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!

4. PHASE III: Terminal Contact

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

Review replies:

- Gundamvid: Yep. ;3

- operation meteor: Glad ya liked, meteor. :) And to be honest, the resistance just took a highly educated guess. But they don't know they're right! XD

-4dv1ct0r14m2017: Oh, you're right. :) And that is a good quote. :3 I may just use it! XD

- Spiceracksargent001: Heh. Thank Gundamvid for giving me these suits! XD And yes, the Loto will be the bane of the AF for sure! XD And the Nemo will eventually become the bane of ZAFT! XD

- KentLinuxStadfelt: It is similar, but different as well. Good catch. :3

- StellarLupine: Oh, you'll see. ;3 Can't reveal any spoilers. ;3

- AXL999: Glad you do! :3 And you'll see~! ;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

Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall

- Steven Jackson 'Spray' Krane

---

CHAPTER III: TERMINAL CONTACT

November 15th, CE 73

President Eisenhower's eyes narrowed as she studied the video feed of the battle in space, having just received news coverage of the shuttle theft. It wasn't much of a surprise to her at this point, given what few sources she had were keeping tabs on Terminal. And they weren't many.

But still, the information she had received was invaluable, as it gave her an idea of just how dangerous the Angel of Freedom and the Demon Lord of Avalon were. Along with the rest of their team.

Her gaze hardened as she shifted the channel, this time tuning into local politics.

She could easily pick out Senator Durbin as he stood on the front of Capitol Hill, passionately speaking about the atrocious bill, trying to appeal to not just Natural supremacy, but the sanctity of a child's life.

She turned up the news and his voice began to fill the warehouse room's back section; the section she had made her home away from home.

"...not the way things should be done!" he was saying. "Who in their right mind would even think of sending boys - no older than thirteen - to war?! We are not the Confederacy! We are not Nazi Germany! We are better than that! If we do this, then we will be no better than our enemies, the Coordinators! They are the ones who send children to war! Not us!"

"So true," she mused. "A good play on his part."

"During the Civil War, many men and boys in the Confederacy went to fight. Universal conscription was used, but it was a fatal flaw! It decimated the male population and tanked their economy!" he cried. "That kind of thinking cannot be allowed to be repeated in this day and age! I appeal to you, fellow Naturals, to stand against such an insidious bill! If we send boys and men to war, who will be there for our women if we win?! Who will supply the money, who will raise the next generation alone?! They will! We cannot let them bear this burden alone! We are better than those fools up in space! We are human beings! We must prevent this bill from coming to pass!"

The President narrowed her eyes as he gazed at the camera, and for a moment, she felt he was looking at her directly. Then he turned his attention back to the crowd. "Look. I am being serious when I say this. Historically society has always sent men to arms. But when it came down to it, they also kept a number back at their camps or tribal villages. In this day and age, we have to prove we are better than our enemies. Let us shut down this bill, and make sure it ever comes to pass! Our children's futures depend on it! Our very livelihoods depend on it! Hell, our very society as a whole depends on it!" Senator Durbin gazed at one of the other men who stood in the crowd, a hand raised. He nodded at him.

"What do you intend to do if Congress gets enough votes?" he asked.

"I will do what must be done to prevent this from passing," was all he said.

President Eisenhower frowned. She knew what that meant. The filibuster.

So far they had not had to resort to said option, but if it had to come down to it, he was willing to die to prevent that bill from passing.

Still, with the new plan in place, it made the last resort option less likely. But it was still there on the table just in case.

The resistance leader leaned forward and tented her fingers as she rested her elbows on the table in front of her. She was already trying to think of what aides needed to be removed from their positions, and a few stood out to her as she scanned over a list resting on a laptop screen before her. Their names were highlighted in red, and she nodded to herself. With Senator Durbin's help, she was sure that this would be a piece of cake. But the issue was, how long would it take. His efforts so far at blocking the bill were having a surprising impact on local politics already. Suspicion was beginning to build in the ranks of Congress of something more sinister going on, and while it was a start, there was still the chance that someone could out him as a rebel supporter, despite all their efforts at keeping themselves safe.

Until they had a media mogul on their side, they had to take every precaution possible. It was only thanks to their technical support teams that they were even able to stay hidden as long as they had been. And if they did have the leading media head on their side, then that was all the better for the resistance. A phrase from a pre-Cosmic Era video game came to her mind. Surprisingly, it had stuck over the course of the years. And it resided clearly in her thoughts.

"Control the media... control the mind..." she mused. "All the more reason to get them under our control as soon as possible."

Her phone beeped in her hearing at that point. She reached over and grabbed the remote, muting the TV's speakers and grabbed the device as it rang again. "Go."

"Madam President, we have news from Ox." The codename was one she knew, and her eyes flew wide.

"What news?" she asked, shutting off the TV and getting off the couch. She exited her makeshift home and entered the large warehouse proper - she always paced the floor when she had calls like this.

"It has to do with the news," was all her contact said.

"What. News." She repeated that statement in two words. That usually was an indicator of her seriousness on the matter.

"The man we seek. He's been compromised."

Her eyes narrowed as she pondered this. "How so?" she asked. To have him be compromised was a bad thing. If his son was executed, he would be a broken man, and that they didn't want. Not since he was just the source they needed to gain control of the media. Her mind was already racing three to four steps ahead, relying on her time in the armed forces - specifcally the Marines - to come up with several plans and scenarios. The most obvious one was getting his son to safety. But to do so would require the use of a safehouse. And while they did have several, those were in places that were considered obvious to throw the scent of LOGOs enforcers off of the real network. The real network of safehouses was not in obvious places. In fact, most of them were in places that LOGOs would never think to look.

"Ox has informed us that Target Fallen Angel suspects his son is a Coordinator. And maybe even knows it, but is not saying to try and keep Priority Target One in line," her contact reported.

"Dammit!" President Eisenhower whirled around and drove her fist into the thick metal wall of the warehouse. Pain lanced down her knuckles, but she drove the pain aside as she glanced up, her eyes hard. "That bastard...!"

"Trust me on this one. We have to do something. Ox says it's urgent we do so," her contact stated.

"Believe me, I know that all too well!" the woman said as she stood up and resumed pacing. "So that means we have to move fast if we're to save his son and get him onto our side. Can you ask Ox to inform his boss of this? We'll need their support."

Her contact was silent, and she figured he was nodding. Will do, ma'am. Anything else?"

"Yes. Make sure that no one finds out about this meeting," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am!" The phone went dark and she put it in her pocket. The President made her way over to the staircase leading to the catwalks above. There was a section where the catwalks ran past the windows, allowing for one to look out at the complex as well as the vast interior of the warehouse itself. To Eisenhower, that spot had become a place to not just think, but also consider her next move. It acted as a sort of communion spot for her as she often reflected on the depths and depravity to which those old men had sunk.

In reality, it was a harsh reminder of just how hard their work was going to be.

She made her way across the catwalks until she reached the spot. It hadn't even taken long, really. Just a few minutes at most. The President turned and placed her hands on the railing, looking out over the disused facility.

Rust was beginning to creep up the sides of the warehouse. The interior walls, however, still remained in good condition. The windows were beginning to get cracked, and a bunch of bird droppings littered them. On the floor of the warehouse, stood fifty capsules, each containing a deceased child that had been modified for one thing: war. Her gaze landed on each one, and she could clearly recall the looks of their bodies and faces, scars and morbid wounds that told a story of suffering unlike any other. Each child had a tale to tell, and she was determined to bring each one to a fitting end.

Her eyes landed on one in particular, and she gritted her teeth. That girl had been no more than ten. And she had been tormented, killed and wounded in some sick experiment. The deceased, she knew, would never rest until the one who did this to them had been arrested and/or killed.

But the only question was... who was it? Who had commissioned such sick actions? And where did they work? What was their name? Were they male or female? It was hard to say. They lacked any evidence as of this moment. But whomever it was, would pay. Dearly. And not with their life. With their very freedom. And it all started with the main priority: getting that media mogul on their side.

Since the target had been compromised, that meant they had to move. And now.

She pulled her phone free from her pocket and dialed up another number. The number flashed a few times before the encryption kicked in and then the signal came through. "This is the President. We have a situation."

"What is it, ma'am?" a new male voice asked.

"The target has been compromised. Fallen Angel is blackmailing him. He knows." Those words were enough to startle the man at the other end.

"WHAT?!" The sudden shout made her flinch, but she didn't pull the phone away. "When did this happen?!"

"Agent Ox got into contact with Agent Bullhorn. Bullhorn informed me of the situation. We need to move if we're to give him a way out of this mess," she said, turning and walking down the catwalk. "I need you to find the nearest safe place for a meeting. And make sure that no one finds it!"

On the other end of the phone, she could hear clicking as the man typed on his keyboard. A few minutes passed, and then she heard his voice again, along with a slight ding in the background. "Got it. I have the spot." She heard more typing and then her phone beeped. She pressed the icon for the encrypted texts and up came a map with a single blinking dot. She frowned. She knew that location. It was not far from Chicago, being an abandoned factory that had gone out of business sometime in the early 40s of the Cosmic Era. The old building was dilapidated, which made it all the more perfect because no one ever dared to venture inside those structures. Which is what made them perfect safehouses.

Even more so if they were rumored to be haunted.

"Good. The sooner we get this under way the better," she said.

"I'll get Agent Ox to bring the man in question to that spot," her contact stated.

President Eisenhower nodded. "I was thinking the exact same thing," she mused with a grin. Then she became serious as she walked down the staircase to the floor of the warehouse. "But we have to make sure that no one finds out. Can you have the techheads do their magic?"

"Already on it, ma'am," the man said. "They won't even be spotted by civilians with phones."

"Good work. They'll get extra rations as a result." President Eisenhower walked past one of the capsules and leaned against the wall, eyeing the old industrial name on the side of the metal plate.

"Good to hear," her contact noted. "We've been needing that for some time."

Eisenhower didn't even answer. She knew that the AF tended to feed their rank-and-file officers only the bare necessities to fight and stay alive while their officers and higher up gorged themselves and kept all the good food. As a result, many pilots and soldiers, she noted, had some nutrient deficiencies. Unlike the rebels who had access to the good food, the rank-and-file were not as fit, well fed, or even considered to be humans. It was in a way, the same as one would treat a dog. Give the animal food, and it was enough to keep it alive. But deprive them of food and free will, and it would eventually turn into a feral beast. The resistance made sure to feed their troops well, train them well, and treat them as human beings. That alone was a surefire morale booster, and that was a reason why their forces were determined to fight harder, longer, and better than the AF troops.

But even so, the rebels still needed to ration their food. It wasn't as easy to procure the necessary supplies for an army the size of the resistance.

Still, it was better than the nutrient food and paste the AF fed their forces.

Way better.

And as an added bonus, the higher ups of the resistance often ate the same food rations as their troops, to further show that they were not gluttons like the AF generals and admirals were.

So they were no strangers to eating the same military food as the troops.

A smirk crossed her face at the thought. "Yeah. But rest assured, once we gain control of our country and reclaim it, the first thing we're doing is giving those people in the military the respect and rations they deserve."

"I'm just glad that you're willing to give the military what they need, not just the bare minimum," the man stated as he typed a bit more in the background. "Okay. I have a flight chartered for him. I'll be sending the data to Agent Ox. Then you'll head out, am I right?"

"Yes." Eisenhower gave a firm nod.

"You got the disguise?" he asked.

"Of course!" the President snorted. "I never go out unless in disguise!"

"Good. Just wanted to make sure. After all, you are the symbol of hope in this movement." Her contact was dead serious as he said this.

"I know," she murmured. "I know that all too well..."

Silence filled the warehouse, broken only by the hum of traffic outside the dilapidated walls. A few bubbles sometimes popped within the tanks that held the dead children, but it was very rare and so subtle one wouldn't hear it.

"When's the next flight out?" she asked.

"A few hours. We can have a ticket printed for a Ms. Annabelle Louise in an hour," the man said.

"Good." President Eisenhower nodded. "And deliver it to the usual address."

With that, she cut the line and pocketed her phone before turning and looking out the massive doors that were partially open.

Now, it all hinged on her contacts.

. . .

Akihiro looked up as he heard the communicator beeping.

He reached a massive hand into his pocket and pulled out the device. On the screen was a familiar number, along with a familiar code name.

His eyes narrowed as he brought the communicator to his face and pressed the button.

"Agent Ox. Eagle One has received the message."

That simple confirmation was all he needed. A jolt raced down his spine as he realized what that meant.

The resistance was going to move.

