President Eisenhower remarked. "We still need you on Capitol Hill."

The middle aged senator gritted his teeth and sighed. "I understand." Then he looked up. "But it is still beyond my control to properly block it."

The hulking Secretary of Defense shifted in his seat. "Perhaps you could... accidentally... shred it next time it comes up," he suggested. "Perhaps say it was one of the junior aides who did it on accident."

"And pin the blame on someone else!? Someone innocent?!" Senator Durbin whirled to face the huge man. "And what good would that do?!"

"Hold on." The Secretary of State placed a hand on her husband. "Rich... I think he may be onto something."

The senator looked at his wife like she was crazy. "Care to explain what, then?" he asked, seething in fury.

The woman nodded as he sat back down. "He was suggesting that we could pin the blame on those aides who serve the conservative faction like the dogs they are. Make them seem incompetent. And then... we could get more of our own agents into play."

He perked up. "So you're saying a discreet clearing of the field..." he mused, looking down in thought.

His wife nodded. "Yes. Get them fired and then we use our contacts to get more competent, free thinking aides into power in those offices. Once we begin the full operation though, we'll spare them and give them those offices in place of those puppets. Real people, real government. Remember that phrase?"

He did. It had been one his grandfather told him years before his death.

"Charlene..." Senator Durbin smiled. "I guess that shows why I married you."

Charlene Durbin gave him a smile back as she held up her lantern.

An attractive woman in her late forties, she had long, stunning blonde hair and bright green eyes, a combination that contrasted with her heavily tanned skin. It made her a sheer exotic beauty amongst the Atlantic Federation high society. She had a wonderful figure, with curves in all the right spots and her lithe frame made her stand out on many magazines and newspapers. She wore dresses that flaunted her curves and exposed some of her cleavage to entice many a male, but she never accepted their offers. Charlene currently was dressed in a beautiful red gown with the sleeves missing and a slit on the sides to expose some shapely leg. Her high-heels sparkled a deep black and she had two long white gloves on her hands.

Born into a wealthy family, her childhood was based around learning the etiquette of high society, including aristocratic tastes. Her father and mother owned a successful fashion empire, so she was no stranger to upper class galas and parties. But unlike her brother, she had leaned towards politics as a possible career. So her parents had handed over the company reins to their son and let their daughter pursue her own ambitions. She did go to law school and graduate, but she never had a chance to put it into practice until she married Richard Durbin. The two had hit it off at one of her family's gatherings, and sparks had flown. A few years later after a lengthy courtship, they were wed. Unfortunately, due to a genetic mutation, Charlene couldn't have any children of her own. But that didn't stop the two from considering adoption down the road.

The two had recently become moles for the resistance, possessing at most enough clout to delay the bastard bill. But despite the setbacks, they were stalling it. And every day it was delayed was another day the resistance was able to prevent more boys from being sent to war. And every boy delayed was one less soldier sent. And every soldier not sent was one less asset to be used on the battlefield.

In short, deprivation of manpower.

Manpower was crucial in wars like this. And without that manpower, the AF was going to be pressed to scavenge for subpar troops. And subpar troops were less likely to survive unless they were extremely lucky.

"So, your plan is to delay it by having it shredded each time, right?" President Eisenhower mused, narrowing her eyes.

Charlene and the senator looked at her and nodded. "Yes, ma'am," they said.

She gave a single nod. "Do it. Every day delayed is vital to us. It means we can deprive them of manpower. So we'll handle that for now."

"Understood," Senator Durbin remarked. "We'll have to get back to D.C. before the recess ends, though."

The President gave a nod. "Right. I wish you the best of luck. And Godspeed, you two."

They nodded before sitting back down.

With that taken care of, the next matter was brought to the table.

The invasion of Europe.

The Secretary of Defense held out a map. "Madam President, I have the intel you requested," he said.

The resistance leader took it and scanned it over, frowning. "So they're gonna make their move," she mused.

"Yes, ma'am. And it looks like that egghead from Lodonia was right: they're sending that monster to Berlin," the man stated.

"All the more reason for us to get in contact with the resistance in Europe once it forms," President Eisenhower said seriously. "The main goal is to try and make contact with Terminal. If they do, then we'll set up a meeting using them as middlemen. Once we meet, then we can begin our plan."

