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

Review replies:

- Spiceracksargent001: Thanks, Spice! :) Yeah, the three main intelligence agencies did manage to secure membership, which is gonna be crucial come the revolution. ;3

- operation meteor: Thanks. I really appreciate the reviews and whatnot, especially with your feedback. :)

- KentLinuxStadfelt: I know! XD I can't wait to write it! XD

- Guest: No. The Punisher will not appear. Sorry. But the resistance will punish LOGOs big time! XD

(A pair of optics flashes online before lights flare on to show the Strike Dagger S in its hangar bay, Spray standing atop its shoulder with an American flag held in one hand, his trench coat draped across his shoulders like a cape)

START MIKAKUNIN HIKOUSEN BY TAKAYOSHI TANIMOTO

(The pilot tosses the American flag off to the side as he leaps off his machine's shoulder, the camera following the flag as it flutters down to the hangar floor)

Oh yeah! Be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The camera moves up to show the Strike Dagger S engaged with the Perfect Sword Strike, both pilots superimposed over their machines as their blades clash)

Pass the orbit beyond the sky (The two break off before flying towards one another again, Spray shown with Earth in the background, his eyes in SEED Mode as he grits his teeth)

I can't hold back this rushing speed (Dennis Krantz is shown with a large, shadowy shape in the background as he charges in, his eyes wide in his fury)

A familiar town becomes a diorama (The camera follows both pilots as they clash in a flash of light, the camera panning down to show the Resistance base in Mexico, Dr. Keith Martinez and Commander Ibara standing before it)

Burst through the unclear skies (The skies are shown to be covered in clouds as the camera pans up and over, coming down to show Rear Admiral Dorana Xen as she stands in a land battleship, arms crossed, a large army of AI-controlled suits before her)

Blow away your worries and discontent (The rear admiral sneers as she watches the resistance fighting bravely, but unable to do much to stop her, only for a flash of a beam saber to cut across the screen)

Who needs a journey that's by the book? (The camera pans to the right to show a gray-colored mobile suit as it spins around, glowing blue optics locking onto Xen's eyes)

Even if you're lost or trembling, raise the altitude (The machine climbs up, becoming a small speck in the sky, only for a second machine to come down, showing it to be the Demolition Dagger as it lands in front of Paris, looking up as the camera shows Kyle behind it)

Oh yeah! Show off, mess up, and stand back up (The Demolition Dagger attacks the closest Atlantian Daggers before the camera is blinded by thick black smoke, only to fade to show Wing Zero stand up in the middle of a damaged naval base)

I'll watch the unknown horizon with you (The camera is engulfed in flames before they blow apart to show Eisenhower standing atop the warehouse, three other figures standing behind her as the sun sets before her)

Now be strong, jump on, and become the wind (The camera moves to the right as it shows Eisenhower leaping off the building, a pair of mechanical phoenix wings sprouting from her back)

Use the sun that lights tomorrow as a guide (Above her is shown Spray Krane in his own machine, reaching out for the light of the sun as it shines above a new, futuristic city)

Fly off to the glorious world of freedom! (The scene freezes with all the major players flying towards a shining world, stars around all of them)

GUNDAM WING: THE PHOENIX RISING

Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall

- Steven Jackson 'Spray' Krane

CHAPTER XIII: Imperial Turnabout

December 2nd, CE 73

"You're serious." Eisenhower's eyes were narrowed as she sat in the back of the cargo truck taking her back to Denver.

Jacques gave a serious nod on her smartphone. "Yes. With this new declaration, it's only a matter of time before we're outed. We have to take measures to prevent it," he told her.

Eisenhower wasn't one to miss out on an opportunity to gather more manpower, but at the same time she was very resistant to outing her government before they were ready. And they were far from ready. In fact, it was much too early to reveal themselves. The formation of Gilead was sure to swell their numbers to the limit, and they had to prevent it.

She closed her eyes in thought.

'To out ourselves this early would disrupt my long-term plans for the reformation of the United Nations,' she thought. 'So we have to, as much as I hate to admit it, stall the revolution a bit longer. That shouldn't be too difficult. Maybe stir up protests and encourage strikes? Yeah. That will work. Our cells in key cities can stoke them, and with our agents in key industries, it should get Copeland to walk back the formation of the Kingdom of Gilead a while longer.'

Just the thought of even helping the man in question was enough to make her sick, but she brushed it aside. She could get sick later.

Right now, she had plans to make.

She opened her eyes.

"Here's what's gonna happen. Tell the resistance cells across the country they can't reveal themselves, but they can stir up trouble to force Copeland to back off. Or more specifically, Djibril. No doubt he's the one who issued that declaration to begin with."

"You're sure, ma'am?" Jacques asked. "It could backfire."

"No. It won't." Eisenhower's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Copeland may be a puppet, but he's no fool. I've read up on his profile, and he's not stupid. He'll fight to keep his position and power, and he does not want to look bad in the eyes of his master. This will serve our purposes well."

Jacques fought to suppress a grimace, but she caught sight of it. "You know, you're a lot worse than Djibril is," he noted. "You're much more manipulative than him."

"That's true," Eisenhower admitted, "but at least I'm aware of it, and I'm actually doing it for the right cause." She closed her eyes. "I may not like it, but I am willing to do it for the restoration of reason and logic to this world."

Jacques couldn't argue with that. "Yes, ma'am."

Eisenhower opened her eyes again, revealing them to be focused and hardened. "Tell the comm guys to get the message out there. 'All resistance cells are to not out themselves but are free to cause as much trouble as necessary to stir up protests and worker strikes.'"

Jacques gave a salute before he shut down the COMM and she hung up.

She pocketed her phone and leaned back against the truck's interior wall as it bounced over a pothole, but she ignored it as she crossed her arms and closed her eyes. Her mind began to drift, and she could already see many different possibilities for the way this could play out. And each one had its own risks.