And that meant he had to move as well. He proceeded to give an acknowledgement before he closed down the line and made his way over to where Orga was standing, an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth. He looked over with one of his golden eyes, blowing a strand of lilac hair away from his face. "What?"

"It's from the boss." That was all Akihiro said. Orga stood up straight from leaning against the wall.

"Oh?" Orga eyes his subordinate. "What did they have to say?"

"Eagle has gotten the message," the bigger man replied. "She's gonna make her move."

"And that means us, too, hm?" Orga folded his arms and looked down in thought. "Then we have to make our own move. Did they say where?"

Akihiro shook his head. "Not yet."

"Damn. And just when we needed it..." he muttered. Orga pursed his lips as he pondered what was happening.

At least until he heard his subordinate pull out the communicator again as it beeped, this time with a text message. He frowned as he eyed it. Then he turned to face Orga. "I got it," he said. He held up the communicator, and the leader of Tekkadan frowned.

"I see..." he muttered. Then he sighed and adjusted his uniform. "Guess that means you're pulling double duty for a few days."

Akihiro was surprised. "What?! You serious?!"

Orga closed one eye. "You heard me. How else are we supposed to get the boss to that location unnoticed? And besides, they won't even know the difference if you wear a wig," he noted.

The big man glanced down at his body, then to his superior. "They may catch on," he remarked.

"Not if we play this right," Orga pointed out. "We can simply say that he was still incapacitated by the cold. It sometimes happens."

Akihiro knew his boss was right, but it was still a big risk. He finally sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Okay... Guess I got no choice."

Orga placed a hand on his shoulder. "Trust me, I don't like it either. But right now, we have a mission, and we need to carry it out."

His subordinate nodded. "Yes, sir."

Akihiro turned and walked off, heading towards the businessman's bedroom.

He could already hear Mr. Carson working on getting ready for the day. And no doubt Lord Djibril - also known as Lord Voldemort - would be expecting him to come to the next meeting that afternoon. Akihiro wasn't too thrilled about having to pull double duty, but given that the two men were of the same height and build almost, it made sense to fool Djibril so he could get some much needed rest and recovery.

Especially after those meetings.

The bigger man turned and headed off to gather his things for his double duty.

Meanwhile, Orga made his way into the main bedroom.

"Mr. Carson?"

The media mogul looked over as he finished putting on his business suit's tie. "What?"

The guard held up the jammer remote and pressed the button, the lights flickering briefly as a result.

Benjamin's eyebrow raised slightly. If Orga did that, then there was something he wanted to talk to him about. Something important.

Once Orga was sure that the jammers were working properly, he turned and walked over to his employer. "We just got a message from someone who wants to meet with you," the man said.

The businessman's reaction was close to terror. His face literally paled and Orga couldn't help but blame him. "They found out...?" he rasped. "After everything I've done to keep his status a secret...?!"

But Orga was quick to reassure his employer. "No, sir. It's not the enemy," he said with that confidence that always seemed to calm the man down. "I have... some friends... who want to meet with you. That's all."

Benjamin paused. "Friends. From your company?" he asked, calming down somewhat, although his face remained as pale as snow.

Orga just gave a smirk. "You could say that," he remarked. "They're affiliated with Tekkadan. We've worked with them before, and they are in no way affiliated with LOGOs."

The older man narrowed his eyes. "And you're sure of that."

The leader of Tekkadan gave a grin as he leaned back against the wall. "One hundred percent. Otherwise we wouldn't have been working with them."

Benjamin frowned. Orga knew he had every right to be suspicious, and truthfully, he couldn't blame him. LOGOs did have spies in every agency, but the organization he was affiliated with was not run by LOGOs. In fact, that very organization was who they were about to go meet.

Orga raised his hands. "Look. You trust me, right? Then trust my word on this. They are not affiliated with LOGOs in any way."

The media mogul was hesitant, but if they were to go through with the plan, the two had to meet. Orga was about to resort to another tactic when Benjamin sighed. He placed a hand on his face, rubbing it. "I do trust you, Orga. Completely. But how can I be sure of it? LOGOs has eyes and ears everywhere. You know it as well as I do."

The former child soldier gave a grunt. "Just trust me on this. It's better in the long run." Then he gave a smirk. "And let's just say they have a plan that could give you an option to keep your son safe."

That did it. Benjamin's eyes went wide. "W-What?" He was stunned.

"You heard me. We told them the situation, and they agreed to meet with you to give you an option to keep your son safe," Orga repeated. "They're not stupid, Ben. They have resources to keep him safe from LOGOs. A sort of PMC, like us, but bigger."

Benjamin looked at his guard in shock. "You-You're serious?" he asked, for the first time a real smile crossing his face.

Orga just gave a grin. "Yep. So trust me. They're willing to help." He then gestured to a nearby suitcase. "But, in order to meet with them, we have to go incognito. Can't have LOGOs finding out about this little meeting."

The older man's smile faded from his face. "But why? Why not have them come here?"

Orga was quick to come up with a plausible story. "Do you really want your son's status to be found out? If they were to meet you here in the penthouse, it's possible the bugs here would kick in, despite the jammers," he stated. "I've worked with enough of the enemy to know they have contingencies in place. So we're going to meet them halfway. And this will ensure that no one finds out."

Benjamin's eyes narrowed a bit at the implications. "So if I were to meet them someplace with no bugs, then it's a guarantee that they won't find out," he deduced.

The leader of Tekkadan gave a nod. "Yes."

For his part, Benjamin could actually see the reasoning behind Orga's statement and his decision. If his friends truly were going to help him with his son's safety, then it would stand to reason that they'd want to meet someplace unmonitored by LOGOs. But there was an issue.

"They expect me to be able to make another meeting..." he muttered, dread welling up in his gut.

But Orga smirked. "Let Akihiro handle it," he remarked. "Just give him a wig and he'll make a perfect stand-in. Even throw on a bit of makeup to add some age. They won't know the difference." He closed one eye and gave a thumbs up. "Trust me, sir."

And Benjamin did. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "All right. I'll leave the prior meeting notes for Akihiro to review before the meeting this afternoon."

Orga's smirk grew into a full grin. "Good. Better start packing then. We'll be on the move for a bit."

The media mogul nodded and wandered over to the suitcase. He grabbed it and brought it close to his bed. He threw it open and started wandering about the penthouse's main bedroom, grabbing some clothes as he went. He wasn't sure as to what kind of clothing he would need to wear, so he grabbed the oldest, rattiest clothes he could find and threw them into the suitcase. Next went some toiletries, such as toothpaste, his toothbrush and a hair comb. He debated on whether he should bring his shaving gear, but after a minute of thought, he decided against it. It would suit him to don a beard and mustache to blend better, he figured.

Orga noticed this and gave an approving nod. He was no stranger to blending in, often using hair dye and contact lenses to disguise his hair and eyes when on kidnapped rescue missions. "Good call," he said. "Better to disguise yourself as much as possible."

Benjamin gave a small grin as he packed up some soap. Shampoo and conditioner were the next things to go in. Then he closed up the suitcase and put on his best outfit.

To all appearances, it looked like he was heading out on a business meeting. And that was the kind of air he wanted to give off.

Orga nodded before he grabbed his own suitcase and hefted it easily. He gave a smirk. "C'mon. The sooner we get going, the better."

"I take it your friends have arranged travel?" Benjamin asked.

"Nah. Leave that to me," Orga said, holding up his phone. "Just let me do the work, and just go along for the ride."

Benjamin gulped a bit nervously, but he trusted Orga to do his job effectively and competently. That included making travel arrangements for business meetings. Orga dialed up to the internet and connected to the website of the local airline, which threw Benjamin for a loop. Normally he used the private jets of LOGOs, or even his own. But this time he was using the public airline? Then he remembered the reasoning behind his decisions to begin with.

He waited for a bit before Orga turned to look at him. "Hey, I need to know. What name you wanna use?"

The media mogul was thrown off guard by the question, but he answered it. "Uh... Whichever one you come up with."

The bodyguard gave a nod and turned back to his phone. He worked for a few minutes more before he smirked and closed out of the website. "Done!" He turned back to his boss. "Got us a flight out to Chicago."

"Hold on. Why Chicago?" Benjamin asked as he and Orga began to walk. "It's not exactly halfway, is it?"

"It is," Orga clarified. His face became serious as he halted for a moment. "The city's not exactly doing well these days, but that's what makes it perfect for us to meet with my friend." He closed his eyes briefly, and Benjamin had a feeling he was reflecting on something in his past. "I may not remember much of my past due to my time as an experiment, but I do remember enough to know that my family lived in the suburbs of the city." Then he opened his golden eyes. "And I know that a lot of factories have been left to rot down there. Perfect because LOGOs doesn't even consider them viable anymore."

Now Benjamin was worried, but at the same time, it did make sense. No one ever went into an old factory unless they were stupid or a bit of a daredevil.

"How long will it take us to get to where your friend wants to meet?" he asked in a low whisper as Orga reached into his pocket to shut down the jammers.

"As long as it's needed," the guard clarified. "She's not one to be stupid, either. And trust me, it's better you don't know her name until we meet."

With that said, he shut down the jammers, and turned to Benjamin. "C'mon. Don't want to be late for that business meeting," he said, winking at him.

Benjamin felt a mild sense of relief, but at the same time a sense of unease was overtaking him. Who knew what Orga's friend was truly capable of?

And that was perhaps more worrisome than the bugs littering his penthouse.

. . .

The trip to the airport was uneventful and to say the least, he was glad that Orga had driven him in one of Tekkadan's own vehicles. The large van was armored, and it had no windows. So that allowed him to change out of his nice suit and into some of the older stuff he had packed in his suitcase. When he was finished, he didn't look much like the media mogul that the press sometimes covered. He wore a slightly aged grey T-shirt with blue jeans stained with mud. People would assume he was a manual laborer or a construction worker, he mused.

Orga glanced back in the rearview mirror and gave a small grin. "Good choice," he mused. "But maybe a bit more dirt on the pants and shirt. Also, you'll be needing this." He reached back and handed Benjamin a temporary ID. The media mogul was a bit surprised that it was one of the IDs that Tekkadan had made for its members. The man took it and looked the picture over. He could tell it was Akihiro in disguise due to how well he knew the man, but in all honesty, if one didn't look too closely and ignored the eye color difference, the two men could appear to be brothers.

"And put on a pair of sunglasses," Orga cautioned as he handed a pair back. "Best to not give yourself away."

Benjamin nodded and slipped the sunglasses on.

Best to remain in disguise, he mused.

The car pulled over and the two men proceeded to make their way inside.

The airport was filled with people coming and going, with men and women alike manning the staff here. Still, the air was one that made both men uneasy and, in Benjamin's case, sick to his stomach. The media mogul was not too keen on letting women be confined to being housewives and limited in their career options. He knew how capable they were, as Tekkadan had a fair number of women in their employ, both as guards and mobile suit pilots. So why did the male dominated leadership have these outdated notions of the place of a woman solely in the house? A part of him wished to go to DC and slug those men, insisting on reversing the policy they had put in place, but he knew, wisely, that it was the wrong thing to do. So all he could do right now was stomach it until a change was made.

Their flight was just fifteen minutes away, so the two got settled in and after a few minutes, got their tickets. The rest of the boarding procedure went well and soon they were seated on the plane.

To Benjamin, this was it.

The point where his choices dictated the fate of a nation, and unbeknownst to him, a resistance movement the likes of which had never been managed under one person before.

And it bore heavily on him. He felt as if his shoulders were weighed down by this.

Some part of him was firmly against doing this, but the rest of him - the more realistic side - said that this was the right thing to do. And he had to agree with that part of himself. It was now or never.

He closed his eyes and began to doze off, only to b shaken awake by Orga. "Not yet!" he hissed. "Once we get airborne, then you can snooze for a bit!"

Orga's words baffled him? "Why?" he whispered.

Orga was silent as he gave a discreet jerk of his head towards the rear of the cabin, where a man clad in a black suit lurked. His face was inscrutable, but the air he gave off was one of intimidation, and his folded arms only added to the image. His only expression was a serious poker face, and it unnerved the two. There was no way to determine who he worked for, which only made him seem even more mysterious... and dangerous. The very presence of this man caused a look of terror to cross his face.

The leader of Tekkadan gave him a nudge in the side with his elbow. "No!" he hissed. "That will only let him know you're not an AF citizen!"

Benjamin turned away and hurriedly schooled his face into something more stoic and sat back, looking out the window to hide the terror in his eyes.

This was bad. Very bad.

He bit his lower lip as the plane began to roll out towards the runway.

The only question now was... would they make it to their destination?

