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!

10. PHASE IX: Watching Owls

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

Review replies:

- operation meteor: Well thanks for the feedback! :) I always appreciate it. :)

- Spiceracksargent001: Yep. They sure gave the ball to Terminal indeed. ;3 And this chapter is gonna be a good one. :)

- KentLinuxStadfelt: Heh. :3 Glad ya liked that! XD Reading about that in history books about WWII really helped. ;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 IX: Watching Owls

November 19th, CE 73

The entire facility was deathly quiet.

And it was just as well, Eisenhower mused.

The recent uptick in subtle resistance activity in the home front also necessitated the uptick in supposed supernatural happenings at the old warehouse.

The dark shadows of human figures clad in black and dark grey uniforms barely out against a foggy night, broken only by the lights of the masks they wore to hide their identities. The white masks really stood out against the dark mist, and to her, it reminded her all too much of ghosts. But it was necessary to keep up appearances.

For her part, she was feeling exhausted, but despite her body insisting she get some sleep, the only reason she was even awake was she was keeping tabs on the fighting in Europe. More specifically, the fighting raging in Poland, located in the town of Malbork. Her eyes narrowed as she tented her fingers.

'So far their plans are moving along,' she thought to herself. 'But the real issue is... what will that masked Colonel do? He seems to be just as unpredictable as ever.'

That was the main reason she was focused on the fighting. But she wouldn't be able to really keep her attention on the battle there.

She turned as she heard one of her aides approaching. "Ma'am."

"At ease, soldier," she said. "What's brought you here?"

"There's been a breakthrough," he said simply.

"On what?" Eisenhower wondered.

"The recent investigation into those Headhunter assassins," the man replied, looking her directly in the eyes. "There's been a recent discovery that could shed some light into their identity."

"Tell me," the President stated.

"Yes, ma'am." The aide reached into his pocket and pulled out an envelope. She arched an eyebrow as he handed it to her. The woman took it and opened the envelope. She reached in and pulled out the contents, making her eyes widen in disbelief.

She looked to the aide before holding up the paper owl. "You have got to be joking! A child's cutout of an owl? This is what has the Headhunters so paranoid?!" she remarked.

"I assure you, it's the truth, ma'am," the aide stated. "That owl was found at one of the sites of assassination. Police were baffled, and one of their officers showed this to his wife. We're just lucky the man wasn't sniffed out for his refusal to sell children on the black market to create Extended."

The President turned the cutout owl around, studying it critically. "This looks like something a child might use in class," she noted. "And those googly eyes don't help much either."

"Yes. Well, these have been found at every single assassination site where a CIA Headhunter was killed," the aide replied. He took the owl as she handed it back to him. "Already there are rumors going around that the ones behind this are always aware of the CIA's movement to kill dissidents or eradicate protesters. Some have even taking to calling them the Court of Owls, given how they always seem to be watching over the civilians and taking down those sent to take them out if they do something out of line with the Atlantic Nazis."

President Eisenhower frowned as she pursed her lips. "And the assassinations... has there been any word on how they're carried out?" she asked.

Here the man simply sighed. "There is a theory... but it's just a theory at the moment." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a medical syringe. He handed it to her, and she frowned.

"This is an empty syringe," she said. "What's the meaning here?"

The aide coughed a bit. "The meaning is very obvious if you know where to look. Remember how it was mentioned that the CIA Headhunters dropped dead when they were healthy? And of how there was nothing in their bloodstream that could actually lead to their deaths, and of how none of them had any medical conditions?"

President Eisenhower merely nodded, wondering where he was going with this.

"Well, it turns out one of the medical doctors did an autopsy on the most recent Headhunter killed. And while they didn't find anything that could've led to his death, they did find something rather out of the ordinary, but at the same time so minute it was hard to spot unless the bodies were examined thoroughly on the skin," the aide replied. "And I'm not talking a patch or something." He merely pointed to a main artery on his neck. "Here... was where they found a small hole, so small it could've been mistaken as a mosquito bite, but it wasn't."

Eisenhower's eyes widened as she looked at the syringe in her grasp. "You're kidding...!" she rasped, handing it back to him.

The aide took the medical syringe and put it back in his pocket. "I'm not. And a few other assassinated Headhunters had the same thing."