"To rebuild what was lost: an international alliance," Charlene mused, a smirk crossing her face. "I can't wait to finally see the looks on their faces."

The President nodded. "Yes. I assume you have the charter, Senator Durbin?"

The middle-aged man nodded and held out a sealed envelope. "Yes. I was able to get it. But we do need to revise it to prevent this from happening again."

"And I have every intention on doing so." Her eyes hardened. "But first things first. Reclaiming America is our major goal. Then will come the hard part: rebuilding the trust between law enforcement and police, as well as the other relationships that LOGOs damaged over the years." Her words were serious as the others nodded in agreement.

"Our biggest problem when it comes to that is our reputation. It's been shredded to bits. It may be impossible to rebuild it," Charlene stated. "Unless we can find some way to prove that it was LOGOs who did it, and not us, then we can count on being a pariah state for generations to come."

"Leave that to the tech heads," President Eisenhower stated. "They'll find what's needed. For now, we focus on the issues at home." Then she directed her attention to the Secretary of Defense. "What's the status on the military?" she asked.

"The military is bordering on rebellion in some units," he replied. "If we can get them to our side, we may just have a chance to turn the tide. Our numbers would be fairly even, but with any luck, and if the kid does get that battle group under his control, then we could use that as leverage to get more to stand down long enough for our agents on the ground to go in and go SEED on 'em."

Here the President pursed her lips. "I see. Well, that will go a long way. Now, what about the police? How many are still in LOGOs' pockets? And I want an honest answer, Secretary Green."

The huge man shifted as he held up his lantern. Secretary of Defense Lorenzo Green was a hulking man in his late forties, with brown hair and grey-blue eyes. He stood at a massive six-foot-five, just an inch shorter than the President herself. But his muscular frame more than made up for that. Despite being a big wall of muscle, he was very educated and cunning, reputed to be brutal and ruthless on the battlefield. That couldn't be further from the truth. Oh sure he could be ruthless, but he was not a monster. He did have his flaws, yes, but he was only human. His ability to read the military was something the resistance had counted on when recruiting him. It was only due to his sons that he had readily defected. The boys had expressed fear over the Patriot Youth and pleaded with him to kill them. He had refused and instead sent them to an isolated spot in the country with his wife to escape mandatory recruitment.

The man nodded and sat back down. "The police are seventy-percent in their pockets," he stated. "And that is an honest guess. From what I've heard, Dallas has had a huge shift in police recruitment. The chief there is actually finding evidence of corruption within the ranks, and is working to place honest men - and women - in positions of real authority and removing those who have been bribed. We think that by this time next week, there may be one police department that will be on our side. Or at least half of one, anyway."

President Eisenhower arched an eyebrow. "Dallas... hm..." She pursed her lips at this. "Any others?"

"We've had reports from Chicago of lower ranked officers refusing to kidnap children and are being threatened with termination," he continued. He held up a folder, this one with all kinds of newspaper clippings. "See for yourself."

The resistance leader took the folder and opened it. Her eyes widened in surprise as she stared at the large print of the Chicago Tribune Underground. The headline was enough to give away what was happening. "'Police Refuse to Kidnap Children'." She skimmed the article. "Well, this is new. The officers have formed what could only be described as the Unified Chicago Police Department."

"Yes." Lorenzo nodded. "As you well recall, Chicago has divided its police department into different branches, all chiefs reporting to the central branch. With that kind of division, it's easier to bribe chiefs and keep them within LOGOs' pockets. A bigger police department doesn't have that issue as much," he explained.

Charlene looked to him directly. "And New York?" she asked.

Here he frowned. "No go there. The police are firmly within LOGOs' control. The only way is to expose them as the mockery of 'New York's finest' they are." He was silent for a moment. "And we'll need a new generation of officers to teach them right from wrong."

"All the more reason for us to move soon," the President said. "And we'll have to keep our eyes on the AF forces in Europe over the next few days. We need to make contact with the resistance as soon as it's formed. And then comes the hard part: contact with Terminal."

Everyone assembled there nodded.

"Speaking of which, I have some news on the next project," came the voice of the Energy Secretary as she stepped out of the shadows.

"About time," Senator Durbin scowled. "We're in desperate need of some serious power here, Loren!"