Benjamin tried to ignore the man in the back, but it was proving to be easier said than done at this rate.

For his part, Orga was suspicious of the man in black. He knew about the FBI being used to sniff out and even kill dissidents. It was like the former law enforcement agency had been turned into what he could only term headhunters. Rumors from people even said that the agents sometimes displayed the heads of their kills in their homes like hunting trophies. And that, he knew, was far from what they should be doing. It was against their very beliefs and purpose.

He frowned as the man observed them stoically. His eyes were covered in sunglasses, meaning that Orga couldn't see if he had that glazed look in them. And that was a bad sign.

His hand flew for his hidden knife; he rarely went without one as a part of his job. If his boss was to be attacked, then he would fight back.

The leader of Tekkadan narrowed his eyes beneath his own sunglasses. He would have to keep an eye on this man.

Orga snuck a glance over at Benjamin, noticing how he was looking out the window, averting his gaze wisely. But the way his shoulders were tense was an indicator of his worry and terror. And honestly, Orga couldn't blame him. The whole idea of the FBI being headhunters now these days was enough to make him sick to his stomach.

The pilot's voice coming over the intercom interrupted his musings and Orga reached into his pack, pulling out a small book to read. At least with this cover, he could discreetly keep an eye on their black clad guest.

Minutes later, the plane began to pull away from the airport gates and the vehicle began to make its way to the runway. Within not even a half hour, the plane was airborne. And now, the trip to Chicago had begun.

Benjamin pulled his gaze away from the window to look at Orga who gave a discreet nod. The man in black had shifted his focus to a laptop on his lap. It was safe to relax now.

The media mogul closed his eyes and fell into an uneasy sleep.

Orga, meanwhile, remained vigilant. He was not about to let anything happen to his boss.

Not since everything was on the line here.

A grim look crossed his face as he finally shifted his own focus into his book. But the way he looked at the pages also offered him a glimpse at the man in black.

At least this way, he could keep an eye on him.

The trip to Chicago took no more than a few hours at most. During this time, Orga shifted his focus between his book and the man who sat just off to the right at an angle. He could see the man was working on his laptop, but as to what he was working on, he didn't know. His position didn't offer him that vantage. Instead, he had to be extra alert and assume the worst while hoping for the best. If there was one thing he had learned after escaping that damned lab, it was to always prepare for the unexpected and make plans for the worst case scenarios. The world's hatred was out of control. And the only way, he knew, to snap the world back to its senses was to attack the enemy head on and either make an example of them or do what had to be done and put them away for life. And the only nation that could do so was America. Not the puppet Atlantic Federation.

Orga could clearly recall the day the FBI had started attacking innocent people for speaking out. That was what had tipped him off as to what was really going on behind the scenes. Which is where his company had come in. Law enforcement going against their codes to help people and uphold the law by kidnapping children and then selling them to LOGOs for the Extended program. Propaganda on all news channels. Science being replaced by pseudo-science regarding Coordinators. History being censored. Psychologists and other mental health experts being sidelined and marginalized for trying to help people. Quack doctors prescribing things that could 'cure Coordinator contamination' and other garbage. It was like America's scientific minds were being locked away and denounced.

The real bothersome component was the fervor of the people in power. It was surreal, and downright ridiculous. It was crazy. They claimed that Coordinators were unnatural but in reality they themselves were the ones who were generating unnatural experiments using biochemical and biomechanical enhancements to turn children into weapons to defeat said 'space monsters'. They claimed to be for defending the innocent when they encouraged such barbarism, and that made him snort in disgust. To him, they were the taint that was robbing the world of its purity and blueness, not the Coordinators. Only when they had been purged and locked up as well would the country finally be free from their sinister taint. And in his eyes, God Himself would be disappointed. After all, Coordinators were also His children, weren't they?

And as for women being kept on the homefront during wartime, that was a surefire failure right there. And with the American Civil War, there was an indicator as to what could happen today right there in history. Without many men to remain behind at the home front, women would be unable to reproduce and there would be a population imbalance, forcing what few men remained to take on harems in order to restabilize the population. Or barring that, the country would just die off. And Orga was not too keen on letting that happen to his country - America. He knew from experience how competent and dedicated women could be to the cause. And right now, the women in Tekkadan and in the resistance were itching to prove themselves on the front lines once more. And the first thing to do was to reclaim their country and remove the patriarchial system in place by overturning the law banning women from military service. It was an outdated notion, that women were fragile and frail. They could be just as tough as men could be, if not a bit tougher in certain areas. So why ban them? Because of their capacity to feel emotions? Men were just as capable of feeling emotions like sadness, grief, compassion, love, sorrow, and all the 'feminine' emotions as well. To only fester hate and rage was a surefire way to create a society of sociopaths and psychopaths. And that was the last thing he wanted to have happen.

Orga put his book away and checked the time on his watch; he always wore a wristwatch instead of using his smartphone to check the time.

The time read 17:32.

His eyes widened as he realized that time had passed by rather quickly. A small chuckle escaped him. 'Guess time flies when you're busy thinking deeply,' he mused as he leaned back in his seat. A frown crossed his face as he looked out of the corner of his eye at the man in black still working on his laptop. He had been at it for the last few hours, he noted.

Orga decided to make a restroom break. His path would take him right past the man as he worked, and maybe he could get a glimpse of what he was working on as well. Orga got up and made his way to the restroom. As he passed by the man in black, he shot a glance at his laptop's screen, and his heart leapt into his throat.

It was an email conversation with someone, he noted. He quickly memorized the email addresses and decided to look into the recipient address later that day. It didn't look like it belonged to any of the LOGOs members, or even Lord Djibril, he noted. That address was clearly an unknown. And then there had been a program of sorts running in the background.

He knew from working with that kind of software that it was a high-end military-grade encryption program, designed to scramble outgoing messages that the recipient had to then unscramble on their end using the same program. But why would this man have it on his computer? Was it possible he was one of those 'headhunters' that hunted down dissidents? That thought did cross his mind as he entered the restroom and did his business. But that still didn't explain the unknown address and the wording had not been indicative of a headhunter. But then again, maybe it had been a ruse.

Who knew?

Orga finished his business and exited the restroom, closing the door and making his way back to his seat.

Much to his relief, Benjamin was still there and the man was now dozing off, his laptop put away. For a moment, Orga was tempted to snatch it and peek at the contents, but he brushed that urge aside and sat back down next to the disguised media mogul.

Once the bodyguard was seated, he pulled out a second book from his uniform.

'Least the Make-Out Paradise series is a good distraction...' he mused to himself as he settled back and began to read.

The rest of the flight to Chicago was uneventful and the plane touched down at around six-thirty. Benjamin and Orga departed the craft and made their way to the luggage retrieval area to gather up their bags. They managed to gather their stuff and within minutes they were heading out of the airport to the curb where the taxis waited. But they were not looking for any ordinary taxi.

No. They were to look for one that was rusting on the front passenger side door. That was to take them to their destination...

And with it, the country's future.

. . .

The clouds rumbled overhead as the November rains moved in over the abandoned factory. The sun had long since set, and the darkness was inching in.

No one even went here anymore after it was shut down.

Especially since a few workers had died here due to unsafe working conditions.

Rumors swirled around the old building, saying it was haunted by the spirits of those dead workers. People as a result barely visited the old place. It was mostly urban explorers or those seeking to get a glimpse of a ghost that poked around the rotting remains. Thankfully those people were far few and in-between. Mostly due to the safety hazards of exploring an old building. The outside looked a lot worse than the inside, which contributed to its functionality as a safehouse for the resistance. A few times people had used it to evade detection while making their way across the country to avoid being executed by the FBI or CIA hit squads.

Windows were broken by years of wind battering the structure and greenery was beginning to crawl up the sides of the building. The smokestack still stood tall and proud, but it too was beginning to decay due to neglect. Wind howled through the forlorn factory, sounding just like an ominous, ghostly moan; it added to the rumors circulating around about it. The metallic loading bay doors were rusted shut, and the main doors were either missing from decaying hinges collapsing or just rot. Birds made the interior their home, but it was also shared by the humans who dared to stay here.

No one lurked there at the moment, but that was about to change within the next few hours.

The clouds finally chose that moment to deposit their contents onto the buildings below.

The old road was covered with shrubs and brush in several spots, but that did little to dissuade the old taxicab barreling down the path. The left headlight was out, but the right still functioned.

It was a battered old Ford, with scraped paint and cracked windows. The license plates were dented, but the rust was minimal and they were still readable. The suspension squeaked, but the car kept going. Dust followed the vehicle as the rain continued to pour down from the heavens. A few crows fluttered past, landing atop one of the old telephone lines crossing to the factory itself. One watched the car as it bounced through a puddle, splashing the windshield. The windshield wipers flicked the fluid off, and within the car, the driver grunted as she wrenched the wheel to the left to avoid a tree root poking up through the pavement.

"We're almost there," she stated.

"Good," Benjamin grunted. The cab bounced over some debris and both he and Orga had to grab onto the makeshift handholds bolted into the cab's ceiling. "UGH!"

Benjamin pried open an eye. "I don't know how much more of this we can take," he moaned.

"Then you should've stayed behind," the driver remarked, not even glancing back. "This commitment means you'll have to endure things you don't expect."

The media mogul cocked an eyebrow, but let it slide. Orga was sure to explain later.

The cab continued a few more bouncy minutes until it burst through some brush, right into the old parking lot of the factory.

Orga grabbed his passenger door and pulled it open. "C'mon," he said. "We don't want to be late."

Benjamin climbed out after his bodyguard. The two men walked back to the trunk and pulled out their bags. Once they were out, Orga slammed the trunk shut and walked back to the cabbie. "We'll go from here," he said, handing her some money. "Be careful."

She merely nodded before looking back at the factory. "Still don't know why this place had to be picked..." she muttered. Orga just shrugged in response.

Benjamin, for his part, wasn't too sure about this.

The factory looked ready to fall apart since it was so rotted.

As the cab pulled away, Orga walked up to him. "Starting to have doubts?" he asked.

"No. I'm just not sure going into this old factory is such a good idea..." Benjamin stated nervously. "It looks like it'll collapse on us at any time."

Much to his surprise though, Orga gave a smirk. "Don't let the exterior fool you, boss," he remarked. "It's better inside than it seems."

Benjamin eyed the dilapidated building once more, but he decided to trust Orga's words on the matter.

The man gripped his suitcase tightly and he gulped. Orga gestured with his hand to follow, and he did. The two men began to walk, the rain lashing at their skin and clothing. Benjamin had to brush his soaking wet hair from his forehead to allow himself to see somewhat.

The old doorway loomed ahead of them like a gaping mouth. Benjamin's eyes widened as he slowly inched past it and into the darkness. Ahead of him, Orga pulled a flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on, sweeping it around the entrance to the old factory.

Much to the surprise of the media mogul, Orga was right. The interior of the old place was not as bad as the outside. He frowned to himself as he darted after Orga. There was no way a factory this old should be in this good a condition inside in comparison to the outside. Especially with broken windows.

However, he had little time to ponder as they finally approached what appeared to be an old boardroom. The door was cracked, but it still clung to its hinges. Orga opened the door, which didn't squeal, and gestured for Benjamin to go in first.

The older man wasn't too thrilled about this, but given what he was about to do anyway, it made perfect sense he'd be hesitant about this.

The interior of the boardroom was surprisingly in good shape, given the condition of the rest of the building. From the looks of things, Benjamin noted with surprise, it had been cleaned up as best as possible, and the walls had been cleaned of any black mold. The floors were somewhat clean as well, and the ceiling's drop tiles had been replaced with metallic paneling. Lights hung from the beams and a pair of vents in the ceiling blasted hot air to keep the dankness and damp air of fall out. The windows that remained had been patched with glass from other parts of the old factory complex, giving them a sort of haphazard look. But what really surprised him was the table in the middle of the room, surrounded by a few chairs.

Those looked brand new. They were not moldy or rotted. They were fresh, like they had been just purchased two weeks ago, if not earlier.

A door on the other end of the room was heavily bolted, and a sense of dread crept down Benjamin's back as he eyed it worriedly. But Orga remained calm as he sat down in one of the chairs. He gestured for Benjamin to sit, and he did, but with great reluctance.

Much to his surprise, the chair was comfortable.

The two men waited as the minutes ticked by all too slowly.

"You sure this friend will be here," Benjamin suddenly asked, but more as a statement than a question.

Orga gave a snort. "Of course she will! She texted me while we were en route and she said she'd be here within an hour at most," he remarked, checking his phone. "I still don't get why you won't trust me on this when I say she's not with LOGOs."