Eisenhower had to admit, whomever was carrying these out was a very skilled operator. To use medical syringes to inject air bubbles into a vital artery leading to the brain was a smart move. It meant the men died on the spot, and it was quick. Also, it left no trace in the bloodstream, lungs, or anything. Smooth, efficient, and downright impossible to trace.

"So that's it... They're good then," she muttered. "That's a good move. Traceless, impossible to track, and utterly efficient. The Headhunters drop dead and the medical officials get baffled. The CIA pours money into investigating this, but they can't. That means that their numbers start to decline and they need to be on constant guard for any possible assassins..."

"And it makes them more predictable. Careless opponents are easier to predict if they are too cautious or paranoid," the aide finished.

She nodded. "Very smart. They're not to be underestimated."

The man shifted. "Also, we have more data on Project Reaper."

"Already?" Eisenhower narrowed her eyes. "What did you find out?"

"This came from Anaheim," he replied, shifting as he reached into his coat and pulled out a sheaf of papers in a plastic envelope. "They've been asked to transport to an unknown location a number of components that would've been assigned to the Spengler class carriers as well as mobile suits."

She took the envelope and opened it, pulling out the papers and looking over the cargo manifests. "I see." She flipped through a few before she stopped at one. "They've requested something that Anaheim has been working on called...the JCS?"

The man nodded. "Yes. The Anaheim branch in charge of that called it the Jaeger Control System."

"And what does it do?" she asked.

"The JCS, as it's known, is supposed to be hooked into a specialized pilot suit the pilot wears. What the suit does is it has an exoskeleton built into it, allowing it to hook around the limbs of the pilot, including the fingers. There is a specialized attachment unit on the back that can be hooked into the mobile suit equipped with the second portion of the system. This system lets them pilot the machine as if it were their own body. There is also a voice activation system for the weapons that require certain button sequences to be pushed."

"And this system is designed to match Coordinators?" she wondered, her mind already coming up with plans for the system.

"Yes," the aide replied. He shifted a bit as one of the guards looked their way, and he shuddered at the mask as it glowed dimly in the night fog. "However, there are some who say it is not going to be effective and have insisted that the next generation of Extended do not have it."

"Speaking of, have you learned anything new on that front?" the President inquired.

"Not yet," he said. "But we're looking into it now. One of our agents at Los Alamos should have some data to send back to us tomorrow night."

"Good. I want to know just what they are doing there to those kids!" Eisenhower snarled as she turned to look out the window.

"We'll have it soon, ma'am," the aide replied. "But as for the system that's being developed at Anaheim, well... we need to get our hands on it."

"And why would we need to do that?" she asked, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

"To keep the Atlantians from getting their hands on it first," her aide replied. "If they had that kind of tech for their...Extended... Just imagine the casualties..."

"Hm..." Her eyes narrowed. "It sounds like that someone up top may want to equip their Extended with it regardless of what some detractors may say."

"That's what I'm getting, too, ma'am." Her aide gave a nod in response. "So our best option is to get that tech first."

"And whom do you think should be allowed to use it?" Eisenhower asked.

The man shifted a bit as he paused, biting his lower lip. "I'm not supposed to say, but..."

The President waited patiently.

"I'm assuming that the mole in orbit is a good pilot?" he asked.

Eisenhower nodded slowly. "Yes... But we're not sure of how good his skills are in regards to dealing with an Extended, least of all against an enhanced clone like Nazara."

"But in the event he is?" the man asked, his eyes locking right onto hers.

The resistance leader pursed her lips, realizing that he aide had a point. Krane's record had indicated his piloting skills were rather good for a Natural, and she had seen his reflexes in action a few times during training simulations. His reflexes were just as fast as a Coordinator's, which made him incredibly hard to hit, whether in or out of a mobile suit's cockpit. And that was saying something.

But then again, despite the best efforts of scientists to create better Coordinators, sometimes nature just had a twist to throw into the mix. And Krane's reflexes were a good example of that. Her own intellect was also a product of that, as was her own impressive strength.

She brushed that aside though and turned to look at the man behind her.

"In the event he is, we'll install it in the mobile suit," she stated. "For now, we need to get the JCS first. So tell our guys in charge of the raids to set one up to snag this system. Also, I'm going to inform Secretary Carbine about it. This way he can have the information on the ship's route and whatnot sent to us."

"Yes, ma'am!" The aide saluted before turning and running out of her office.

With that done, the President turned back to the next matter at hand.