Of the many possibilities, only a few were ones she wanted.

She opened her eyes as the truck halted briefly, and she heard the driver open the door before making his way to the back end.

The back door slid open with a loud clattering of metal on metal, and she looked back as he peered in. "Ma'am, we're at our next stop," he said.

"Good. I take it we'll be on the move in a few hours?" she asked.

"Yes." The driver nodded. "So you have some time to get some exercise in, as well as do what you have to do."

The President nodded as she stood up and made her way out of the cargo truck. She leapt down and glanced to the large mansion that lay dilapidated not too far from the main road. The trees curling around it only added to its darkened air, and she had to wonder who had even suggested this place be made a safe house in the first place.

The driver closed up the door and locked his truck before he turned and ran ahead of the resistance leader. He reached into a pocket and pulled out an old key. "I still feel that this place was a bad choice for a safe house," he muttered.

"You're not the only one," Eisenhower remarked as she gazed up at the old manor. The second story windows that faced them always seemed to resemble eyes of a sorts, as if something were watching them. The mere thought was enough to make her narrow her own eyes as the trucker slid the key into the old lock on the rusted chains. It took a minute, but he undid the lock and the chains clattered to the side.

He grasped the gate and pulled, sliding it open with nary a screech of old hinges.

Eisenhower had to admit that whoever was in charge here was keen about keeping the gates silent.

The duo stepped over the entryway, and as soon as they did, a number of black-clad soldiers emerged from hiding and two of them grabbed the gate before sliding it shut and the other two slid the chains back into place and locked it.

Then they vanished back into the blackness.

The two continued on, stepping over the weed-grown stone path. Eisenhower's hands clenched into fists as they approached the old stairway leading up to the porch. It was rather humbling, in some way, to be here to see how this was even happening. To be in charge of a movement of this size and scale... to be present as history was remade. To be a part of it. To be in charge of it. To be dictating one's own destiny instead of being told what to do. In a way, this old house was a part of that. And the more she gazed on it, the more she could see just how rotted it was.

It was in a way, similar to this false country of Djibril's. While it looked clean and pretty on the outside, within it was a maze of rotted beams and corridors, filled with termites of the worst possible kind. And they continued to thrive and grow, feasting more and more on what made the building stable. Even the foundation was beginning to rot, not from termites, but from water damage and burrows from underground rodents. It was not a stable, healthy place. Not like her own country was, despite being underground for the moment.

"Ma'am?"

She blinked as she was brought out of her musings by a cough from the truck driver. She shook her head. "Sorry," she muttered. "I was busy thinking. That's all."

The man merely grinned. "Yeah. That happens a lot with you, ma'am," he chuckled as he grasped the old doorknob. He gave a slight rap on the door with his hand and she could hear the faint whirring of a security camera. She gazed up at it, noticing how it was locking onto each of them, scanning their faces closely.

The speaker mounted beside the door crackled before a voice echoed out over it. "What do we have to fear?" came the code phrase.

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself," the trucker responded.

"Franklin D. Roosevelt," Eisenhower added.

The speaker went dead and then came a clattering of locks opening. Eisenhower winced from the racket, but then the door started to swing open and the trucker released the doorknob. The doors creaked and groaned, which sent a shiver down the President's back.

The dust that drifted out was enough to make the two cough repeatedly.

Once it had settled down, they stepped into the massive entrance hall of the old manor.

The doors slid shut behind them, locking with that same clattering of locks. Eisenhower looked back at the door and was impressed by the maze of electric locks that had been installed. The faint humming of a power generator - clearly a massive one if the size of the place was to be believed - could be heard once the din died down. Then two more footsteps could be heard.

The President and her escort turned to face the main staircase, and they watched as two men came down.

The first man was clearly former military, if his body language was anything to go by. A former Marine, he had been discharged after he engaged in a fight with one of his superiors over the abrupt discharge of his wife from the Marines, calling her derogatory names and insisting she was more suited for child-rearing instead of battle. Terry Wayne stood at a full foot shorter than the President, but his presence alone was enough to make others stand at attention. He was a decorated war veteran, having fought during the First Bloody Valentine War, only to become disillusioned once the war got to its heated climax. He had black hair that was once trimmed in a neat buzzcut, but now it was slightly longer than service regulations allowed. His eyes were a piercing icy blue color, almost as white as clouds if the light hit them just right.

The second man was the least expected to join the resistance. But it was just as well because insect exterminators were still needed in this day and age. Hector Guererri was in his late fifties and he was currently dressed in his work uniform, consisting of a single white jumpsuit with the word Exterminator written on the back. He had a hat on to cover his graying curly brown hair and his eyes were a deep chocolate color. He had a bit of boyish fat on his face, making him seem friendly towards his clients. His company, Guererri Pest Control, was one of those used by the Atlantian elite to keep the bugs under control, and it was thanks to him that they were able to sniff out a number of the LOGOs leadership's homes.

Terry gave a crisp salute as Guererri raised his hand to touch his cap.

"Ma'am."

"At ease," Eisenhower responded.

The two men let their hands fall to their sides.

"It's good timing you showed up when you did," Terry admitted.

"I heard about the declaration," the President stated. "I've already sent out an order to cause trouble, but do not reveal."

"Good. That's what I was going to bring up," the former Marine remarked.

"So, any idea as to what their next move will be, senorita?" Guererri asked.

"Hopefully with the trouble caused, Copeland will have to walk back the declaration," Eisenhower mused. "He's not stupid, you know. He wants to maintain his position and that's what we're going to use to our advantage."

The two men nodded.

"The other thing is there's a bit of trouble in Mexico," Guererri stated, catching her off guard.

"What kind of trouble?" she demanded.

"The base down there... they were found."

The President's eyes widened and she felt the blood drain from her face.

"Oh... fuck..."

. . .