"And is this place truly free from bugs?" Benjamin asked, scanning around as if he could see the small devices.

Orga grinned as he reached behind the nearest old filing cabinet and pulled out a spider. "You mean these little guys?" he teased. "Then nope." He tossed the spider aside as he became serious. "But if you mean the listening devices, then yes. This place has been abandoned for thirty plus years. That, and LOGOs never really bothered to support competition, seeing it as a threat to their power. So the business that operated this place went under as a result. They never really did support the idea of LOGOs governing the country, anyway."

Benjamin was silent as he looked around the room, still unsure if this was even a good idea.

"The truth is, boss, my friend is not just against LOGOs, but is working to actively undermine their influence in the country and government," Orga began, surprising his employer. His golden eyes were hard as he looked out the window at the rain pouring down from the heavens. "She's been doing it for some time now, and so far, from what I've heard, her efforts in stalling the Partiot Youth Act are working." He paused. "For the moment."

The media mogul was surprised by this. "But wouldn't that put her in danger?!" he asked, now concerned as to what he was getting into.

"Actually, you'd be surprised," Orga remarked. "If there's one thing that LOGOs constantly underestimates, it's her cunning." He closed an eye as he leaned back in the chair, placing his feet on the table. "They always think of women as weak, incompetent, unintelligent, and too driven by their emotions. But what they fail to realize is that women are just as cunning and capable as men. And my friend is a good example. She is just as cunning as Lord Voldemort, if not moreso, when it comes to using his own networks against him."

Benjamin was floored by this. He was silent as Orga continued.

"So in all honesty, sir, my friend has her tracks covered." A smirk crossed his face. "And that's saying something."

The older man had nothing else to say for the next half hour. Both men just sat there in silence, with Benjamin pondering just who Orga's friend was. The only logical conclusion he could come to was the possibility that she was an intelligence agent who had sniffed out LOGOs and was fired for it. Or perhaps she was a former politician before being kicked out of political life due to her gender. Or who knew? Maybe she was even a Coordinator who wished to bring down LOGOs. Or maybe even all Naturals! That alone sent fear rushing through his body and he gripped the chair's arms so tightly his knuckles turned white and he swore he was going to fuse his hands to the wood and metal. Sweat began to build on his face and he licked his lips, trying to keep himself calm as he waited. The minutes seemed to tick by slowly, far too slowly for his liking.

And then the moment of truth.

The sound of footsteps on the other side of the doorway facing them caught their attention and both men glanced up. Benjamin had fear in his eyes, but Orga had a smirk. "Looks like she arrived a bit early," he remarked.

The heavy deadbolt on the door shifted, and the door swung open. Benjamin braced himself for the worst.

A booted foot entered the room, followed by another, and the figure began to walk. Benjamin slowly shifted his gaze to those boots before trailing his eyes up a pair of legs as they made their way into the boardroom. The legs were clad in combat fatigues, like those of the Marines, he noticed. Then a pair of arms and upper body clad in a trench coat, and finally, a mask to cover their identity. But the long braid going down to the figure's buttocks was a snow white color, and for a moment Benjamin feared that his worst scenario was coming to pass.

The door swung shut and the figure deadbolted it back into place. Then the figure turned to face the two men, reached up and grabbed the mask, pulling it off to expose the face of someone Benjamin had not expected to see.

The face was definitely that of a woman, but her eyes were not those of the demure woman he had been expecting to come across. No. They were sharp, clear, focused... like those of a man. A burn mark on her left eye stood out and he wondered how she had avoided losing her sight in that eye. She had chisled features, but not like a supermodel. Oh, no. Her cheekbones slightly resembled those of a supermodel, but her features were harder, more like those of a soldier, with the way her jaw was set and her shoulders squared. Her lips were bare of lipstick and she lacked any obvious blush on her cheeks. Her hair was pure snow white, and it stood in contrast to her tanned features.

Benjamin was shocked, not just at her features, but also her height.

She was tall, reminiscent of an Amazonian warrior. He could see even through the coat she wore that her arms were toned and muscular, and her shoulders were broad for a woman. She had a good sized bust, and he guessed that her waist was nothing but abs and muscle. Her legs were also strong and athletic.

The woman walked up to the chair across from the two men and sat down, eyeing them with a cold, calculating gaze like that of a predator. She tented her fingers in front of her mouth and leaned forward.

For a moment, silence filled the room, and then she spoke.

"So... it's been close to a day, and here we are," she mused.

"Indeed it has, Madame President," Orga said, giving her a two fingered salute.

This was enough to throw Benjamin for a loop and he pushed himself to his feet, staggering back in shock. "P-P-P-President?!" he blurted. "But I thought..."

"Oh, believe me, while Copeland may be President, he's only President in name," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "He is nothing, not even a real leader. He is a puppet, a mouthpiece for the real leaders who run this sham of a country."

Benjamin didn't know what else to say. Orga sensed his boss's disbelief and waved a hand in the woman's direction. "Sir, I'd like you to meet the President of the United States of America, Marie Lenneth Eisenhower."

The last name struck him and he just stood there in shock. "Eisenhower...?" he rasped.

The woman gave a grin. "Yes. Descended from Dwight D. Eisenhower, the man who helped lead D-Day and the eventual downfall of the Nazi Empire," she explained. "And I take great pride in that lineage." Then she became serious. "And I am intending on undoing the damage wrought to our country's beliefs, ideals, and government."

Now Benjamin was beginning to get an idea of what was going on here. "Wait..." He looked to Orga. "You mean...?"

Orga gave a grin. "Guilty as charged. She is indeed the one who can help... because she is in charge of the entire resistance network all across the AF."

That was all it took.

Benjamin broke down crying in disbelief.

. . .

The explanations as to what was really going on lasted well into the early morning hours.

During this time, Benjamin had asked all kinds of questions, pertaining mostly as to how the resistance was able to avoid detection for so long.

President Eisenhower answered them all.

And he had to admit, he was impressed. To turn the technical staff of the digital communications infrastructure to their side had been genius. It not only meant that they could evade detection via the internet, but also host underground chatrooms and meetings via encrypted communications software that was ignored by virus scans and anti-virus programs. The digital media staff was also a part of this, editing out certain people who were supposed to have been executed from cameras across the country.

The history of the resistance had also been explained.

Benjamin was actually genuinely impressed by the ability of this resistance to have evolved and learned from their predecessors, adapting to new strategies in trying to sniff them out. And in doing so, becoming more like the Ghosts that people claimed them to be. And those rumors were something they tried to live up to, appearing and disappearing after striking at key enemy bases and outposts, as they were called.

And then the depths to which the infiltration had occurred, and the sheer speed of it. That was another factor that made him wonder just how much this woman had gotten done. But when he mentioned it, President Eisenhower was just as baffled as to how fast the resistance had done its infiltration. Benjamin and Orga wisely held their tongues though, deciding to investigate that later.

She also delved into their operations and how many men and women alike were working to undermine the rule of LOGOs, especially when it came to the Patriot Youth Act. Benjamin was honestly surprised that some of the elites and upper class were actually against such an act and were actively working with the resistance in the role of spies and moles. But to hear that a schism had formed in the Congress over the Act was something that he had not expected to hear. He was also impressed to learn that in doing so it was depriving the forces of LOGOs of much needed manpower, as well as depriving them of future warriors to mold into extremists. Her efforts were so far working, which also meant that if this continued, more units would have to be diverted from other fronts to where the AF needed them, and therefore, if they lost to ZAFT, it meant more defectors in the future.

Her plan, he had to admit, was sound, and very well thought out, with contingencies planned for and accounted for as best they could.

And now, it was on him.

Because now it came down to the big decision.

Benjamin took in a breath and eyed the woman before him. "I'm sure you know of why we came here to meet you?" he asked.

President Eisenhower nodded. "Yes. A friend of mine informed me. And I know that you seek to keep your son safe from harm from LOGOs because he's a Coordinator."

The media mogul nodded solemnly in silence, tears pricking at his eyes.

The resistance leader stared into his eyes, as if scanning him for any sign of deceit. But the more she studied his gaze and posture, the more she began to see that his fear for his son's safety was real. It was genuine. It was human. It was the love of a father and son that was true and real. He really did care for his son. And he was willing to risk ouster from his own kind to save his life from the rest of the cabal.

Eisenhower narrowed her eyes. "You really do care for him," she noted. "You're not heartless... are you?"

Benjamin looked up, his eyes now blazing with hatred as he got to his feet. "What makes you think that?!" he bellowed. "I am sick of it! I am against everything that's been happening to this country! To my own company! My family started it to showcase true science and facts, and now here we are, spewing lies and pseudo-science, the very things it had been started to counteract! I only do this because I'm being forced into it by that madman Djibril!"

The President watched him silently as he continued his rant.

"I made my son a Coordinator so he could use his intelligence to figure out a way to keep my company from being bought out by that sadistic creature in human flesh!" he ranted. "I went to a lot of trouble to keep his condition a secret! I bribed hospitals to keep it secret! I donated to charities and causes that helped children they sponsored to keep it hidden! I did research into the pasts of doctors to find those that were not tainted by LOGOs' brainwashing! I had to actually hire a doctor to live at home with my son so as to keep him from going to the office and getting himself exposed via a blood test!" His eyes flashed as tears finally ran down his cheeks. "And yet he still found out! I want that man dead!" he finally roared.

He stood there in the middle of the room, his chest and shoulders heaving as he finally broke down crying. "I just want him dead so my son can be safe..." he whimpered.

President Eisenhower's gaze softened. "So you're being blackmailed," she mused.

"Yes... And there's no way out..." Benjamin rasped, burying his face in his hands as he slumped back into his seat.

The woman looked up, her eyes turning into glaciers. "I'm afraid I can't really help much on that front," she admitted, startling Benjamin.

"But... You just said that..." He looked to Orga. "You... did you lie-?"

"Now hold on," Orga interjected, holding up a hand. "You sure there isn't anything you can do?" he asked. "Because from what I know of you, you're seeking an asset in the media, right? Well... this man here..." He gave a wicked grin. "He runs the media all right. All the major news networks across the entire land, in England and Ireland as well."

Benjamin glanced back to the woman as she closed her eyes. "..."

For a terrifying few minutes, Benjamin began to fear that there was nothing that could be done, that he would be forever blackmailed and that his son's safety would be forever jeopardized by LOGOs. And that there was no way out.

"You're the one in charge of all news media?"

The question threw him for a loop. He looked up as she opened her eyes, those glacier orbs gazing deep into his soul. "Answer truthfully, because your answer could determine the fate of this movement and efforts to end this barbaric race war once and for all."

Benjamin was caught off guard. Here he was, at a crossroads. He could tell her the truth, or he could lie and say no, or he could half-lie and possibly throw everything off kilter for her. From the sound of things, it sounded like she had a plan in place, but needed the right people at the right time to get the ball rolling. And to break the brainwashing of so many people, she needed something that they did not have, despite underground news networks and papers.

They needed a way to reach the entire country's populace, even across the pond.

They needed media control.

They needed his reach. They needed his company.

They needed him.

Benjamin looked to Orga who gave him that customary cocky grin with one eye closed. He flashed the thumbs up. "Hey. You know what's right. So, this is your chance. Take it, boss. Take it... and spread your wings."

Those last few words seemed to strike a chord in him. For once, he was being given a chance to make his own decisions, not follow the master's bidding like a dog. He had every chance to turn and run. The President of the resistance was not stopping him, but instead simply awaiting his answer. And yet, here he was, on the cusp of a decision that could make or break this. He knew he shouldn't. His pragmatic side - the LOGOs side - was insisting that this was a waste of time. And yet, his mind and heart were both screaming at him to make his choice. The choice that was right.

And despite insisting otherwise later on during the aftermath of the war, he did know what to do.

So he answered.

"Yes."

That single word he uttered with all the conviction and truthfulness he could muster.

Her eyes landed on his, and she could see a change coming over him. "Yes, I am. I'm in charge of all the media in the land," he admitted.

President Eisenhower's eyes narrowed. "What's your name then?"

"Benjamin Carson, ma'am." He stood as straight as he could manage.

The woman was silent before her lips started to curve into a small smile.

To her, this was just the break they had been hoping for.

But now came the hard part. Her smile faded as she leaned forward again. "Mr. Carson, as much as I hate to admit it, there is no real way out of your situation," she stated.

"But-" He was cut off as she raised a hand.

"Ah. Before you go off on me, listen to what I said," she remarked. "I said there is no real way out of your situation."

"Huh?" Benjamin was confused. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Everything," the President explained. "It means that officially there is no way out." She paused for a moment. "But there is a way out."