She had decided in recent hours to divide her focus between the several projects and investigations she had going at once. But due to the time crunch, she could only spend a day at best on each one. And right now she had to focus on finding that rebel unit in Europe. Her eyes flicked over to the news, which was set to a European news station. She didn't know which one, but it was obviously based in either France or Germany.

The President turned her gaze to the screen, noting that according to the subtitles, there was still some major fighting raging in Germany, but this time with a rogue unit attacking from the rear of the enemy lines. There was no evidence to point it to being the rebel unit, but it was an encouraging sign. It was obvious that this former unit was being careful and laying low, which in her eyes was a good tactic. It meant that they wouldn't be easy to sniff out, but the downside was that it was very difficult for them as well as the enemy to track them down.

It was therefore of the utmost urgency that they were to find the unit and induct them into the American military as soon as it was possible.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied the images playing on the screen before her. She couldn't make out exactly what mobile suits they were using, but one of them was apparently very heavily customized...

She tented her fingers in front of her mouth as she observed this.

And already she had a smirk on her face.

Now it was only a matter figuring out how to make contact with them.

Already her mind was working on figuring this out.

There were a few options. Primarily in the fact that the French Special Operations command had connections to the French capital of Paris. And with how close Germany and France were to one another, there was a good chance that they would make contact in some way. Another option was their mole in Nazara's inner circle who had been reassigned to the country's occupying forces. But she dismissed that as she wasn't sure if it would even be enough to find them.

Still, at least with him in command of the AF forces in France, at least they could stop the slaughter of civilians and journalists and buy time for Paris to hold.

As well as stop the murder of innocent Coordinators living in France.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously at that.

She knew that people in the High Command would be claiming that Coordinators had... contaminated... the people of Europe and that they needed to be 'cleansed of the filth' or something like that. She still couldn't fathom how Blue Cosmos' masters could even think that Coordinators were contaminating people. There was no way that they could do such a thing. Coordinators didn't carry exotic diseases that could affect Naturals. They didn't carry some contagion that made people see them as equals. They didn't have mind control abilities that manipulated the minds of others.

She had seen the real scientific data.

Everything that Blue Cosmos scientists and geneticists said... was false.

She knew the truth.

The real data that had been suppressed by the puppets in power.

The data that stated that Coordinators had no exotic diseases. That said they lacked a contagion with mind-altering capabilities. That said they did not have mind controlling powers.

And she was going to prove it.

No matter what it took.

Her musings were interrupted when she heard her phone beeping.

Eisenhower frowned as she grabbed it and activated the device. The encrypted communications icon was flashing. She tapped the icon and the secure link was activated. She was more than grateful for her decision to turn all of the digital communications technical people to her side. A small smirk crossed her face as she recalled the sense of achievement she had felt.

. . .

December 10th, CE 71

RESISTANCE HQ

The representatives were all gathered, and her eyes took in each of their faces.

Each of the men and women present on the main monitor worked in the communications industry, or more specifically, the digital media industry. They were the people who manipulated photos, edited videos, and adjusted audial communications. In effect, they were the censors.

And they were being treated like peasants.

She knew that they were being ordered to censor people from the news media and to keep knowledge of missing children secret. And they were not being paid decent living wages. That in of itself was an exploitation of the industry, and the wealthy only gave them meager wages. And to Eisenhower, that was a stark contrast to how things had been prior to the Reconstruction War. Her eyes narrowed as she took in their semi-gaunt appearances and half-sunken eyes.

These people needed to be treated better than they were.

"You... You really do promise this?" a woman asked.

Eisenhower nodded. "Yes," she said bluntly. "We have every intention to honor that promise. After all, you don't deserve to be forced to live at near the poverty line. No one does."

"But how can we be sure you're going to be honest with us?" a man stated, narrowing his eyes.

"You'll be receiving checks in the mail in two weeks," Eisenhower said. "That will provide some compensation to allow you to get food and basic necessities."

"And medical care?" a second woman asked softly.

The President nodded. "Yes. Even medical care." Then she smirked. "But... first off..."

The people on the monitor looked at her critically.

"Your paychecks have been delivered. And you'll be surprised as to what they entail," she stated. "I think you'll be willing to give me the benefit of the doubts with this."