Dallas, Texas

The city was as silent as a tomb as the people heard the declaration.

For his part, William Gordon was far from pleased.

He was pissed.

And actually, it made sense that others would be feeling that way, too.

It was also just as well that the President had given them an order. And he did not mean Copeland, the idiot. He was far from a true President in his eyes.

Will glanced to his desk, eyeing the terminal there as the lone golden feather flickered on the screen, a reminder of the order he had just received. He turned away from it and back to the men and women sitting at the main conference table. Each and every one of them was picked not for ideological purity, but competence, character, and ability. And they had that in spades.

"So, we're all clear?" he asked.

"Yes," came the collective reply.

The police chief gave a firm nod. "Good. Now, I don't need to say it since we all got the same order, but I will anyway. Our objective is to cause trouble, but not reveal ourselves. The President gave us free reign to do what we feel is best. And my orders to you are to protect the protesters. Do whatever you have to do, but protect them at all costs. Also, if there are workers, do not antagonize them. I would prefer to not resort to force to detain them if they get too unruly, but if it comes down to it, you have the ability to use force. Just do not go too far."

"Yes, sir!" the group said.

"Now, some of you have questions, do you not?" Will asked, bringing his gaze to focus on a young woman.

"Yes. What if we want to protest as well?" she asked.

"All the more reason to then," the chief stated. "It will also allow you to better protect the crowd if there are officers with them."

"A peaceful march then," a big burly man mused.

"Yes, Jesus," Will remarked. "A peaceful march. But we will not be doing it alone. The National Guard, as you know, has agreed to assist us in cases like this, so we should take advantage of it."

"And oil workers will be amongst them, right?" a man with a scar on his left cheek asked.

"That's the latest we heard," Will said seriously.

"Good." The man nodded. "That will disrupt the production of that sludge."

"What about the shipping?" a woman with dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail questioned. "What will we do about that?"

"Leave that to the guys in charge with that," Will growled. "They know what they're doing."

"And for the steel workers?" she asked.

"We'll let someone else handle that," the chief stated. "Now, our main priority is to guard the protesters. No one is to act in an aggressive fashion towards them."

"When will they begin to march?" the first man asked.

"Last I heard it was in thirty-five minutes. So we have to move," Will ordered. He stood up, adjusting his uniform and grabbing his hat. "The marchers will start in the square and move along the main road through the center of town. We'll be meeting them as they make their way past the police station."

"Yes, sir!" the officers exclaimed.

. . .

Across the entire Atlantic Federation, the word had spread.

The Eagle Feathers had flown.

Crafted as a message system through the use of the Hub, the Eagle Feathers were a variant of e-mail, delivered directly to each of the resistance cells through encrypted messaging. It was a very effective way of getting messages to the intended recipients without being intercepted, since little bits of data flowing out were hardly ever noticed by LOGOs' own technical experts.

People started coming together in small groups, often meeting and bringing with them materials for makeshift signs. It wasn't very much to start with, but big things oftentimes started small. And this was one such time. At first, the numbers were only in the tens, with twenty at max. But when people started to march on the streets, carrying signs that were homemade, a number of them with protest phrases scribbled on them, more people began to get curious. The marchers explained the deal, and word spread rapidly. Not just by mouth, but by Eagle Feather as well.

More people started to assemble in the streets and the numbers began to swell.

And it was not just ordinary civilians, either.

In one of the shipyards in San Diego, a number of workers who were on their break just didn't come back. That prompted the manager of the yard to investigate, only to discover that all the missing workers had gone on strike. They were with the protesters in the streets, each carrying a sign that said on them "WE ARE WORKERS, NOT SERFS!" and "FEUDALISM DENIES, DEMOCRACY DEFIES!". Sufficient numbers had turned out, and they were marching on the mayor's office, moving down the street in one large group.

In Sacramento, hundreds marched on the state capitol, chanting "USA! USA! USA!" repeatedly. No one was sure as to why, but the resistance members in the crowd had chanted it, and it began to swell and grow. The governor of that sector of the country was taken aback by the chanting, for the United States of America was defunct. And yet, the way these people were chanting it... it seemed... right... in a way... So, while the governor was left alone, the state congress was not about to back down.

In the former state of Texas, many people in the oil industry refused to work in the Gulf oil rigs. They just sat there, not budging from their positions. Their bosses threatened to fire them, but many refused to work for until things had changed. At least when it came to the government of the country. Some of the oil workers happened to be amongst the resistance, too, which contributed to their refusal. The suddenness of this prompted the oil industry heads to meet and discuss what to do about the workers, only to fall short of a viable solution.

In what was once Mississippi, all the workers in every single industry across the state refused to even return to work until the government walked back their declaration. Police were forced to come in, only for a number to wind up joining in the protests as well. The National Guard was called in as a result, and while they did make numerous arrests, most of the protesters were hauled off peacefully. It was a stark contrast to what was about to happen in Philadelphia.

It was known as the City of Brotherly Love.

But today, it would become the City of Riots.

A young man by the name of Victor Bell who worked as a dockhand in the city was the one to incite the riot.

It was just as well, too. He was currently on shift near the city's most iconic landmark when the declaration came out. The massive ship known as the SS United States was just the place to stake his claim at, being a museum ship with fully functional engines that oftentimes took guests out on tours of the coast. But as she had been designed to be an ocean liner during her heyday, she was capable of going across the Atlantic Ocean, something she rarely did, but did do once in a while. The vessel, today, however, would become a rallying point for the resistance.

As the ship was at dock for maintenance, he was able to get aboard her and activate her communications array, calling out to all dockworkers to rise up and take up arms against the tyrannical government that the United States had broken away from all those years ago. The workers did as he asked, calling out for people to join them. People of all walks of life joined them as they marched on the city hall, only for the police to interfere and open fire on the marchers. The ensuing firefight and peaceful protest devolved into an utter riot, with people taking to the streets and going nuts. Businesses were smashed and looted, cars destroyed and overturned, squad cars taken out and police officers killed. Children were taken out of schools by terrified parents and others turned to defending their neighborhoods against the rioters who spread out in smaller clusters.