"Then what is it!?" the media mogul cried. He slammed his hands down on the table as he leaned forward.

Here, the President's eyes narrowed. "From what it sounds like, LOGOs is using your son's safety to keep you in check. So... in order to break free from this..." She hesitated. "Your son has to die."

. . .

November 17th, CE 73

From his estate, the man known only to the resistance as Fallen Angel sneered.

The boy's father had finally given in.

And all it took was his son's untimely demise.

Oh, sure he had done his best to conceal his secret. But what he didn't realize was that his last blood test had shown his son to be a manufactured space monster. Such a fool, that Benjamin. He hadn't known that the last hospital he had been too had been in his pocket.

And all it had taken was replacing the director of that hospital with a local sympathizer.

Still, he had to play the part of sympathetic man in order to conceal his true glee.

The meeting was about to commence, and he had to be there.

The shadowy ruler of the world stood and, holding his cat in one arm, exited the lavish study and made his way into the elevator that would take him to his underground chambers. The maids and servants ignored him as he passed, as it should be. They were mere dogs. He was their master. And he only treated them enough to keep them going.

Lord Djibril adjusted his face into a well-schooled poker expression as he entered the elevator and closed the door, pressing the button for the lowest level.

The elevator began to move as he watched the floor indicator flash. The numbers began to tick down, and as he waited, his mind drifted back to the man whom he had been determined to break into his control. Now that he had Benjamin Carson, it was only a matter of time before the resistance fell. Well, what remained of it, anyway.

The accident had not been an accident, really. It had been carefully planned and administered. The delivery truck had been remotely operated and the driver had been but a mere pawn. His panic in his last moments had been satisfying to watch, he mused with a small grin. His cat meowed and he absentmindedly patted her head, ignorant of her protests.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, exposing the elegant corridor. Lord Djibril stepped out and the doors slid closed. The lights flicked on as he passed by, throwing their glow over him as he walked. The door at the end of the lengthy corridor hissed open, exposing his chambers. His chambers were a vast underground space, consisting only of a single room lined with wall-to-wall panels that showed every member of LOGOs when organization-wide meetings occurred. In the middle of this room was a sole platform on which he stood, a lone chair in the middle of this platform and a large computer console in front of the chair. These two items rested on a small rail system, allowing him to move both as he chose to.

Lord Djibril descended the small staircase onto the platform and took his seat in the chair. His cat meowed and he placed her on his lap, patting her head as she relaxed. He was not too fond of the creature, but he did have to admit having a cat was soothing during high-stress incidents.

The console in front of him beeped and he reached out a hand to tap it.

The screen lit up with the face of Benjamin Carson.

His face looked haggard and very broken. His eyes were puffy, an indication he had been crying. Lord Djibril snorted. Such weak emotions. And he clearly looked like he hadn't slept in hours.

The leader of LOGOs put on a false expression of sympathy; due to his constant need to woo people into his grasp, he was a very skilled actor and portrayed himself as sympathetic to them when the need arose.

"Dear lord, Benjamin. You look awful," he said, injecting pity into his tone.

"Forgive me, my lord, but..." Here Benjamin trailed off and Lord Djibril hung his head.

"I have heard about the loss of your son. And I express my greatest sympathies for you," he stated, although deep down he was anything but sorry for the man.

"Thank you, my lord..." Benjamin rasped. "It means a lot to me."

Djibril nodded as he looked up. "But now do you see what needs to be done?" he asked, bringing the meeting back on track.

"Yes, I do, my lord," Benjamin stated, eyeing him. "And if I may, I have a suggestion."

Lord Djibril cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Here he nodded. "Yes. But in order for it to work, I must request you hand over all data on the Extended that you have thus created so far."

That got the leader of LOGOs. His eyes narrowed and he pursed his lips. "And care to tell me why, Lord Carson?" he asked, suspicion creeping into his tone.

"As you wish, my lord." Benjamin bowed deeply before beginning his explanation. "It has to do with a new propaganda measure. With the failure of Congress to so far pass the Patriot Youth Act, we need a new measure to inspire our men to go to war. And why not take what you have been doing to those despicable orphans and turn it into our greatest asset? We can alter the video footage and make it seem like those abominations up in space have been behind it. This way, we can show just how bad they truly are." He looked up, and for once, Lord Djibril saw something akin to glee in his eyes. A glee that had been missing from prior meetings between them.

"Hm." Lord Djibril folded his hands in front of his mouth as he leaned forward in his chair. "And if they are to find out it is false?"

"Rest assured, my lord, my company will handle any and all aspects of that," the media mogul replied, a sneer crossing his face. "Those space monsters won't know what hit them!"

The self-proclaimed Lord of Earth pondered the idea.

Now that he thought about it, it had been months since the Patriot Youth Act had been proposed. But to hear it was being delayed only hastened their demise. The next generation of young boys was not able to be conditioned to fight, and without soldiers, they would have to resort to other means. Even with Project Iron Legion in the works, they still needed men to fight.

But if they were to show something that made anyone mad, then it was sure to be a way to rile the men to fight even harder, maybe even to greater levels.

He had no idea that he was being played. Played by a woman, to be exact.

But right at the moment, he was pondering his options. And with the Patriot Youth Act being stalled, and several crucial military units on the risk of rebellion, it would have to make sense to keep them in line. And what better way than to use perhaps the loss of their children to boost their rage and hatred towards the Coordinator menace?

A smirk slowly curled at his lips.

He looked up, his blue eyes glinting. "Well played, Lord Carson," he mused. "If people do find out about it, then we can alter all records to make it seem like the Coordinators were behind the experiments."

"Exactly, my lord," Carson said, grinning. Then he became serious. "So, the data, sir?"

Lord Djibril nodded. "It will be sent to your account this evening. When do you think you can have it ready?"

"I don't have a specific time frame, but my best estimate is about two to three weeks at best, two to three months at the latest," Benjamin explained.

The leader of LOGOs grinned. "Very well. I expect to see it on the next broadcast soon."

With that, he closed down the channel and leaned back, sneering. A propaganda effort unlike any other... The idea just made him grin even more.

He had no idea that it was going to be his undoing.

For his part, Lord Djibril had played right into the hands of the one woman who was always thinking one step ahead of him. Sure he was able to sway the hearts of men and manipulate them like dogs, but she was a master of strategy.

And right now, that was his big mistake.

For thousands of miles away, in the dilapidated warehouse that was their headquarters, the resistance leadership was about to receive the call they were waiting for.

Lord Djibril got up from his chair, looking at the time on the console. It was getting close to lunch. And then around three, the meeting was supposed to commence. Last minute efforts, he mused, but still necessary before the final deployment of their greatest weapon. His eyes flashed as he looked to a monitor on the wall as it flashed online, showing the final preparations being made.

The huge, hulking machine was immense in its stature, a perfect menace to the rest of the world as they dared to defy the might of LOGOs. And with the reputation of a once-great democracy shattered and the country now just a mere shadow of its former self, it was only a matter of time before the whole world was under his sway. A sneer crossed his face.

And then those space monsters would die.

It was working just as he had planned.

Or was it...?

He made his way to the end of the platform and watched the preparations underway.

Very soon, the Eurasian Federation would be his next vassal state.

And then he could move on to the others.

His plans were moving forward. And soon, the space monsters would die.

Just like the mutts they were.

He had to admit, maybe having some Coordinators left alive as slaves was appealing. And now that he thought about it, perhaps he could let them live, in exchange for their surrender, of course. But with the way things were moving, it was sure to be another great war. But if he spared some, then maybe it would be for the better. Those few survivors would be broken, and turned into slaves for the ruling elite. He and his fellow men of LOGOs.

Then, after so many generations and years, his ancestors' mission would be complete.

And the world would be theirs for the picking.

With that in mind, Lord Djibril began to scan through the contents of his computer for the notes to present at the next meeting.

. . .

President Eisenhower sat in her office in the old warehouse, her eyes narrowed as she pondered what was coming.

This was a pivotal point in time.

Either the plan worked, or it didn't.

The whole idea had been a good one, but it all hinged on whether or not Lord Djibril would fall for it and take the bait. It either worked, or it didn't. And then everything would be against them.

She had to admit that Djibril was a skilled player when it came to people and agendas. But when it came to war, that was where she excelled. She was not some woman who was bound to stereotypes that were reinforced by a patriarchal leadership and enshrined in law. She was a soldier who had signed up to defend the country, even from enemies within. And she was upholding that oath even now.

President Eisenhower, while manipulative in her own right, was not about to discard people on a whim like Djibril did. She was someone who built up relationships and then worked with people to accomplish her goals, but kept them on hand if she needed them. That was the kind of person she was.

It was a stark contrast to Djibril's modus operandi.

She leaned forward on her table, eyeing the laptop before her and the extra monitors as well scattered around her. It was a makeshift command center, but it worked out for her.

Her mind was not on her surroundings, though.

It was instead focused on what to do if Lord Djibril didn't take the bait.

However, she didn't need to worry much more.

The phone on her lap vibrated and she looked down, spotting the encrypted channel beeping. She grabbed it and pulled it to her ear, pressing the icon as she did so.

And her eyes widened as she heard two words.

"Packages delivered."

That was it.

The real operation had now begun.

The phone went dead and she activated the monitor on her laptop, bringing it up to show close to several dozen windows. Each of these windows displayed the face of someone she trusted, and that group had one special mission.

"Everyone, we just got the word. The packages have been delivered to Hawk One," she said. "The mission of your task force begins right now!"

"Yes, ma'am!" the group said as one.

The group before her was tasked with a mission that was based around getting the truth out to counter the lies told by LOGOs. The people shown on the screens were reporters, journalists, and investigative reporters who had gone underground. While some had managed to retain their jobs, it was at great risk to themselves and the resistance movement that they spread the truth out, but sprinkled with lies so as to remain employed. And so far their efforts were working, but not to the extent she had hoped. So, it was through several meetings with key leaders and several newspapers that the task force known as Narrative came to be.

Task Force Narrative had one purpose: to spread the truth by showing both sides of the story, not just one side loaded with bias. They were to go out and interview as many people on both sides as they could, and then patch together a true narrative of the whole war, going into detail on the atrocities committed on both sides, not just one or the other. That way, people would see that both Natural and Coordinator were capable of barbarism, despite what the propaganda said.

And it all began with the data on the Extended program.

Her thoughts were interrupted as another monitor beeped and she turned her attention to it.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Madame President, one of our assets abroad just reported in," came the voice of the man on the other end. The tone of his voice was hard, and she recognized the tinge of terror in it.

"Report!" President Eisenhower demanded.

"It's LOGOs. They're preparing to make their move on Berlin!"

That was what did it. She shoved her laptop aside - the task force having signed off several minutes ago - and grabbed another keyboard, typing like crazy to bring up the main feed from the forces abroad. One of the resistance agents in place had his body cam aimed at the huge monstrosity as technicians and crew ran around, preparing it for deployment. She could also see the so-called 'pilot', nothing more than a child, being brought to it. The boy's face was that of a killer, the way his eyes were filled with hatred towards his handlers. And he looked as if he had no real life in his eyes. All he had was pure hatred and despair. That was enough to make Eisenhower's teeth grit as she gripped the table tightly.

"What's the closest date for its deployment?" she demanded.

"That's just it. They're planning to attack Berlin sometime tomorrow. Their options have been limited so far, but with the success of Terminal getting their biggest asset off planet, it's only a matter of time now for them to deliver a major blow to our former allies. And we have to make contact with them somehow!"

"What time is the attack?" Eisenhower snapped.

"We don't have that data, ma'am. But we do know that it will be very costly to both sides," her contact replied softly. "We can get the word out to some of our assets to make contact with some resistance forces in Europe, but we don't know if they will trust us..."

"I'm well aware of the damage that's been done," the President retorted. "But I'm not about to let them lump us together with those Nazis in power here. I have an idea on how to get them to trust us again." Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward a bit. "But we need to get in contact with them after the attack happens. Then and only then will we have the advantage."

"Take advantage of the distrust and show them the real enemy. Right?" the man asked.

President Eisenhower gave a predatory grin. "What else?" she mused.

Then she became serious. "Speaking of, there's one thing that I wanted to ask about. Have you heard anything about the status of Project Shūmatsu?"

The man's face paled at her query. "Madame President, I mean no disrespect, but... is it wise to even have such a plan in place? You know what happened last time we tested it!" he protested.

"I'm well aware," she remarked. "But I need to know. What is its status?"