Secretary of Energy Loren Grendel gave a firm nod. Her green eyes contrasted nicely with her purple hair; unlike what most people had thought when she told them it was dyed, it was actually her natural hair color. She was a Coordinator, born in secret to her parents who were well off, but not wealthy. She wore her hair rather short and when she went out, she always put it under a baseball cap so no one could identify her as a Coordinator. She also had less enhanced genes so as to not stand out as much. Her parents had cautioned her to hide her true status, which was working even in her adulthood. Her only flaw was that she tended to be a bit too intelligent for her own good. But she often said that she was just naturally gifted in her chosen field. And that lie had always worked.

After she had been outed when one of her exes had found out about her secret, she went underground and was found by the resistance and offered a job under a new name at one of the nuclear plants that were slowly starting to come back online. A researcher by trade, Loren was brilliant in the area of nuclear research. So her mission was to try and find a new source of nuclear power for the resistance to use. And her efforts had paid off.

She held up a letter and smirked as she slid it over to the President. "The facility director is on board with this," she said. She placed a hand down on the table and grinned. "I was finally able to convince him to side with us."

President Eisenhower looked at the letter and scanned it over. Her eyes went wide as she read it. She finally looked up, shock coloring her features. "We... We really have it?!" she asked.

The Secretary of Energy nodded once. "Yes. We have one at last." Her smile grew wider and her eyes became hard like gemstones. "A fully working nuclear fusion reactor!"

"How did they manage to accomplish that in so short a time span?!" Defense Secretary Green blurted. "It takes years to produce one!"

"Not true," Secretary Grendel admitted. "We do have the means to produce them. LOGOs just won't allow it. They purposely lie about it and refuse to give the necessary facilities the funding and resources needed. How else will those old oil and coal barons keep their profits going?"

"Hate to break it to you, but the oil ran out long ago there in the Middle East," Senator Durbin reminded her.

"That may be, but they still have money they gained from it. And the engines that we produce today still need the stuff, remember? So they perhaps lied about running out of it," the woman countered.

"Enough. We can get into the details of that little argument later," Eisenhower replied. "We need to stay focused." She directed her gaze to the Energy Secretary. "I assume that the reactor is going to be shipped to our testing site?"

Secretary Grendel nodded. "Yes, ma'am. The crew at the site have been informed about the delivery truck and are standing by to act as escorts as it draws closer."

"Good." The President gave a firm nod. "Now, anything else to report?"

"Nothing as of yet," Secretary of State Durbin replied. "We'll inform you as soon as we are able."

"Good. Meeting is dismissed."

. . .

November 15th, CE 73

Beep... Beep! Beep... Beep!

The beeping of the alarm blared in his hearing as the last vestiges of sleep were driven from his mind.

Spray groaned as he turned over in bed, trying to drive the blasting of the damned alarm from his hearing. He buried his face under his pillow, but that only succeeded in getting him to wake up sooner. He muttered under his breath as he tossed the pillow aside and sat up, rubbing his eyes to clear the weariness from them.

He slowly turned to look at the alarm's source and was surprised to see the phone on his desk beeping repeatedly with a number. One he recognized as belonging to the officer he had spoken to not too long ago about his transfer orders.

The pilot threw off the covers and grabbed his phone, taking the call. "Hello?"

"Good morning, Commander," the officer said. "I trust you have slept well?"

"As well as I could..." Spray muttered as he looked out the window. Already he could see activity beginning to brew in the middle of the base, and something told him it was tied into the reason the base was contacting him. "Something tells me you're calling me for a reason, right?"

"Astute observation, Commander Krane," the other man replied. "You are indeed correct on that. The higher ups have decided to send you up to the fleet early. Recent intelligence reports have indicated that the Demon Lord of Avalon and his little cohorts have attempted to get one of the major players in the infestation of Earth off its surface. Thank God."

Spray had to actually keep a gag from coming out. How could these people think such things!? Infestation? Vermin? Contamination? Taint?! How low would they have to sink before they wised up and realized that Coordinators were human just as much as they were?! He managed to rein in his disgust as he looked up. "And did it succeed?" he asked, trying to gather intel.

"It did. But that has only pushed the timetable forward," the officer stated. "You are to go to the main fleet and take command of your new battle group as soon as possible."

The new commander looked down, his eyes becoming hidden by his hair. "..."