Victor, for his part in the riots, would be captured by police and thrown behind bars, but the resistance would free him and label him a hero for diverting military forces to the city, which became a major resistance hub after the riots were suppressed and quelled. The resulting riots, though, would not be stamped out until days later.

The SS United States was cast off from her mooring lines and she was taken out to sea by a small crew that happened to be aboard at the time of Victor's plea. After escorting him off the vessel, the crew cast off her lines and started the engines, going out to avoid being blocked in by the Atlantian navy. It was just in time, too, for as soon as she left the river, the entrance was barricaded by a squadron of destroyers.

At last, America's flagship was free to roam the Atlantic once more, under a proper American crew.

News crews were dispatched, both of the resistance and AF, to cover her escape.

For the resistance, that was a huge boon.

For the Atlantians, it was a minor loss.

Back in the mainland Atlantic Federation, up in Halifax, hundreds of workers went out on strike, marching across the streets and echoing the hatred of their American counterparts. Decrying the newly crowned nobility and royalty, they chanted "O, Canada!" repeatedly. In the slums of the Quebec Reservation, many Quebecois rose up in revolt against their overseer, swarming the guards and stealing their rifles and weapons. A number of women wound up lynching the guards who denied them medical care and female hygienic supplies. The police, who were there to keep the people in line, were forced to choose sides. Half of them sided with the residents of the slums, and the other half sided with the overseer.

The fierce battle became known as the Quebec Revolution, and it would last for a full three months before the overseer was hung by the leaders of the revolt.

In Mexico, many people vanished from their workplaces and disappeared into the jungles and desert. A number of towns disappeared as well, becoming literal ghost towns. The old ruins of the ancient civilizations that once lived there became cut off from tourist revenue, which led to a sudden burst of the tourism bubble. Many people refused to accept tourists, leading to even more loss of revenue. Ships were prevented from docking at the ports as dockworkers refused to offload the goods brought in.

But none were as profound as the steel workers and workers who built mobile suits.

They refused to touch their equipment, which meant that no more war machines could be built.

This presented a problem for the new nobility and royalty.

But none as much as Copeland.

As he sat in his office, he became worried.

The entire country was up in arms against the declaration, and he was concerned about the military, which was already close to rebellion as it was.

He didn't like having to disobey his masters, but considering the circumstances, he had to take some action.

So, he did.

. . .

Washington, D.C.

"I see..." Djibril's eyes narrowed. "This is not going like I had hoped."

"Of course not!" Copeland spat. He gestured out his office window, seeing the huge number of protesters calling for his resignation. "The entire country is close to revolt, my lord, and the military is threatening revolution unless we walk this back!"

On the screen before him, Alwin scowled. "This is not our goal."

"Try telling that to those peasants!" Copeland growled. "All because of you, we are close to a revolution! And we can't afford that!"

Bruno closed his eyes, sighing. "I see. We have no choice but to accede," he stated.

"And why should we?" Adam asked.

"Think about it, gentlemen," he replied. "We are at war. And with the rising sentiments here, it is clear that if we do not walk back our declaration, then it will lead to a total, and utter, revolt. We must give in, as much as I hate to admit it. I am not saying this is for them. It is for our survival. Remember, we were outed before we had time to prepare. So, if we can at least give these peasants what they desire, which is a phony republic, then we can bide our time before we can reveal our true form of government."

"And how will we do that?" Copeland snapped.

Ben Carson spoke before anyone else could. In his recent meetings with the rest of the cabal, he had taken a more active approach, and this was one such time. For his part, Djibril had no clue as to which side he was truly on, and that was just what they needed to think.

"If I may, my lord, I have a proposal that will suffice," he offered.

"Oh? Do tell, Lord Carson," Djibril purred.

"We simply say that we are in a transitory phase with it," he suggested. "We will tell people that we are preparing to transition to a new, wholesome government in the aftermath of the war with our enemies in orbit. The Congress, we say, will be replaced by people who know what they are doing, in which case, it is us nobles. But the President, which is Copeland, will have an advisor who he is 'grooming' to be the next head of state, Djibril."

The other nobles looked at one another, surprised by his suggestion.

It did make a lot of sense, they figured, but also there was the issue of Emperor Djibril. There was no way he was to take orders from a puppet, they knew, but the commoners didn't need to know that.

Djibril, for his part, scowled. But he did have to admit, the man had a point. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Very well..." he grumbled. "We will do as you have suggested, Lord Carson." He opened his eyes. "Even if I don't like it..."

Copeland sighed in relief.

. . .

The people were close to rebellion.

But thankfully, word spread rapidly to the resistance leaders of what was going to happen, and as soon as the resistance cell commanders heard about this, their whispers spread rapidly, calming much of the populace as an emergency broadcast came on the air.

"My fellow Americans... I have something to say about my declaration not even twelve hours past."

People all stopped what they were doing, dropping their weapons and firearms as they gathered around people who had cell phones or radios or portable computers with them.

However, in one specific area, as the message from Copeland was sent out, riots continued. The Quebec Reservation was not going to stop fighting.

"I can understand why you would be so intensely passionate about the declaration of the Kingdom's formation. I will admit I was a bit panicked as to how this happened," Copeland began. "Given our nation's past, with the breakaway of the United States from Great Britain in the 1770s AD, it makes sense why many of you would be up in arms over this. I deeply regret making that without considering your feelings on this matter."

The crew of the SS United States refused to come back, though. They had an idea on what needed to be done. And they knew of one nation that possessed the facilities needed to render the ship ready for service. They made all best speed possible towards the Kingdom of Scandinavia.