A few of the representatives slowly checked their paychecks, wariness in their eyes and faces. One of them clapped a hand to her mouth in shock as tears started to form at the edges of her eyes. She looked to the camera, her eyes wide. "How...? Why...?"

The President gave a genuine grin. "You wanted proof? Well, there's your proof right there. A friend of mine has volunteered to bolster your meager paychecks to something resembling decent living wages. And that person is why you will be provided what you really need: the respect that you deserve. You will not be exploited under my command. You will instead be respected as the human beings you are. And for any of you who have dependents or loved ones who have medical needs, they will be addressed as soon as possible." Her eyes then hardened.

"But," she continued, "you are going to be asked to go against your own government and employers."

"And if we do this, we will be given what we need?" the first man asked.

"Yes." Eisenhower nodded. "You will. No more exploitation of your skills. No more treating you as mere peasants. No more medical negligence. And no more keeping you on low income wages. You are human beings and need to be treated as such. So, consider this your way back to American ideals and society."

. . .

A smirk crossed her face as she saw the code appear. Swiftly she entered it into the box and pressed the access key.

Her phone beeped and the screen flashed as the device registered the code.

The image of one of her allies appeared on the screen.

It was Rostislav Markov.

"Madame President." He gave a crisp salute.

"General Markov." She nodded. "I see you've left Nazara."

"Yes, and for good reason. The battle of Moscow is about to commence in a few days," he stated. "He assigned me to occupy France, and I was given full authorization to take command of all troops in the region."

President Eisenhower was no stranger to taking advantage of the opportunities the activities of her moles and agents provided. But this was a coup d'etat in its own right. She could already see many implications for the resistance, as well as a plan to increase their international allies. And many of them were good, just as many of them were bad. It all hinged on how well she could use this to turn many away from the genocidal impulses of their master, Lord Djibril.

In her mind, she couldn't even begin to fully grasp how hostile and insidious his will was. It was also very infectious, almost like a parasite, driving many to do his bidding like mere servants. It was as if he truly was a king and they his subjects. And her eyes narrowed. She didn't know what means he had used to infest many with his will, but she knew of a few ways to break his hold on them.

Her smirk became a downright predatory grin and Markov shuddered against his will. On some days, he often wondered who was the more dangerous of the two: Eisenhower or Djibril. In terms of hatred, manipulation, and sadism, Djibril topped everything. But when it came to war, Eisenhower knew how to play to her strengths. She could see the big picture in terms of how the war was to be carried out, and the means on how to do so. But the long term is where her sight was fuzzy. Sure she could make plans for long term goals, but they were not as clear cut as her plans for the war.

"Heh. Djibril just played right into our trap," she mused, tenting her fingers in front of her mouth. Her green-blue eyes flashed as she leaned forward. "That's just where we need you now, General."

Markov swallowed nervously. "What are my orders, ma'am?" he asked.

"Your orders are to ensure that Paris does not fall," the President ordered. "Your goal is to, if possible, make contact with a rogue unit that has broken away from the Atlantians and is now attacking them behind the lines."

"Yes, ma'am!" Markov saluted.

"Also, you are to stop the slaughter of any and all Coordinators within France." Here her eyes narrowed dangerously. "I cannot stress the importance of that order. People don't deserve to die because of how they were born. It's less than petty. It's downright trivial and vain. After all, Coordinators are just as human as us, are they not?"

Markov nodded. "I understand, ma'am. But it won't be easy."

"Just do it. I leave it to you as to how you do it. Whether it be by executions directed at the bulk of the Atlantians or the military resistance forming in France killing them, the slaughter has to stop." President Eisenhower was dead serious on the matter. "Also, you have to make sure that the hospitals that are attacked are kept safe... at all costs."

"Ah. That's... another matter I seek to discuss with you," Markov clarified, throwing her for a loop. She arched an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

He nodded. "Yes. Moscow, as you know, is going to be utterly destroyed, which includes the hospitals. And that... well... we can't let that happen. So I took the initiative and came up with an operation designed to stop that from happening."

He quickly outlined his scheme and of how it had been carried out without the Atlantians knowing. Her eyes widened a bit as he finished his explanation and she looked down, her mind already racing.

'Markov's already carried it out, so it should buy some time for the old general to reappear in Russia around this time of year,' she thought. 'And actually, it makes perfect sense. Causing as much chaos amongst the enemy's troops as possible... That's something we can use too. It's a shame he had to leave, but given his position, it makes sense. And then there's the fact that if Russia holds, the Atlantians will be forced into fighting on the Eurasians' terms. So it's important that Moscow holds.'