He was silent as he realized what this meant. His true mission was about to begin. And the very reason he was being sent up there was about to rear its ugly head in the face of Lord Djibril and his cohorts. A small grin crossed his lips, and he felt a tingle racing down his spine. A tingle of excitement. He didn't like to admit it much, but he found the challenge of winging through things without a plan thrilling. The very idea was one he tried to avoid, being a planner in nature. But when it did happen, he always found it to be rewarding in some way.

"Commander Krane? You are to report to-" Spray cut off the officer with a soft chuckle.

"Oh, don't worry. I heard you," he murmured. He slowly lifted his head, exposing his eyes. They were clear, focused, and driven. "I will be there. You can count on that!"

"From your expression, you are eager to take the fight to those who infest our world, aren't you?" the officer asked.

"Oh, I'm more than eager!" Spray remarked, giving a predatory grin. But unlike what this officer assumed, it was not directed at the Coordinators. Oh, no. It was directed at those who governed like kings in the shadows, and who hated others all because of how they were born. It was directed at those who sought to warp American ideals and turn the country into the Cosmic Era's version of the Third Reich. Hell, he wouldn't have been surprised if Lord Djibril just declared himself Fuhrer and renamed himself after Hitler. That did seem like it was in his nature, after all. And to deprive the fleet of its most powerful battle group would be a morale booster to the resistance, as well as a blow to the all-male dominated leadership, something that made his stomach churn.

But he let this man hold his own beliefs, no matter how twisted and outdated they were.

"I am glad to see that kind of attitude, Commander. You will be needing it." The officer held his nose a bit higher. "Those abominations must be cleansed from this world."

"And what of my machine? Has it been transferred to base?" Spray asked, bringing the man back on topic. He apparently looked flustered, and he grimaced before he nodded.

"Of course, Commander. It will be loaded aboard your flagship as soon as you wish it," he said.

"Then do it! I will board the same shuttle it is on." He was dead serious on this, and the officer nodded.

"As you wish." The screen went dark and Spray tossed his phone to the desk before he got up and got dressed.

He had a mission to prepare for, after all.

He managed to get through breakfast and his morning routine quickly. He packed up his bags and departed the hotel, checking out and making his way to the base. He was cleared by base security and escorted to the shuttle on which his machine was held. The container was already within, and he proceeded to wave down the shuttle pilot. While not normal for officers to take a cargo shuttle to their ships, Spray was not about to be held back. The sooner he got to the battle group, the better, he mused as he got aboard the shuttle.

Now came the hard part: launching into space.

Thankfully the process was much smoother than he had expected. As the shuttle prepared to lift off, his mind drifted back to the machine in its hold.

That machine was his pride and joy, having been one of the first developed as a mass-produced model during the First Bloody Valentine War. He had made ace in that thing, and as a result of his superb performance on the battlefield, Spray had been given some leeway in what modifications he could have on it. His first modification had been to place extra battery packs on the exterior of the machine to bolster its endurance and give it greater operational time than the standard mobile suits of the AF. Hell, he had even had the optical visor replaced with dual optics like that on the now destroyed Strike. And he had even painted the dual antennae on the forehead in gold. While not a true Gundam, it was as close as he could get to one. His other only modification had been to request a new Striker pack based around the Aile Striker, but with full flight capabilties in atmosphere and greater maneuverability in orbit. That pack he had dubbed the Aile Striker EX, or short for Aile Striker Extension. The GAT-01A1 Dagger he had piloted was now considered an ace custom machine, and as such he had named it the Dagger S.

The Dagger S was outfitted with a bare armaments package loadout, consisting of the "Igelstellung II" 40mm Multi-barrel CIWS located in the head, and a pair of beam sabers. However, in an added twist, Spray had also modified his Dagger S to carry the same Armored Schneider knives that the original Strike had used. But unlike the original, these were hidden within the forearms of the unit, perfect for sneak attacks, he mused. The Dagger S could also be equipped with a couple of handheld weapons, the GAU 8M2 52mm Machine Gun and the M703 57mm Beam Rifle. The machine gun was a solid projectile weapon that Spray favored more over the beam rifle, although he did have to admit the beam rifle's grenade launcher had saved his ass more than once.

The Aile Striker EX pack also came with a few modifications to it. The beam sabers had extended operational time and the pack itself had a few additional ammo packs on its underside for the machine gun his Dagger carried. That had come in handy a few times during some skirmishes a few months back. But now that he was going into space, well, he'd need to rely more on his machine's bladed weapons than the long-range ones.