"In truth, I do seek to reform our country's government, as it were. So, as of this moment, given the treason of Congress against us in preventing us from mustering an army of sufficient might to wage our crusade against the Coordinator menace in orbit, I have decided to shift us in a new direction. A new Congress, made up of some of our most influential citizenry, will be the ones to make the laws and streamline the legislative process."

People looked at one another, surprised, but they did not even dare to speak or protest as this was going on.

"I also am going to start grooming a successor, as it were, when I finally step down from politics," Copeland continued. "I have selected him for his prowess in negotiations to keep our fracturing country together." He turned and nodded to Djibril as he stepped in, taking on the appropriate attitude of a newly selected heir. "Djibril, soon to be our next head of state once our crusade has come to its ultimate conclusion."

The man gave a solemn nod as he stepped up to the podium and many people, most of them resistance members, glared at him as he began to speak.

"I am honored, President Copeland, to be chosen by you to become your successor. I hope to learn much from your timeless years of wisdom in this arena, and to be the best possible leader for our glorious nation." He held up his right hand over his head, middle finger outstretched, hips cocked forward. "Heil Atlantia!"

. . .

"Did it work?" the President asked Jacques. Currently she was back in Denver now, and Jacques himself was heading out to meet with the new director of the CIA faction now aligned with the rebels.

"Yeah. It did," the DNI told her. His face became serious. "However, he did adopt a variant of the Nazi salute."

"I saw that," Eisenhower mused. Her eyes narrowed. "What about the rioters? Have they settled down?"

"No. Not yet, anyway. The ones in Quebec have gone postal on their guards and are trying to get the director of the reservation. There's an intense fight raging up there, and many of the people have already declared that Quebec is a sovereign nation that deserves its land and port access back." Jacques closed his eyes. "They've got a lot of ammo and supplies that can last for up to three months, not to mention they know the slums better than the guards on the walls. So it's a place tailormade for guerilla warfare."

The rebel leader nodded. "Yeah. First rule of urban warfare: any city is suited for offense and defense. But ruined cities are best suited for defense."

"First rule of any war is to be prepared," Jacques chuckled.

Eisenhower merely folded her arms as she nodded. "Yes. And actually, we can use the riot in the Quebec Reservation to our advantage." A smirk crossed her face. "Since Carson is now on our side, perhaps we can get knowledge of the living conditions in there out to the general public."

"Yes, but not at this moment. Once the revolution begins we can," Jacques cautioned her.

The woman's smirk faded, knowing her DNI was right. She sighed. "You got a point," she admitted. She opened her eyes. "All right. Send word out to Carson. Also, what's the status on Task Force Kidde Kamp?"

"They're still training. But with any luck, they should strike just after Operation: Merlin," the DNI stated. "And we got a report from the mole." He held up the paper.

"What?" Eisenhower asked, narrowing her eyes.

Jacques gained a sinister grin. "Two more down, just one to go."

The rebel leader was silent for a moment before she smirked, closing her eyes as she did so. "Heh. Guess the kid really came through," she remarked. She opened her eyes again. "Tell him good job and that I'll be expecting a proper report once he gets the ships to the base up there."

"Ah. About that..." Jacques cleared his throat. "Dr. Brand wants to know when the ship can be launched."

Eisenhower's smirk faded. "During the attack, tell him that the ship is clear to launch. We've got our cover story planned for it, remember?"

Jacques did recall.

To facilitate the launch of the Redemption into Earth orbit, a ramshackle mass driver had been assembled up in Canada's tundra wilderness. The driver was actually capable of launching a fully equipped vessel into space, but the downside was that it was a one-time deal. So they had to make it count. The cover story was that the driver had been tested by a select team of engineers and scientists to try and build their own for the Atlantian Reich to use. However, due to the nature of the parts they procured, the device fell apart and could not be rebuilt.

An investigation was to be performed by resistance aligned technicians and structural engineers to give credence to the report.

"I am well aware of that," he told her calmly. "I just hope they can make it seem plausible. As it stands, I'm surprised we even had the manpower and resources to build that thing."

"I'm not," the President stated bluntly. "The team of scientists and engineers up there had left over supplies from some of our other projects, remember?"

The DNI wisely held his tongue as he nodded. He knew better than to speak about this. After all, even he was only human.

"Also, we got the FBI, NSA, and the CIA on our side," Eisenhower relayed.

"About damn time!" someone exclaimed in the background of the warehouse's noise.

"Yeah. That is good news," Jacques said, grinning in relief. Then he became serious. "How many of each agency?"

"Over three fourths of the FBI, which explains a lot as to how they were able to get our people into key positions, and how they were able to assassinate the Headhunters as they sought us out," President Eisenhower explained. "They were the Court of Owls the whole time. But more on that later."

She held up a hand. "A quarter of the CIA is on our side, but they are in key positions to influence who goes where, and that includes the director."

"And the NSA?" Jacques asked, stunned by what he was hearing.

"All of them, save for their boss, are against LOGOs." Eisenhower lowered her hand. "They are in charge of guarding the camps of dissidents and political prisoners. And they hate it, Jacques. The men won't rape the women, thank God, but the other stuff they have to do in order to stay out of the camps. And a few of the NSA's agents were thrown into the camps for trying to give medical aid to the prisoners."

"But why would they do that? And how could all of them be against this?" he blurted.

"They feel that it goes against the ideas of national security. How can prisoners like these be a danger to national security?" She shrugged. "The answer is, they can't. So it's kind of a waste of resources and manpower."

"And of the FBI? I'm surprised they were the Court of Owls this whole time," Jacques remarked.

The woman nodded. "I was, too. But in reality, it explains so much. And it also gives us a lot of good intel on who is in their back pocket, as well as the scale of corruption in the courts." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "As well as what resources they have at their command."

Jacques had to refrain from breaking into cheers at that.