Here her contact gulped nervously. "T-The project is currently being fitted out," he began, "and should, hopefully, be finished well before the final battle." His body shook a bit. "I mean, the Twin Buster Rifle is one thing... but to actively develop a system of equal power... How far are we willing to go in this war?"

"As far as we need to," President Eisenhower replied, her gaze hard. "We need a weapon that can take down those monstrosities, as well as penetrate through any other hidden Extended labs they may have built deep underground in other countries. I don't like it, but we need that firepower if we are to take them out from afar in case of another Cyclops attack."

She hesitated a moment before continuing. "And if you think about it, such a system could theoretically bypass those shields, remember?"

The man nodded, recalling the briefing on the system in question. "But surely the system developed by Dr. Rustal can suffice alone, right?"

"While that may be the case, remember he was only able to make a dozen of the devices," the President reminded him. "And that means that the pilots can only handle up to one of those things at a time, even if we divide them into squads and pair them with more experienced pilots to back them up." Then her eyes narrowed. "So that means we need a weapon of sufficient power to bypass those shields and take down the weapon's greatest assets, or barring that, incinerate it right off the face of the Earth."

"Provided that it can be led away from the city in question..." Her contact was shaken at the implications.

President Eisenhower was silent as she nodded once.

The two were silent for a moment before the man spoke one last time. "Should I...?" His voice trailed off, asking the unspoken question.

"Yes. Do it." Those three words were all she said before the man nodded and saluted, closing down the COMM line.

With that done, she activated another monitor, this time getting in contact with the director of Project Shūmatsu.

The screen popped up, showing a man in his late sixties, with greying blonde hair and sharp brown eyes. He had a thick mustache and beard combination, and when coupled with his glasses, made him seem like a college professor. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck in a ponytail going down to the small of his back, and he wore a white lab coat over a black shirt with an image of an atom on the front. His legs were clad in grease-stained blue jeans and thick steel-toed boots covered his feet.

"Ah. Madame President. Vhat a surprise," he said in a thick German accent.

"Good to see you too, Klaus," Eisenhower responded. "But I'm not calling for pleasantries."

Dr. Klaus Brand was a professor from Berlin who had immigrated to the Atlantic Federation in the late 50s CE and gotten his start as a nuclear physicist working on building better reactors. He had previously worked on installing nuclear reactors in carriers and other naval ships, such as submarines. But that was before his decision to immigrate and delve into the theoretics behind the creation of nuclear fusion reactors. Such reactors had shown to be immune to the neutron-jamming properties of the N-Jammers, as the Secretary of Energy had just confirmed. The reasoning was that due to the disruption of neutrons during the splitting of the atom, the N-Jammers would be unable to affect the neutrons during the fusion of the atom.

It was this theory of his that led to him being discovered by the resistance several years ago. They offered him a proposition to help find a power supply that would be unaffected due to the N-Jammers and in doing so, he would be heralded as the savior of the world's energy industry. While he had accepted the job, Dr. Brand had declined the recognition, stating that he was doing it solely for the good of the world. And it was this line of thinking that made him a valued asset to the resistance cause.

"I see. So, vhy have you called zen?" he asked.

"I need to know. What's the status of the project?" Presiden Eisenhower demanded.

Here the German scientist grinned thinly. "Ze project is coming along. Ve have all ze necessary reactors. And by zat I mean ve have more zan one," he admitted.

President Eisenhower was silent as she took in this information.

Last she heard, only one reactor had been sent to the testing site. But to hear that there were more at the site? Her eyes narrowed. "Dr. Brand... where in the name of God did you get more reactors?" she asked slowly. "Because last I recall, there was only one reactor sent."

"Zat is vhere zis gets complicated..." Dr. Brand said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

"Explain!" the President demanded.

"Very well." Dr. Brand looked to a woman standing beside him and she stepped forward.

"Madame President, I am the one who delivered those last two reactors," she said. "My name is Laura Crofton, and I am in charge of another facility not too far from the one where the Secretary of Energy got the first reactor."

Laura Crofton was in her late fifties, with black hair pulled back into a ponytail that ended just between her shoulder blades. She wore a white lab coat over a green T-shirt and blue slacks, with a pair of boots on her feet. Her eyes were a deep green color, the same shade as algae, and she wore a pair of brown glasses on a chain around her neck. She looked like she could've been a librarian or teacher. President Eisenhower narrowed her eyes as the woman continued.

"I know this is suspicious, and you have every right to be wary of me. But rest assured, we are on your side as well," the scientist explained. "The reason we had two extra fusion reactors was that, prior to the energy crisis, we had been testing them to see if they'd be viable as a power source in case of an unexpected cutoff or failure of the power grid globally. But when the energy crisis hit, well... we had them in storage, so we brought them online to see if they'd work. And they do. So, when we got the call about this project, we had to do something. So we gave up the reactors for its use."

President Eisenhower was a bit surprised, but to hear that they had willingly given up their own reactors for the project was something that made her feel slightly better, although she did find this to be a bit too coincidental. She decided to investigate this later. Right now, the project took priority.

"Dr. Crofton, I do admit I am wary of the issue, and of you as well. But seeing as how you helped move the project along considerably, thereby shortening the time for construction, I am willing to give you a benefit of the doubt, although I will be investigating this down the line," she stated. "However, right now, I am willing to put this on hold until we reclaim our country, along with our former allies across this nation and across the pond."

The female physicist nodded. "I understand, Madame President," she said.

Dr. Brand took the chance to speak up. "Vith zis, ve should have ze project ready as soon as possible," he said. "Ve just have to test ze system itself to see if it vorks as ve intend."

"Understood." President Eisenhower narrowed her eyes. "I'm giving you the clearance to test it once we start making our move. Target should be chosen for a symbolic and practical purpose in one."

"I already have a target in mind." Dr. Brand's eyes were hard. "Zat abominable lab at Los Alamos. Ve destroy zat... ve reclaim it for real science. Not medical torture."

President Eisenhower slowly looked down, her eyes becoming covered in shadow. "Once a place where a great scientific discovery ended a war... now turned into a place of twisted science..." Her teeth gritted.

"Ms. President?" Dr. Brand was worried. "Are you alright?"

The resistance leader nodded, but her eyes remained in shadow. "Yeah... Yeah. I'm fine," she murmured. "And that is a fitting target. It's approved for testing." She looked up, her light green-blue eyes flashing like glaciers. "I expect it to be gone as soon as we have what we need and we move!"

"Affirmative!" Dr. Brand saluted, as did Dr. Crofton. Then the screen went dark.

President Eisenhower turned to look at her phone and dialed up the number of Secretary Green.

She hoped some of his assets in Eurasia would be able to make contact with the resistance there.

. . .

At the same time, up in Earth orbit, the 1776th Battle Group was undergoing a fleet inspection.

Commander Steven 'Spray' Krane drifted through the halls of the Abraham Lincoln, his eyes narrowed as he spotted the glazed looks in all the eyes of the men aboard. In contrast, his own eyes were clear and focused. He glanced to the left as he spotted his second-in-command, Dennis Krantz, following behind him. Spray had to use every ounce of his incredible willpower to resist turning and decking the man across his face. Especially since this was a key mission for the resistance.

"Sir, might I ask why you wished to inspect the fleet? It was already inspected to ensure your arrival," Krantz remarked.

"It's a habit from my old units," Spray remarked, keeping himself in check. "I wish to see every inch of these ships and make sure they are spick and span. And I wish to see the competence of the men aboard them in action."

"Ah. I did read about the report," Krantz stated, referring to the report from base about the possibility of the Black Fleet having traitors in it.

Spray had to conceal a smile at that.

It seems his little white lie had started to make an impact. But he couldn't worry about that now. He had to know more about the layout of these ships if he were to take down the political officers. And hopefully make it seem like accidents, as well.

Already he had marked one of them for extermination right off the bad. Carlos Henkel had to go.

"Yes. I am a man who values competence over ideological purity, Mr. Krantz." He shot him a glare out of the corner of his eye. "And you would do well to remember that."

"Of course, Commander." Krantz gave a small half-bow as the two men came to a stop in front of the combat information center.

The door hissed open and Spray drifted in, followed by Krantz.

Already he had memorized the names of each ship, and discovered that they were the antithesis to the presidents they were named after. The George Washington was the only one that lived up to its name as flagship.

The ship to the left of his, the Franklin Roosevelt, was the one that carried out the escort duty. A mockery of the man who had led the nation through war against a racist empire of men who believed they were the superior Master Race. The very notion would no doubt have the man turning over in his grave.

The second ship in the group, the Abraham Lincoln, was the one that carried the Extended. An insult to the man who, some say, held the nation together through sheer force of will during the times of the Civil War. A brutal blow to the very cause of eliminating slavery was housing a new generation of slaves aboard his namesake.

The ship off to his right, the Dwight Eisenhower, was the one with the foot soldiers. A man who had led the nation through another tumultuous era into a better world, only to now have his name adorning a ship of soldiers who were used for conquest and looked down on those not of their superior genes. The very same ideology he had risked his life fighting against during World War II.

The final ship in the group was the one with the Strike Daggers, the Joe Biden. The ship's namesake had been a man who strove for unity above all else, and worked with others to make it happen. He did not use force to force others to do his work. But now, Spray felt, he would be moaning about the loss of decency in the world.

And Spray knew exactly how the former United States president would've felt.

Right now, however, he was in the middle of a fleet inspection, specifically with the Abraham Lincoln. He needed to see just what kind of stuff was aboard this ship so it could be used to counter whatever was done to the Extended to brainwash them.

He brought himself back to reality and looked around the CIC. Off to his side, he could see the captain of the Lincoln, a man named Grant Jennings. And beside him, stood Carlos Henkel. The bandages around his face only made him seem more sinister and Spray had to clench his hand into a fist inside his uniform pocket.

Thankfully no one noticed, which made him feel somewhat better.

"Commander." The two men saluted, and Spray returned it, although he had to keep his hand from shaking.

"Captain. Adjunct."

They lowered their hands and Spray clasped his hands behind his back. "What's the status of the ship's crew?" he asked.

"The crew is well trained and awaiting their orders, sir," Captain Jennings remarked. "If you want, I can have them perform drills right now."

The commander nodded. "Do it. And the Extended?" Spray asked, his eyes narrowed as he looked to Carlos.

The man sneered, his good eye reflecting his true nature, whatever it was. "Ah..." His voice was raspy, and Spray grimaced to himself. It sounded like his vocal cords had been damaged badly in the explosion aboard his prior ship. "The Extended are in top condition," he said. "The girl in particular has been very feisty as of late~!"

"What is their condition?" Spray repeated.

"They are just undergoing maintenance now, sir," Carlos replied. "It's such a hassle to deal with flawed equipment, especially as since they're not up to snuff when dealing with the Demon Lord of Avalon." He waved a hand dismissively. "I don't even know why we got saddled with that obsolete junk to begin with. They failed each and every time, and now we lost one of them to those damnable rebels."

Spray felt his eyebrow twitch as he heard the way the man was referring to them. He turned to look at Carlos directly, his brown eyes narrowing dangerously.

He felt a sense of rage surfacing within his chest, but he kept it in check, reining it in with his will. He mentally caressed it, calming it, telling it that the time was not yet right to strike. In spite of the hatred it felt, his rage relented and fell away, curling back up in its small corner of his mind.

With his rage tamed, he let out a huff. "Well, we have them, so we as well have to make do."

Carlos snorted. "Sure." He then looked to Spray. "Do you wish for me to show you the lab?"

"No. I want to see it myself," Spray remarked. He eyed Carlos seriously. "You stay here and keep me informed of how the crew is performing in the drills."

Carlos's good eye narrowed, but he relented. "As you wish..." he hissed, his raspy voice making him sound more like a snake than a man.

The commander gave a firm nod as he pushed off the floor and drifted back to the door, Krantz about to follow. "Mr. Krantz, I want you to stay here as well."

Dennis blinked in surprise. "Sir?"

Spray glanced back as he touched down near the door. "I wish to do this myself. You've been here longer than I, so you know your way around these ships better than I do," he explained.

The SIC was silent, but then relented when he realized his superior did have a point. "As you wish, Commander." He gave a little half-bow, and Spray turned back to the door. It hissed open and he exited the CIC.

Now that he was out and away from those men, Spray pushed off the floor and darted down the hall, his hand pulling out a hastily drawn map of the ship's layout. He had managed to memorize the layout of the vessel that housed the Extended a few hours before he left, enough to make a quick map of the ship. And the place he was heading to was the Extended lab aboard the Lincoln.

His eyes drifted from the map up to the hallway leading to the lab.

It was then that he saw the mad scientists. Or rather two of them.