Then she smirked to herself behind her tented fingers. 'And on the political front, it's just as well, because this would show Moscow's government that there's someone who's against what's going on deep within the belly of the beast. This would also open up possible opportunities for contact with Moscow once we secure trust with Terminal.'

"Markov, your plan is brilliant," she said, looking up to reveal her smirk. "It's bound to stall for time, which is something that we need. If Moscow can hold, then an old friend of Russia's will return."

Markov furrowed his brow. "An old friend of Russia's?"

Here Eisenhower nodded. "One who's saved them time and again in war. The Napoleonic Wars... World War II... the Reconstruction War... Think about it. Which adversary has Russia's enemies failed to beat?"

The Russian mole's eyes widened at that. "General Winter...!" he breathed.

She grinned, her eyes glinting. "Yes. The Russian winter." Then she became serious. "But it all depends on if your scheme does do what you said it will."

"It will," he assured her. "The hospitals will be protected from the Destroys' firepower."

Eisenhower gave a nod. "Good. Once we reclaim our country, you'll be given the Medal of Honor for your efforts."

"I don't think I deserve it, ma'am..." Markov said softly.

"You do, General. And this shows it. But right now, you have your orders. That's the main thing." Eisenhower leaned forward a bit more. "And make sure that France knows you're on their side when you make contact with them."

The general saluted and the encrypted link shut down.

Eisenhower shifted in her seat, glancing out the window up at the stars above.

"Krane... What will your next move be?" she whispered.

. . .

November 20th, CE 73

George Washington, Earth Orbit

Spray grimaced as he watched Krantz slink past his quarters.

His discovery had been too close for comfort.

He let out a soft sigh, placing a hand on his chest.

Now that he was out of earshot of the second-in-command, he had his mission in store.

His free hand drifted towards his pocket, right for the syringe hidden away inside. He clenched his hand around it, feeling the presence of the medical implement. He knew it was only a matter of time before things changed, and he wanted to start his mission as soon as possible. Which was why he had slipped out of his quarters during the dead of night back Earthside.

Only to nearly be discovered by Krantz.

He didn't put it past the man to be on the prowl for any dissidents, which was why his mission was so nerve-wracking. But given the circumstances, he had to start his mission and soon. He checked his watch, taking note of the hour as he approached the hangar bay.

Spray was not one to linger once a mission began.

Based on what he read of the officers in their files - the real ones - Davidson was one who tended to arrive early before anyone else. He wanted to show the men who was really in charge, and he did so by making sure they were overly aggressive towards the Coordinators. He usually arrived at around five in the morning, Spray recalled, and he wanted to be there when the so-called Marine arrived.

The rebel pilot pushed off the ground and started to drift towards the hangar bay.

His eyes narrowed as he pulled out the syringe and fingered it before pocketing it once more.

A pair of guards were standing just outside the hangar bay as he landed on the floor of the ship.

"Commander!" Both men saluted as one, and Spray just waved it off.

"At ease, soldiers," he said. "You don't need to be constantly on guard duty here at the hangar bay all the time."

"But it was ordered by XO Krantz," one of the men said.

"Well, he's wrong," Spray stated, his eyes narrowing. "I don't get what his problem with having a relaxed atmosphere aboard a ship is, but you two look like you need some rest."

The two soldiers had dark circles under their eyes, like they had been up all night, which Spray suspected they had been. One of them looked like he was about to fall asleep standing up, and he had to struggle to keep a yawn under control.

"S-Sorry..." he whispered. "I didn't have a minute of sleep last night..."

"Take the day off and sleep," Spray ordered. "I'll get some extra guards on here to cover your shift."

The two men looked at Spray like he was nuts, but eventually their human instinct for sleep caught up to them and they looked at one another, weariness filling their bodies. The first man nodded as he fought against sleep. "T-Thank you, sir..." he murmured as he and his companion took their leave. They had to actually work to get themselves down the hallway lest they bump into one another or another soldier coming their way.