That was one thing they had been trying to get for months. And now they had it.

"Just one final question, ma'am." Jacques stated.

"Yes, Jacques?" Eisenhower asked.

"What about the JCS?" he inquired.

"That... is currently en route up to the base even as we speak," the President explained. "Anaheim was able to get it up to them. It'll be installed once the machine is at the base."

"Good." Jacques let out a sigh of relief. "Now all we need to do is make sure that our agents don't get outed..."

The President nodded briefly.

The phone went dead and he closed his eyes as he leaned back in the seat of his rented limo.

'Good... Now all we can do is prepare for Operation: Merlin...' he thought.

. . .

Denver, Colorado

Atlantic Federation

The warehouse's main floor was dead silent this time of day.

And to Marie, that was perfect.

It gave her time to reflect and think about how far things had come in just a short time span.

'Was it really only a month ago that we were seeking to make contact with Terminal?' she thought as she stood atop the catwalk overlooking the main center. 'Because now it feels much longer than that...'

She closed her eyes as she recollected back to the first inklings of the wider conflict and her goals. While she had been working behind the scenes to root out LOGOs, her real objective had been to arm the nation's people for war, armoring them with knowledge of the truth and preparing contingencies should the need arise. The meeting those three years ago had been what set things into motion.

The meeting between three resistance cell commanders and the future leader of the United States of America.

GWPRGWPRGWPR - FLASHBACK - GWPRGWPRGWPR

"So that's it? You seek to unite us?"

"Yes." Marie's eyes were hard and resolute as she stood her ground.

The three men before her were all dirty and had some tattered clothing, wearing bandages on their bodies here and there and one of them had an eye patch on his left eye. He apparently was the leader, and it showed in his body language.

Marie had done some research into their backgrounds and had been surprised to see they were former political figures who were supposedly killed due to their ideological differences from the Atlantian ruling elite. But in reality, they had gone underground prior to their deaths and started to bring others into their folds. And Eisenhower was one of them now.

"To join our units together is one thing," the first man stated. "But to actively expand? That is a risk in of itself!"

"Rest assured, I'm well aware of the risks," Marie countered. "I've been thinking this through, and let me tell you, together we stand a much better chance than we do alone! Your experiences, your resources, and your agents would be very useful when combined with my people in key positions of power. I understand you all have your ideal vision of America, and so do I. But unlike your visions... mine is one we all can fight for."

The second man scowled. "And how can we be sure about that?" he asked, his Southern accent standing out.

"For one thing, I know you seek to restore the Southern hospitality and culture it was known for before the Government cracked down on it," Eisenhower stated, narrowing her eyes. "Especially the Mardi Gras."

The man was silent as he looked down, recalling fond memories of said events.

"And if your plan is to work, there is a catch, right?" the third man questioned. "There is no way you'd be doing this out of the goodness of your heart."

She sighed. "You're right," she said. "There is a catch. But it's not what you think." She looked up. "The catch is this: you provide us the help we need to attain the numbers we need, and we'll give you full representation in the new government we intend to create."

The men stared at her critically, but Marie didn't back down. She stared each of them in the eyes.

"Look. I know it's going to be difficult. I will admit that. But if there's one thing I do hope, it's that through this movement we will see that we are all the same deep down, despite our political leanings: American citizens. No. Human beings." She paused for a moment. "There's an old saying. United we stand, divided we fall. Many nations have invoked this throughout history, but in the case of America, it stands as a key part of our identity. Out of many, one nation. That is what we should strive for. I intend to restore the states to their original status and return the countries that make up the AF to their rightful governments and even return the land of Quebec to its rightful people."

"But what is your vision for this world?" the first man asked.

Eisenhower's eyes hardened into glaciers. "Let me ask you that, too. Because my vision is a world where we do not let businessmen with outsized power run our lives - least of all completely disregard the lives of children! A world where reason and logic prevail over bestial instincts and barbarism. A world where tolerance is prevalent and where we use diplomacy. A world where imperialist objectives are a thing of the past. In short, a world that we can believe in and fight for!" She stepped a bit closer to these men, and they stared her down. "And before you ask, no, I don't know how I intend to make it happen. I intend to let the people choose how they go about it! Not some elites who fix and rig the elections!"

All four stared at one another, but Eisenhower refused to give in when they leaned forward a bit. She simply squared her shoulders, and kept her gaze as calm as ever.

It was not easy to convince them, but after they sent her away to deliberate, she closed her eyes and waited.

It took five hours, but after they discussed it, the three resistance leaders agreed to work with her.

She had done it. Now, all it needed was a bit more time and then her movement could begin in earnest.

GWPRGWPRGWPR - END FLASHBACK - GWPRGWPRGWPR

She closed her eyes and sighed.

The very day that had happened was what she called the Resurgence, and every day since then had been dedicated towards rebuilding her country from the ground up, but underground instead of in plain sight.

After all, she knew just how important deceit was, and her people were skilled in using deception to render their existence secret.

"The shadows can conceal the darkest of hearts, but the light can conceal the brightest of ambitions," she muttered, opening her eyes.

She currently sat at her desk in the hidden living space, five main monitors set before her, each showing different aspects of her war in the shadows. The furthest one on the left showed the entire Atlantic Federation with several small eagle feathers dotting its surface. Each feather represented an active resistance cell, whereas those on standby had nothing to mark them.

The second monitor on the left depicted the operations area of the desert near the camp where the kids were held. It detailed the outline of the facility, with each building marked with its designated function. The defenses were also labeled, each with a Priority 1 symbol beside each one.

The central monitor displayed the Hub, showing missions in progress, reports from the field, and so on. She could already see a few emails flashing, depicting a priority status.

The fourth monitor, the one second to last, showed the status of the 1776th Battle Group, as well as Project Shumatsu. The project was currently being loaded onto the mass driver, she could see, and a small smile crossed her face at that.