His thoughts were disrupted as he felt the shuttle lift off, its rockets sending shudders racing through his body. He gritted his teeth as he glanced out the window, watching as the world he grew up on started to descend below him. A small fragment of his mind told him that it was blue and pure, but the rest of him said no. That as long as Blue Cosmos and LOGOs ran things, then it was not blue and pure at all. He could only think about how he was determined to prove them wrong. That the likes of them made this world the cesspool it was. And that only with their demise and destruction would it be blue and pure once again. In all honesty, that was the kind of thinking that made people despise the group. And with how much clout they now had, it made him sick.

He cast his gaze back towards the sky, and he could start to see the groupings of the PLANT colonies. It was a stark reminder of just how far the Coordinators had gone to escape persecution and discrimination at the hands of people like LOGOs. They had fled to space to escape it, and instead it had come for them, not once, but twice. And if it happened a third time... Well, he didn't want to think about that.

Instead, Spray focused his keen gaze on the ships starting to come into view. And there were a lot of them.

His eyes landed on the cluster of ships drawing closer to the shuttle.

He could see the five had already assembled.

And a smirk crossed his face.

Things were finally moving along.

He gripped his gun and checked it. It was not uncommon for him to go without a weapon. In fact, he was, not withstanding the Demon Lord of Avalon or the Angel of Freedom, the best shot his fellow pilots in the resistance knew of. Sure it had taken time and experience to get as good as he was, but he knew how to use his gun effectively. He had been in the military enough to pick up on a few tricks, and he even adapted a few from his prior opponents in mobile suit combat. So his fighting style was rather flexible and adaptable, making him an unpredictable force on the battlefield. Some small part of him wondered if he would be tested somehow to see if he truly was loyal to the AF.

If that was the case, he'd have to be ready.

His eyes narrowed as he watched the ships come closer, and then they were within range of communications.

Spray took in a breath and let it out, calming the jittery feeling in his stomach.

'Finally. Show time!'

The docking procedure went as smoothly as it possibly could, but the mere thought of him being aboard this fleet was enough to make him on edge, especially given the second-in-command he was saddled with. His eyes narrowed as he waited for the signal to disembark.

He made sure he had all his supplies, including the specially encrypted cell phone he carried with him. It was cleverly hidden within a concealed pocket in his uniform's top, right within reach should he get a message from the base. His eyes narrowed as his hand drifted to his gun holster. He checked the M1911 pistol within, feeling it with his touch alone. Satisfied his weapon was safely holstered, he proceeded to make his way to the exit hatch for disembarking.

Spray exited the shuttle, holding his cap under his arm. He pushed off the floor briefly, drifting into the middle of the hangar bay before landing and saluting at the assembled men before him.

All five were there. Every single one of them.

First up was the commander of these puppets. Christophe Hayes was just like in his photo. His blonde hair and blue eyes were a marked contrast to Spray's own black hair and brown eyes. His uniform crisp and clean. Posture impeccable. A straight face. The guy could've made a decent poker player.

Hank Jarvis was the next one. His hair was somewhat neater than in his personnel photo, but other than that, he was just like the image. But his arrogance made him stand out. The way he carried himself was a good indicator.

The third man, Harris Davidson, was an absolute monster in his height. Spray narrowed his eyes as he scowled a bit. He hated this man, but not as much as the next one who stood beside him, face still covered in bandages.

Carlos Henkel was a silent type, very creepy and the way he stood like a specter was a good indicator that he also stalked the young girls he preyed upon. Spray felt a low growl starting to surface, but he squashed it in a flash, biting down on his tongue as he did so. There was no blood, but the pain did stop him from letting his hatred become known.

The last one, Scotty Grey, was very nervous about the new commander. And Spray couldn't blame him. The way he carried himself was an indicator of his reluctance to go along with the genocide of the Coordinators and the domination of toxic masculinity-inclined individuals at the command of things. Spray made a mental note to spare him if he could.

The final individual he was going to be working with, Dennis Kranz, was also there. He stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest as he gazed at his new superior. A look of disdain crossed his features as he scowled. But he did follow protocol as he stood up straight and made his way over to stand beside the political officers. He gave a crisp salute.