Once they rounded the corner, Spray scowled. 'These men really need to learn that we are not machines,' he thought as he turned back to the hangar bay entrance. He pressed the keycard he had been given to its card reader and the door slid open, exposing the interior beyond the main observation deck. He looked out the window and his eyes narrowed as he saw the crews scrambling for the incoming shuttle. Spray was quick to pick out a few locations that would be perfect to ambush Davidson. But the downside was that some of them were close to cameras, and one was positioned too close to the observation deck.

And the other political officers would be arriving at around five-thirty.

So he had only half an hour to plan, and make his move.

His eyes narrowed as he pondered his next move.

'Okay. Since taking him out in the hangar is out of the question, that means I'll have to get him aboard the shuttle,' he thought. 'That's going to be tricky. The only option there would be to attack in the middle of the vehicle, closer to the rear. And getting aboard will be no easy feat. But that doesn't mean I can't do it.'

Spray was no stranger to time limits on his missions. But this one was going to be trickier as he needed to also stage an accident. He checked his watch.

The time was 0430 hours.

This gave him some extra time.

Spray bowed his head as he began to think.

He knew he could take Davidson in a fight. He knew how to hit hard where it mattered. But the only issue was the space. Space that he would need. The shuttles were decently sized, but the seats were another matter. Those would hamper his movement, and he needed to be able to react swiftly. The only option as a result was to take him down from within the hangar bay, or barring that, on the observation deck. The windows were capable of being darkened. And there were very few cameras, which offered a few blind spots he could use to terminate the so-called Marine. His eyes roved over the room, making note of the cameras and their locations, as well as the angles he would need to avoid moving into if he were to avoid detection.

The other problem was Davidson's size. He was a big man, so Spray would have to be fast on his feet if he were to avoid being grabbed. He knew his reflexes were that fast, and his SEED Mode would give him an additional edge. But he was saving that card for when it was needed. (And he didn't want Davidson to know of the SEED, seeing as how it was an asset that the rebels had weaponized to an extent.) So he would have to rely more on his reflexes and martial arts training for this task at hand.

To get at Davidson's neck though, he'd have to be quick. Jumping him seemed to be the best option at this point.

But if that were to be the case, he would have to be in a prime position for the strike. Spray's eyes flicked over to one corner where he could be concealed, away from the cameras. A glint appeared in his brown eyes as he smirked. Yeah. He had a good idea on how to take the man down.

And it all hinged on him accepting the message to discuss the fleet he was going to send out shortly.

He slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out the communicator.

He looked around before he nodded. Spray proceeded to activate the communicator, relying on the program within it to reroute the transmission through the bridge's communications system to make it seem like he was there. It was a trick that the AF had pulled back at JOSH-A, and that was something he knew the President of the resistance did not like. To abandon allies? That made him grit his teeth. He forced his disgust aside as he tapped into the frequency used by the shuttle transporting Davidson.

All it had taken to get that data was a chat with one of the pilots over a meal.

Spray had to suppress a smirk at that. The man had been desperate for a decent meal after he had gotten sick on the paste rations, and with Spray's insistence, the kitchen crew had whipped up a basic meal, but to him, it had seemed like a luxury meal. For officers like generals and admirals to hoard all the food from the troops? How obscene could their selfishness get?

He also had to keep his face from exhibiting disgust at their actions. This was something he had to keep in check until he finished off Davidson.

Within five minutes, the communicator beeped and he noticed the huge man's face appear on the device; from Spray's end, he was only using voice communications.

"Ah. Commander. I was not expecting you to call," the Marine said.

"Yes. Well, it is just as well," Spray stated. "I have a few things I would like to discuss regarding the fleet with you."

"Oh? Why only me and not everyone else?" Davidson wondered, his eyes narrowing.

Spray felt his heartrate soar as he saw this. But he remained calm and, thinking swiftly, had an answer in a moment. "It has to do with your ship in particular, more specifically the foot soldiers aboard. I wish to know their state of readiness."

"Ah. Well, we can easily discuss this over communications, can we not?" the Marine asked.

"And have the enemy possibly listen in somehow?!" Spray snapped, his eyes narrowing. "The last thing I want is for our communications to be intercepted by the Coordinators! And that is the last thing I want, especially seeing as how you could be giving away our position to the Coordinators even as we speak!"

Here, Davidson's eyes widened and Spray noted with some pleasure that his face had gone pale, the blood draining from his cheeks in a few seconds.

Spray hated having to lie, but he wasn't feeling bad about it this time. In some way, it was also true, so it really didn't count as a lie in his book.