He hurriedly hid behind the corner of another hallway.

The two men were coming back from the break room, each of them with a cup of that damned awful coffee. And they were looking intent on getting back to the lab.

Spray waited until they went down the hallway and then he followed them. He could hear them muttering in Russian, and his eyes narrowed. 'So, they're Russian descended.' he thought to himself. He didn't know the language, but he did get the gist of their feelings in the tone of their voices.

He trailed them down a few hallways before he saw the medical bay of the ship. It had been completely taken over by these men. Equipment ranging from drug dispensers and heartrate monitors to the mental conditioning systems littered the entire bay. The pods that had once been in Lodonia were now installed on this ship, designed to condition the Extended and maintain their mental programming. Memory alterations and wipes were common after significant encounters to keep the kids from even regaining their sense of self, and to keep them loyal to the cause. Like the dogs they were.

That alone was enough to make Spray clench his fists as he slid into the medical bay behind the two men, relying on stealth to sneak behind one of the machines. Maybe he could wait a bit and see just where the kids were being held...

The minutes passed, and then he heard the two men speaking to their fellows.

"Did you finish maintenance?" one of them asked.

"Da. The first male subject has shown some sense of regaining its old personality. We had to lock down its memories again," the second man said, examining the clipboard in his grasp. "And then the female subject had to be sedated a few hours ago. It almost took out one of the others. And as you know, we need all three for this coming fight."

A third scientist rolled his eyes. "Damn brats... Wish they had just died last time."

"Sorry to say, Vlas, but it's under orders of Nazara that we keep them operational," the first man explained.

Spray's eyes flew wide at that. 'Nazara? He's ordered them to keep the Extended in fighting shape?' He narrowed his eyes as he crouched down lower, listening in closer.

"That man may be a skilled commander, but even he has his limits. Sure wish Djibril would off him, Foka," the second man, apparently named Vlas, stated. A quick spot check nailed Spray his name on the plastic card he wore around his neck. Dr. Vlas Yakovlev.

"No. Djibril seeks to keep him aboard because he is the legacy of our former lord," the first man, Foka Petrov Spray read on his name tag, noted. "And we follow his orders. We are but extensions of his will. And he wants us to keep them operational for the rest of the crusade."

The other two men, who Spray figured were the ringleaders of this group, nodded in agreement.

"Their next mental examination we have to examine their memory cores thoroughly. Make sure no memory snippets seep out of the blocks we placed on them," Foka stated. "And Gleb, increase the reaction to their block words."

Gleb Lenin - the last name on his name tag reminded Spray all too much of Lenin of the old Soviet Union prior to World War II - nodded and gave a firm salute. Spray bit down on his lower lip to keep a snarl from escaping his chest. He had a lot to do if he was to get key information. And given the timespan, he didn't have much time.

His eyes narrowed as the three men continued their meeting.

"Is there anything else?" Gleb asked.

"Continue maintenance on-" Foka was cut off suddenly as a loud shriek cut through the medical bay and the next thing Spray knew, he was staring in shock as the female Extended launched herself right for one of the men. Her eyes were wild and rabid, and Spray saw, for the briefest of moments, foam at her mouth. She wasn't even a human anymore, he realized. She was little more than a rabid animal. An animal they had made.

And he was sure as hell not about to let this kid die on drugs and brainwashing.

Spray's eyes narrowed as within his mind, he saw a bronze seed spinning and falling. The seed exploded in an explosion with a vertical red ring around it, and his eyes changed. His pupils dilated and his irises grew in size, becoming glazed over. That feeling of fury he had tamed earlier was whispering in his mind, but he kept it in control. He used it, worked with it, rather than let it dominate him. Already he could see the men turning and staring as the female Extended leapt at them, her eyes filled with rabid fury towards someone only she hated.

Then he lunged.

He vaulted out of hiding, his fist flying out and connecting solidly with the girl's cheek, knocking her back into one of the tables and causing it to collapse on top of her. He landed on the steel floor as the men watched in shock as the commander of their battle group proceeded to do battle with their prized Extended. In their eyes, it was like he was subduing her for them. But in reality, he was fighting to knock her out so she could be helped. In a proper way and setting.

The girl slowly lifted herself out of the rubble of the table and its contents, blood dribbling down the side of her face. She leaned over and spat some blood out from her mouth, looking at him with those rabid eyes. She screeched as she broke out of her makeshift prison, her hands outstretched like claws. Spray was as calm as a cucumber, his eyes taking in her erratic behavior and noting her position. He swiftly ducked to the side with his incredible reflexes, his hand lashing out to grab onto her shoulder and then he twisted his body around, wrapping his arm around her neck and beginning to squeeze. Not to harm, oh no. He only intended to choke her until she passed out. He slipped his other hand around her back and grabbed onto her arms, holding them in a firm grip.

The girl began to struggle, trying to break free from his grip. But Spray maintained his composure as she began to scream obscenities he hadn't expected her to know. It made his heart ache, but he kept it in check with his fury. He wished the men he had just saved weren't so heartless towards the next generation. But for now, he had to keep up appearances.

He squeezed her a bit tighter, and after a few minutes of tense struggling, he finally felt the girl go limp in his grasp. Spray knelt down and placed her on the ground. He let go of her neck and checked it for bruising. Satisfied there was no injury to her, he stood up and turned to face the three men. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them, they were back to normal.

"You have to be more careful," he said seriously.

"Y-Yes. We're sorry, sir," Foka stammered, looking a bit frightened. "We did not think the female would break free so suddenly."

"Perhaps if you didn't subdue them like animals they would not be so inclined to escape," Spray retorted, almost scolding the three men.

"B-But sir! They are just equipment! Not even humans!" Vlas protested.

"Even so, they still need to be treated decently!" Spray snarled, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Any piece of equipment not cared for will break down all the sooner! And that includes these three!" He gestured to the girl lying on the ground. "Sedation is fine for if they are having a breakdown and need to be checked. But otherwise, you are to treat them like a top of the line piece of technology. That means no chains, no sedation, and adequate medical care." Spray felt like screaming at the three men in charge of the Extended, but he reined himself in.

"You do realize that would also entail referring to them as what they are not, yes?" Gleb insisted, his eyes flickering in disdain for this man.

"If it means getting real results and no losses to these three, then yes!" Spray growled. "I would prefer results over the loss of these three! They are part of our ace in the hole, right? Well, then start treating them as human beings, and you may be very well surprised in the end!"

With that, he spat at Gleb.

The spittle landed on Gleb's shirt and the Russian looked angrily at his commanding officer. He finally snorted and looked away. "Fine! But this little game won't work! If it fails, then it's back to tried and true methods!" he insisted.

Spray merely gave a grunt. "As long as it happens, I could care less about what you think!"

Gleb didn't even answer. Spray turned and drifted out of the bay segment he was in, spotting the table the girl had been strapped down to. The arm bands and leg bands were broken; clearly this had happened several times before, he noted as he spotted the areas were the straps had been repaired. The IV drip lay off to the side, sedative spilling everywhere from the ruptured IV bag. The other two Extended lay in the same state, both strapped down and sedated. One of the two boys had a strange device clasped to his head, and judging from the way it was positioned, it was tapped into his memory and emotional centers of his brain.

Spray felt his fury surfacing, and despite its attempts to convince him to remove that abomination of a device, he remained rooted in place. He was in control of his anger; his anger wasn't in control of him. He turned away from the two boys and walked over to the device, examining it critically.

"Commander?"

"What?" Spray asked, not even looking back from the device.

"Why are you examining the memory device?" Foka asked.

"I'm more interested in how it works than its function," Spray explained. "Because as far as I know, it's impossible to do what you have done."

Foka bit his lower lip. Normally such technology was not allowed to be explored outside of those designated and trained in its use. But surely in this case, an exception could be made, couldn't it? He wasn't sure in all honesty.

But the way the man was gazing at him indicated he was serious.

"Sir, you have to understand that how it works is only known to those who can man it and use it," he explained. "It takes years of training to master this kind of technology. It cannot be done simply overnight."

"I'm not looking to master it," Spray countered. "I seek to understand how it works. Not use it myself."

And that was true. At least to this mad scientist, anyway.

Foka shifted a bit before he sighed. "All right. Follow me." He beckoned for Spray to step aside, which he did. The man then booted up the device, and Spray watched as the device in the boy's skull twitched and then his memories came up on the screen... as lines of computer code.

"First off, sir, how much do you know about the human brain?" Foka asked.

"Enough to know how memories and emotions are regulated and formed," the commander remarked. "Why?"

"Ah. That is the very reason very few can master this device. But seeing as how you wish to know only how it works, then I'll explain it to you," Foka explained. "The brain is like a highly advanced computer. It works much better than the ones we can currently develop. Even artificial intelligence cannot hope to surpass the might of the human brain. But, as with any computer, the human brain runs on electricity. Or rather, electricity flows through the neurons of the brain. That electrical signal can be intercepted and scanned with this device. It takes that signal and translated it into computer code, allowing us the ability to remove any significant memories and implant new ones so as to keep the sibjects under control." He typed a command and the boy's body lifted its arm without his control.

"It's a miracle of science," he continued. "While it is considered impossible, it was thanks to the creator of the Extended that we even have such technology to begin with. It was he who deduced how the brain's electrical signals can be hacked."

Spray's eyes narrowed as he watched the mad scientist work a bit more on the boy's memories.

"Is it possible to erase memories?" he asked suddenly, startling Foka. The Russian mad scientist looked to him in surprise.

"Oh, goodness no! Once a memory is made, it is permanent. Sure you can overwrite it, but the real memories are always there. Just buried underneath. That's what has to be done to keep them from suffering," he explained. "Except in extreme cases, we have not found a way to do so." He looked down briefly, and Spray was surprised to see him fidgeting. "In all honesty, I am glad we cannot erase memories. Unless the subject has been subjected to amnesia, then we cannot remove their former identity entirely."

"Why," Spray inquired as he looked to the boy, "are you glad that memories cannot be erased? I thought you would be eager to do so." He looked back out of the corner of his eye at the Russian. "Considering what you do and all..."

"I..." He licked his lips. "To erase memories is akin to wiping a person's very essence..." he whispered. "And that is against what I believe in."

"And yet you lock away their true memories and reprogram them like human computers," Spray shot back.

Foka nodded. "Yes. But it is far better than letting them be emotionless soldiers..."

The rebel pilot narrowed his eyes as he turned away. "Feh. I don't have time to debate the ethics of this." He paused, trying to think of what to say next. If this man knew something about the creator of the Extended... "I do have one question though."

"Hm?" Foka blinked his eyes. "Yes?"

"Who is the creator of the Extended anyway?" Spray asked.

"W-Why do you wish to know?" the Russian asked.

"Because I have some very specific things I wish to say to them if I meet them in person." That was all the man said as he clasped his arms behind his back. "So, care to tell me?"

The 'doctor' nodded. "His books are widely read in the medical community, sir."

At those words, realization hit Spray in the gut like a missile striking home. His eyes widened as he remembered seeing several books on the shelf of one of the resistance medics a few weeks prior to his assignment here. The books, contrary to what some would think, were actually used as reference material in what not to do when examining a potential Extended's mind. In fact, they were being used as a reference material in how to undo the damage done to the Extended's minds.

And the name of the author popped out to him instantly.

Dr. Guo Sung.

Spray's eyes narrowed as he struggled to keep his fury in check. The bird of his wrath wanted to fly and take flight in the air of his anger, letting loose its flaming divine fury down on the enemy below it. But he calmed it, whispering to it. He knew it was wrong to keep his anger suppressed. But if he could direct it in a way that made it seem like he was angry at the Coordinators, then all the more reason to keep it in control.

"I see..." Spray whispered.

Dr. Sung. He'd have to transmit that to Grey Eyes as soon as he could.

But right now, he had an inspection to complete.

"Well, doctor, I can safely say that, in spite of some... complications... with the Extended, they appear to be in good shape," he said. "But remember to treat them as if they were a part of this crew and not just equipment. That means they are cared for decently, and treated with the same respect as normal humans. And they may in turn surprise you with loyalty and dedication."

With that said, the commander prepared to leave the medical bay.

Anything to get away from those mad doctors.

But at least now he had a name to go with the creation of the Extended project.

Dr. Guo Sung.

Memories came back of some of the stuff he had read up on during his training with the AF military. And none of it was good.