"Commander Krane. Welcome aboard the George Washington." His words were crisp and concise, but they carried within them a slight distinct Germanic (or was it Austrian?) accent. That made Spray's shoulders tense subtly beneath his uniform. He did, to his credit, manage to maintain his composure. "I am your second-in-command, Dennis Krantz."

"I have read on your profiles, and you all seem to be excellent soldiers," Spray remarked, looking over them with barely concealed anger. "But there is one thing you must be aware of. While I may be your commander, I still am a mobile suit pilot. So, I expect to be allowed onto the field when I request it."

"Only under certain conditions, sir," Christophe replied in a gravelly baritone. Spray had to suppress a shiver at his voice. "That was the condition."

"I am well aware of that!" Spray snapped, trying to portray himself as arrogantly as possible. "I may not like it, but I will abide by the rules."

'Anything to keep me on the field,' he thought.

"Very well. We just wanted to make sure you were aware of the conditions surrounding your deployments," Christophe stated.

Spray nodded. "Now, if you men don't mind, I would prefer to look over my machine before we head out."

"Yes, sir," the six men said as one. The way they said it sounded all too much like a hive mind, and Spray barely kept from shuddering at the eerie similarity. Slowly they began to file out of the room, leaving Spray alone as he drifted off the floor to where his Strike Dagger S was being unloaded from its container.

'May as well get ready...' he thought with a grim smile.

. . .

President Eisenhower had been expecting the news.

She just hadn't expected it to come so quickly.

She was already up and about, prowling the interior of the warehouse. By now she knew every square centimeter of the place like the back of her hand, from the tubes containing the children to the very spot where she encountered bloody splatters on the ground. She could be blindfolded and she'd know exactly where she was in the place.

One of her aides was also there, having come as soon as reports from the AF's commanders started filtering through. It paid to have technical specialists on their side, the resistance leader mused as the man finished his report.

"I see," she muttered. "So Terminal managed to get the songstress up to the PLANTs. And they pushed the timetable up for our mole to be transferred to the battle group."

"Yes, ma'am. Even his machine has been transferred," the aide replied. "He should be arriving there as soon as early this afternoon. He will begin his mission once he is in orbit."

"Good. The sooner he removes those political officers from power, the better," the President remarked.

That was of the utmost importance. From what Grey Eyes had informed her of, it seemed like they were not looking for competence, but brutes who only thought in terms of casualties and lives lost. In other words, war criminals. And with those men at the helm of the ships, it made sense to take them out.

"Also, there's been word in regards to the Los Alamos lab." The aide held out a small tablet and the President took it, observing through it the feed of the resistance's secure camera link.

The lab's personnel were scurrying back and forth, trying to mobilize the huge beast of a machine that lay in slumber. Its pilot was making their way to the machine as it slept, and she could practically feel the sheer hatred this machine gave off, which was saying something. It had been built for genocidal intentions, she could tell. And it utterly oozed hatred and pure evil. It was a vile beast that should never have been built. And she had every intention to try and at least neutralize this thing.

"How many pilots have the NWCOMM equipped?" she asked.

"We have half the NWCOMM devices installed already," the man said. "The engineers say the last six can be installed shortly."

"Then have them do so!" President Eisenhower ordered as she whirled around, making her way to the main office of the huge facility. "I want all pilots that are equipped with the NWCOMM to be ready to deploy as soon as those beasts hit the field!"

"Yes, ma'am!" The aide saluted crisply before he darted off, vanishing out the side door of the warehouse.

And for that matter, the next issue was the developments in Europe.

She had to keep an eye on that for the next few weeks. If things went as she feared, it wouldn't be long before they made contact with the Eurasian resistance forces. And she would need all possible experience in politics to rebuild a shattered alliance globally. Hell, her biggest fear was the distrust between everyone now. It had taken time and effort to rebuild the trust between resistance groups, and even now it was fragile. But it was somehow holding, in spite of everything.

And then there was the matter of what she had learned from the commander of the Ghosts. The fact that a media mogul had a Coordinator son was something she needed to take advantage of, but not just that. She, as a leader, had a duty to secure the safety of everyone, regardless of their genetics. A snort escaped her. It was so pathetic, really. Making such a big deal of this... what was next? People with psychic powers being targeted? The idea was ridiculous. But then again, so was targeting someone over their genes.

And this kind of bastard racism had to end.

No matter what it took.