The final monitor in front of her showed the news media, each news station with its own window. And some of them clearly looked baffled as to the lack of propaganda they were supposed to be spewing out. Eisenhower had to refrain from chuckling at that.

She finally turned her attention to the first monitor, one of her hands drifting out to brush it, selecting a city as she did so.

The city in question?

Chicago.

The screen zoomed in on the city's location and the eagle feather began to split into smaller versions of itself. She could already see that some of those were en route to their bases, and a number of the other feathers were starting to spread out in the middle of the city. Her gaze, however, was fixed on one certain part of the city: Great Lakes Naval Base.

If they could take that, then the Great Lakes would be theirs to command, as would the military forces in this region.

But right now, she had to bide her time.

There was still much to do.

. . .

Judgement Base

L4 Colony Ruins

December 2nd, CE 73

The colonies at L4 were perfect.

Ruined structures and debris floating around were just the things needed for the resistance to avoid detection. It also made sense as the only ones who ventured here were those looking to salvage parts for ships or weaponry to try and sell on the black market. After all, who would believe a bunch of salvagers when they claimed the place was haunted by the deceased inhabitants?

The Battle of Nova's aftermath this time, was being put to good use as a lot of the old colonies still remained functional to some degree, letting the American resistance take over several and converting one of them to a top-secret research and military facility. As many people had not dared to return home for fear of possible structural damage or other reasons, the colonies that had remained intact were perfect to use as resistance bases to keep tabs on both the PLANTs and the Atlantian Reich's spaceborne forces.

The decision to sneak people up there under cover during the fighting of the First Blood Valentine War had been a good one, as since they had been focused far too much on the Coordinators' existence to even pay attention to a few ships that snuck away from the main fleet every now and then with people and supplies. So now, over four hundred thousand people made the colony remnants their homes. The four colonies that were currently in use were minor ones that had somehow escaped the fighting, or at least suffering major structural damage. Those areas that could not be salvaged had been purged or repurposed to be used in the top-secret weapons development taking place at L4, now dubbed Judgement Base by the resistance leadership.

The naming of the base was purposeful. It was meant to develop the weapons needed to bring down LOGOs, and to rain judgement down upon Djibril and his cronies. And the purpose was also clear: to complete Project Shumatsu.

It was here that a new, and powerful, weapons system was in the later stages of construction and use.

This was the third phase of the resistance project.

It was here, in the central colony of the base, that a number of technicians and engineers were crawling over a large apparatus that looked like it could be mounted on the underside of a warship.

Not too far off stood the designer of this new weapon, his arms folded across his chest. His green eyes narrowed as he blew some dark red hair out of his face, looking over the device. Warren Thomspon was the last person anyone expected to be in charge of something like this, being a former ZAFT officer and, more recently, a pirate.

Back during the rule of Siegel Clyne when he was alive, the man was known as one of the top mobile suit developers, working alongside others at the Integrated Design Bureau to advance the technology. He oftentimes proposed new ideas for weapons and engineering techniques, which secured him a prominent position as one of the leaders of the research and development team. However, after the death of Clyne, he and a number of others defected and left, taking their ships with them and fleeing to the abandoned L4 colonies. Since no one bothered to look there, it was a perfect location. However, when the resistance moved in, they kept a close eye on the men and women who fixed up some of the colonies to make their homes. The leader of the pirates, the former ace known as the Blue Masque for the classy mask she wore on her forehead, was a friend of Eric Bristow, having known him since his time in the ZAFT forces before his own defection. She was a skilled pilot and an excellent commander, but her skills of negotiation were something left to be desired.

After the war started to escalate, the group of ZAFT officers turned pirates started to raid AF and ZAFT forces, stealing their machines and ships to bolster their own ranks and to give them a fighting chance. The pirates wisely stayed out of the furball that was the Battle of Genesis, and as such they gained significant influence within the L4 colonies, a close second to the resistance. While the EA did still seek to reclaim the L4 colonies, it was due to the skills of the pirates in raiding and the possible 'hauntings' that kept them out.

The pirates therefore established themselves as a neutral faction, offering refuge to those who sought to live free from the war. The Blue Masque gave a firm declaration that stated that they were to not be attacked, lest the attackers feel the full fury of those who sought to just live freely from the pressure of both sides' genocidal activities. This led the resistance to seek an alliance with them, only for the Blue Masque to insist that they stay on their side of the border. Divided cleanly into segments, the resistance had one side of the old colonies, the pirates had a third of the remaining colonies and the rest were left as debris and ruins for salvagers to use.

After the First Bloody Valentine War came to a close, Warren headed back to the PLANTs to try and gain employment with IDB once more, only for his designs to be rejected in favor of the more suitable ZAKU Warrior and its relatives. Feeling angered and disgusted, he turned and left, never to return. Instead, he got a job as a mechanic. But that only lasted for a short while before the Second Bloody Valentine War erupted. Warren gathered up his designs and fled, heading back to his home amongst the pirates, now called the L4 Coalition.

The Coalition, being former ZAFT officers, felt immense disgust that those who outed Clyne as a resistance leader had never been persecuted. So, they sought to try and find a way to get that justice. It was only by sheer luck that one of the Coalition's communications officers found out about the American resistance leader's plans through an intercepted coded message. Though it took weeks to decode, it soon became clear that the resistance was just the force they needed. So the Blue Masque assigned Warren to act as a representative of the L4 Coalition. He was surprised, but he more than willingly went along with it, seeing as how the Americans possessed the industrial knowhow to complete a lot of his designs.

After he arrived at the headquarters of Judgment Station, his mind had already come up with some possible designs for them. But his mind was blown when he learned of Project: Shumatsu. The director, Dr. Klaus Brand, was impressed with his designs, and it was Warren who suggested the idea of the third phase of the project.

It had taken months, but now the project was nearing completion.

"Sir?"