Dr. Sung had been a complete madman. Sure he had started out with wanting to help people, but then his experiments had gone off the deep end when he discovered the technology needed to rewire a person's memories in order to make them a perfect killing machine. People had been up in arms over that, and for a long while it seemed like even the Congress would have him stripped of his rights and exiled to the country formerly known as China. But then in a surprising twist, someone had stepped in and paid his bail. To this day no one knew who had paid it, or why. But theories and rumors in the resistance leadership often said that it had been LOGOs' leader, Murata Azrael, who had paid it. Of course, that had been prior to his death.

And Spray was getting the sinking feeling like Dr. Sung was not about to go to jail anytime soon as long as LOGOs remained in power.

His eyes drifted back towards Earth as he passed by one of the windows aboard the Lincoln.

And it was then that he saw it.

A light, right where Berlin was in Europe.

His eyes widened as he placed his hands on the glass, leaning in a bit closer.

He didn't know why, but something told him that this was the moment he had to make his move. Or at least start planning.

Spray gritted his teeth and turned, drifting back down the direction he had come.

His keen eyes picked out the words on the room he sought.

Medical Storage.

He came to a stop near the door and pried it open, exposing the interior.

Crates of supplies and medicine were arranged neatly, and Spray drifted into the room. He closed the door behind him and flicked on the light. He read over the labels and then his eyes landed on the box he was looking for. He grasped the top and pried it open, pulling out a packaged syringe.

He closed the box and ripped off the clear plastic wrapping. His eyes were as hard as bronze as he lifted up the syringe.

"Okay...Henkel, you are my first target...!" he growled.

. . .

November 18th, CE 73

The battle in Germany had been a disaster.

And no one was sure as to what would happen next.

The AF had proven to come and conquer.

That was the despair that many had felt. And in fact, it was exactly why so many members of the Eurasian Federation military had elected to go underground. And out of these, a few had liaisons from the AF attached to them. The liaisons, however, had insisted that it was for the best, as they were not really into this war for conquering or extermination, as they claimed.

One of the liaisons attached to the AF forces in Europe happened to be a man in his late thirties, a recently transferred soldier from the AF's most prestigious mobile suit brigade. He had spiked blonde hair with red streaks in it and deep green eyes, a stark contrast to the rest of his unit. His skin was somewhat pale, and he had a lean but wiry build.

First Lieutenant Bruce Gray was attached to the 21st Armored Brigade of the Eurasian Federation's 14th Armored Division. Officially he was there to promote cooperation between the two former allies. But in reality, according to his cover, he was there to ensure the oppression went smoothly. In truth, however, he was there to act as a representative for the United States government to make contact with. While he may not have been as bright as some others who could handle the job better, it was his longstanding friendship with a local Eurasian soldier who happened to be a part of the unit he was assigned to.

He was actually uneasy about being in close proximity to so many soldiers who hated him and his fellow Americans. Or rather, those they thought were Americans. They were Atlantians, not Americans.

The way that the soldiers of the 21st looked at him indicated they hated his very being and presence here. It was only due to his friendship with the unit's commanding officer that he was not maimed or brutally executed.

The man in question also happened to be coming down to meet him at the abandoned warehouse in Paris where they had taken refuge. With the subsequent takeover of Europe, the AF had full command of many of the facilities needed to create and maintain the Extended they threw around like weapons. And the very idea made Bruce sick to his stomach.

He had to clap a hand to his mouth as Brigadier General Mathieu Neuville approached through the open doorway.

"Bruce." Mathieu made his way over to his friend and helped him to a nearby trash can as his stomach lurched. Bruce bent over and expelled his breakfast.

"Are you all right?"

Bruce looked to his old friend, sickness visible in his eyes. "N-No..." he rasped.

The older man pursed his lips and shook his head, sighing in disgust. The brigadier general was just two decades his senior, with greying brown hair and blue eyes that looked like they had been carved from a glacier. He was big, muscular, and well built for his age. He had worked to get to where he was, long and hard. While not a pilot or driver of a mobile suit, he did have experience in working with the pilots of said suits. He had been in the army for twenty years by this point, having made his mark as a reliable career soldier, but as it was, the Eurasian Federation was not against Coordinators. Oh, no. As long as they were on their side, then the EF could care less about the genes of their soldiers.

And that was something Bruce was hoping would soon be standard amongst the American people once LOGOs was shut down.

"Zis is bad," he muttered. "Ze Americans have invaded. And you are now considered a traitor, no?"

Bruce gave a firm nod. "Yes. All because of... my views... on the war."

Mathieu was silent for a moment. "You are hesitant to explain why though," he mused.

The American mole slowly looked around the warehouse, grateful that it was just the two of them at the moment; the rest of the unit was slow to come mostly due to the need to travel in separate groups to evade detection.

The two men had happened to be visiting Mathieu's wife on leave in Paris when the word came out of the attack and subsequent destruction of Berlin, followed by the annihilation of the monstrosity brought over the sea. But now that the men were forced to go underground, Bruce was not sure if the rest of the 21st would be so inclined to listen to him - a good majority of the men and women in the unit were from that area of the Eurasian Federation.

Bruce finally sighed. "I think it's time you learned why I'm really here..." he admitted.

It was now or never.

He looked up, his face still pale. "I'm not here as a member of the Atlantian military," he said.

"Huh?" Mathieu tilted his head in confusion. "What did you say?"

"I said I'm not here as a member of the Atlantian military," Bruce repeated. He looked at the vile flag on his uniform, seeing in it the old Nazi swastika. "I'm actually here as a member of another nation. One that's been waiting until the right time to strike back." A scowl crossed his face as he grabbed the flag, and much to his old friend's surprise, ripped it right off his sleeve. He grabbed it in both hands and tore as hard as he could, tearing the vile thing to shreds a few times. Once that was done, he proceeded to reach into a hidden pocket in his combat vest and took out something else.

"I'm here to act as a liaison for the United States!" he exclaimed. He slapped the new flag onto his other sleeve, this time revealing an old, defunct flag: thirteen red and white stripes, a blue square in the upper left hand corner, fifty white stars located within it.

"But ze United States is defunct! It was destroyed in ze Reconstruction War!" Mathieu protested.

"Not true," Bruce remarked as he stood up straight, although he still looked pale as a ghost. "The Atlantic Federation came into existence after the war due to the machinations of a select group of individuals who sought to retain the power and influence they gained as a result of said war. And as a result, they slowly started to work their way into each and every facet of governmental and industrial avenue in the country."

He shifted a bit as he pulled out a data drive from his combat fatigues pocket. "This data drive holds all the data and whatnot that can confirm my words," he said, handing it over to an astonished Frenchman.

"But why has zis been kept secret?" Mathieu asked. "And why tell me zis now?"

"Because of what happened in Berlin." Bruce was serious. "That attack was carried out by the real leaders of the Atlantic Federation: LOGOs. The ones behind everything that's changed in the United States' people."

For a moment the two were silent, the silence only broken by the chirps of birds in the old building.

Then Mathieu looked at his old friend. "Bruce... I ask you because I am concerned for your mental health. Are you insane?"

Bruce shook his head. "No. Mathieu, you know I never lie about something big. And this is big. Bigger than you can even grasp. Bigger than I can even grasp. But it is happening. There is a real resistance within the Atlantic Federation, and I am a member of it."

Mathieu was silent as he looked at the younger man. He had first Bruce during a joint training session back in the early 50s CE, and the two had formed a strong bond after the session ended. They had been of the same mindset, wanting to repair relations between the two great powers, and for a while it had looked like it was possible. They shared their contact information and kept in contact long after they departed for their home countries. Things had been somewhat better back then, but when the Coordinators began to expand in population numbers, things had taken a turn for the worse and then the alliance had begun to slowly rip apart. Then in the late 60s CE, things had changed in a stark contrast to how they had been before the two wars.

The Atlantic Federation had started to attack their own allies for having Coordinators in their ranks.

And then rumors of hideous experimentation began to swirl. Experimentation on children of all people.

Bruce had informed him of the rumors through letters instead of texts, which was actually a good thing as not many people bothered to read letters these days.

Mathieu had been grateful to hear from his friend, but the rumors of child experimentation had made him sick and he asked his friend to come back to Eurasia so they could figure out what to do next. Bruce had explained of his role in the coming invasion and of how he was to be assigned to his unit in order to ensure cooperation between the AF forces and Eurasian forces. But when Bruce had refused to contact his superior after the attack in Berlin, the AF had declard him a traitor, forcing him to go underground with the Frenchman.

But to hear he was actually part of a resistance movement that was lying in wait to strike back at the AF...?

He knew his friend was not a liar. But this just seemed too surreal.

"Bruce, I am not saying I doubt you. But zis is just too surreal," he admitted. "Zere is no way zere can be a resistance within your country."

"There is, Mathieu," Bruce insisted. "And I am a member of it. The only reason no one from those Nazis has been able to find us is because we're not an overt resistance group. We're a covert unit at the moment, but we are indeed large in numbers and they are growing every day."

Mathieu eyed the data drive questioningly before he slowly took it and pocketed it. He would review it later to see if his claims were true or not.

Then something struck him. "Wait. You said your resistance is a covert unit, yes?"

Bruce nodded. "Yes. For the moment, anyway."

"So ze overt resistance movements were forced out of hiding and taken out, oui?" Mathieu was now starting to understand what was happening. He had not made brigadier general for being stupid, after all. "Zen I take it your movement learned from seeing zis, yes?"

The rebel gave a firm nod. "Affirmative."

"How large is zis movement?" the Frenchman asked.

Here, Bruce gave a grin. "Would you believe that we have numbers in every industry, the government branches, and even in the military?"

The brigadier general was shocked. "What?!" He actually staggered back. "How can zat be?!"

Bruce shrugged. "I just know what I was told to tell you," he admitted. "For all I know it could be true, or not." Then he looked at his old friend. "Mathieu, the reason I'm here is because my superiors need to make contact with agents of the organization known as Terminal. And we hope you could make that possible in some way. You guys want the AF gone, we want those Nazis gone from our country just as much as you, if not moreso."

"And what do we gain out of this?" Mathieu asked, eyes narrowing.

"You regain a powerful ally." That was all Bruce said.

Mathieu looked down, pondering.

Ever since the end of the Reconstruction War, tensions had been building between the Atlantic Federation and Eurasian Federation. But now that war was coming to their shores, it was as if history was repeating itself, but in reverse. The AF was now conquering the world. A stark contrast to how it had been well over a century ago. Back then America had been involved in bringing back hope and democracy to conquered nations. That had made them respected on the world stage, and at times, seen as weak by dictators due to their stance on human rights. But now, they were the dictators, conquering countries who had once been staunch allies.

Now though, to hear that his friend was a member of a resistance movement dedicated to restoring America to what it once had been was a startling revelation. But the big question was, was this real?

The flag looked real enough. And it did have the right colors.

He looked at it closely before his gaze roved up to meet his friend's eyes.

"Bruce. I have to know. How can you be sure this is real?" he asked.

The younger man reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He held it up and pressed a button, dialing a secure number, Mathieu saw, over an encrypted frequency. The screen glowed for a moment before the face of the least expected person came on the window.

After all he had heard, he had expected the leader of this resistance to be a man. But instead, the leader was a woman. An Amazon, at that.

She was tall, broad-shouldered and well muscled from years in the military, he could tell. Her facial features hinted that she could have been a model, but instead she had gone into the military. Her hair was pure white, likely from stress, and her eyes were a glinting glacier blue-green. Her skin was tanned and she wore a simple tank top, from what he could see, anyway.

"Mathieu, I would like you to meet the leader of the resistance. President Marie Lenneth Eisenhower," Bruce introduced.

The woman's face was dead serious as she gazed into his eyes. "So this is your friend?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," Bruce explained. "And he needs to be filled in on what's going on."

The Frenchman was floored as she nodded. "I knew that this would be the result," she mused, closing her eyes in contemplation.

"Hold on! How could you have known of zis?!" he demanded.

"It wasn't hard, especially given the circumstances that exist between our two alliances now," the woman said seriously. She opened her eyes a moment later. "And this is the damage that I seek to repair. Especially seeing as how the war is escalating to rather dangerous levels like in the first war."

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes. "First off, how do I know zat zis is even real?" he asked. "For all I know, zis is a trick to get us to let down our guard so you can come in and conquer us all over again like in World War II when ze Nazi-"

He was suddenly cut off as she bellowed over the small device, making him jump at just how loud her voice was.

"YOU HONESTLY THINK WE'RE WORKING WITH THOSE DAMN NAZIS?!" she roared, making the speakers screech a little. As soon as she had calmed down, she spoke. "Because, Mathieu, we are the real deal. We are not a trick. The United States is underground, the US is back, and we are pissed!" she growled.

That was what clinched it.

She was serious.

Real serious.

That was a sign that things were beginning to change.