The First-Generation Coordinator turned to face the woman as she approached.

"What?" he asked in a thick Scottish accent.

"The device is just about finished," the woman said. "But we still need the ship and mobile suit."

"Hm." Warren's eyes narrowed as he ran a hand through his short dark red hair. "Yes, I'm well aware of it. Dr. Brand was smart to design it this way."

"Speaking of, some of the other technicians are concerned about the sheer output. Was it necessary?" his assistant asked.

The man nodded. "Yes. And for a good reason. Only the Twin Buster Rifle was able to damage and destroy a Cyclops System. To have something of that power in our arsenal will be of a huge advantage."

Warren turned and walked over to the device where a few engineers were examining it thoroughly.

"The device is in good shape?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," someone replied as he looked up. "The only issue is trying to make sure it works accordingly without the ship and machine needed."

Warren scowled. "I've run hundreds of simulations, and it will work," he told the man. "I'm not about to risk destroying this colony all for some test run." He turned and walked off, hands clasped behind his back. "The system itself is extremely powerful. Enough to where the AF and ZAFT both would kill to get their hands on it. Especially given how it's meant to be integrated into a ship's systems for deployment. It means that it can be used anywhere on the battlespace. And such an asset in their hands would be worse beyond my own belief."

Behind him he heard one of the doors slide open.

"Ah. Dr. Thompson," came the voice of the man whom he had been instructed to meet.

The mobile suit developer turned to face the head of Judgment Station, Corporal Maxus Le Grange.

At age fifty-two, Maxus was a senior officer who had defected from the Atlantians during the First Bloody Valentine War in the final battle. After hearing of the declaration of a crusade against the Coordinators carried out by Murata Azrael, he had fled, joining up with the Archangel and putting his considerable experience to good use. Personally, he was not against Coordinators in general, but he was against the destruction of innocent people who did nothing wrong except live. He may have had his views about their birth and creation, but he wisely kept them to himself, so as to not make people who supported Coordinators offended. Unlike Azrael and Djibril who espoused their views and forced them onto the Atlantian populace and soldiers, he was willing to bite his tongue and divert away from the controversial topic. In that, he was considered weak.

Maxus stood at a modest five foot six, with a stocky, somewhat round build, and thick black hair that was starting to thin on the top of his head. He had deep brown eyes, almost like chocolate, and he had a small, rather thin moustache under his nose. His uniform was not that of the Atlantian Reich's armed forces, but of the American forces. The uniform was primarily a black color, with lines running down the pants and black boots. The American flag was displayed proudly on his left shoulder and his right shoulder displayed his rank.

"Maxus." Warren nodded.

"I see the device is progressing," he noted.

The Coordinator nodded. "Yes."

The commander of the station walked up to it and examined it critically. "Hm." His gaze swept over it, taking in the satellite dish at the end and the firing mechanisms. The generator within was already set to be installed aboard the Redemption when it arrived.

"The device is truly astonishing, Doctor. But I am a bit concerned about its viability," Maxus stated seriously.

"The Satellite System is always a viability, Commander," Warren said. "Given what it's designed to do, it's going to have to be used sparingly and wisely."

He gestured to the generator. "The generator itself is not an issue, as the nuclear fusion reactors aboard the Redemption will provide the necessary power. The power from the secondary reactor will be what powers up the generator here. The issue is how the radiation put out by it will be channeled. As you can see..." Here he pointed with his left hand at a large number of energy relays. "...I have installed a number of energy relays to send that energy directly to the emission mechanism. Unlike the prior GENESIS weapon developed by the late Patrick Zala, this one does not use a mirror, but a hardened layer of glass that can withstand the sheer amount of radiation." He moved his fingertip to the glass layer before the device's satellite dish. "The glass concentrates the radiation into a powerful beam that, when entering the satellite dish, will match that of the Twin Buster Rifle."

He lowered his arm. "Now, to be fair, on its own the device is rather useless as a main weapon. It can be used in a defensive manner with that beam, but it's only good for a few shots before the firing mechanisms that will be used to release the energy beam have to be replaced." Warren looked back over his shoulder. "That is why it can only be used with the designated mobile suit. And even then, it is good for one shot only before the firing mechanisms have to be realigned."

"Hmm..." Maxus crossed his arms. "A one-shot weapon then."

"If the crew of the Redemption is trained to do so, then the firing mechanisms can be realigned in the field," Warren assured his superior. "I designed it so that way they could be. Of course, it will take twelve to twenty-four hours to do so, but it can be done. At base, however, it will be much faster due to the trained repair and resupply crews here."

Maxus understood where he was coming from. "I see. That's a good move you made."

Warren couldn't help but grin. "It's the best thing I can do," he said dryly. "Of course, there are other risks with it too, namely in its high energy output, and the fact that excess heat has to be redirected away from the ship once it's been fired." His face became serious as he said that.

"Hm." The station commander had to admit he had a good point. "As long as it can be used, then I say we deal with the risks."

The Coordinator sighed. "And speaking of, has the machine been finished?"

"It has," Maxus told him. "The Gundam is being loaded aboard now."

"Excellent. Although, the mole's original machine will be needing a stopgap until he can get it." Warren narrowed his eyes. "And I assume the Striker Pack is finished?"

Maxus nodded, although he had to keep from scowling. "Yes. We finished it, according to your specs."

The man smiled thinly, but in his eyes was a sense of relief. "Good. The rest is up to you then, Commander."

Maxus gave a grim nod as he turned to leave.

Warren adjusted his lab coat before he nodded and returned to observing the development of the next machine.

And done! :) Now, like meteor, as I have stated, I am accepting OCs for cameo appearances in my story. :) So feel free to send me one somewhere down the line. :) And the first OC, Warren Thompson, to make their debut is from Gundamvid, one of my readers. :)

And expect some good stuff next chapter. :) Ja ne~! ;D