Davidson looked around before gulping. "Well, when you put it that way, I can see your point, sir," he admitted, although it was hard for him to even say the words. The grimace on his face was a dead giveaway to his disgust at having to swallow his pride. "Then where shall we meet to discuss this?"

"The observation room in the hangar bay," Spray stated. "Meet me there as soon as you arrive."

"As you wish, sir," the Marine said, bowing a bit.

The communicator went dead and Spray put it away in his pocket.

Now he had to wait for the right time to strike.

The rebel pilot got to his feet and looked around the room, spotting a good place to launch his sneak attack from. It was in a corner, and he could see that it was narrow enough for him to shimmy up it between the walls. He ran over and plastered himself between the walls. He gave a small jump and snapped his legs out, catching his feet on the walls and managing to halt his ascent. Spray put both hands on the walls as well and began to inch up the gap, using his hands and feet to climb. He managed to make his way up towards the ceiling, and after adjusting his position, he reached down, legs and remaining arm straining to keep him in place, with one hand and grabbed the syringe in his pocket. Fighting against the pain and fatigue starting to build in his muscles, Spray clasped the syringe in his teeth and replaced his hand on the wall.

Now all he had to do was wait...

And Davidson would fall.

. . .

November 20th, CE 73

New York, Atlantic Federation

For Frank, this was the worst part of his job.

Being in the middle of the heart of the beast was one thing. But it was another to actually be in league with the United States and maintain a cover here.

Everywhere he looked there was always a sneaking suspicion that he could be outed and even executed for his treason.

After all, a lot of the people here were in the employ of those who really controlled America. As it stood, he was lucky that no one was even aware of his ties to the rebels. He took great precautions to hide his true allegiance. All his communications with them were scrambled to the point it would take an AI to decode their contents. All his essential contact with them was done via a trusted courier whom he had known as a boy. (The man was well paid, enough to where he didn't feel the need to accept obscene amounts of money to pay for his family.) And all the data he acquired on LOGOs for them was encrypted to the point he had to write down all the passwords for the USB drives and files on his laptop.

He was just glad he was overlooked as being a potential traitor due to his position within Alwin Ritter's company.

Specifically in regards to the financial aspect of things.

Frank Wilson was a man who loved numbers. While he enjoyed trying to wrangle with numbers in the financial field, his first true love was codes and puzzles. That very talent was what got him netted into the whole resistance to begin with. He narrowed his eyes as he walked, his body going through the motions as his mind drifted back to the day he had been roped into the whole revolution.

It was not easy to hide the real reason people were getting angry. His own son had been killed in the pointless war against Terminal and ZAFT. But many people were, and as a result, the resistance was growing quite rapidly. It took every ounce of his willpower to hide his rage at Copeland, the incompetent fool.

After a recent riot had been brutally put down by the NYPD, during which Frank himself had been arrested, he was surprised to find a young boy who had run away from home upon reaching the recruitment age for the Patriot Youth was in the same cell as he. He learned from the boy that his father had been about to forcibly send him away to be brainwashed, so he had run off. He learned also that the boy's mother was in a resistance movement, and after Frank was released due to his employer paying his bail, he sought her out. It wasn't easy, but he did find her hiding in an abandoned shack well outside the city limits. He managed to send her a coded message, and she surprisingly responded, offering him a chance to meet with the leader of the resistance.

All it had taken was one meeting and Frank was on board.

Now, a little over a year later, he was their top mole within the dark heart of New York City.

And this position, while risky, was of huge benefit to the resistance, as it allowed him to find out just who was in LOGOs' pockets. And to hear that the NYPD was in their pocket was a horror that made him strive to put all of LOGOs behind bars. Already he possessed a lot of evidence to put the higher ups of the police department behind bars. But it was useless if he didn't have proper lawyers on his side. And with how few were willing to stand up against LOGOs, it only made sense he'd have to wait until the resistance gained full control of the country in order to lay out the evidence before the Supreme Court.

Frank adjusted his suit as he made his way into a local McDonald's for lunch.

He made his way to the front desk and ordered his meal before paying and heading over to an empty table.

This table was somewhat isolated, which made it perfect for him to pull up his laptop and open it. Once the device was booted, he activated the encryption function and brought up the data pertaining to insider trading over the years. While illegal in theory in the eyes of the public, it was carried out in practice, and to Frank, that was something that had to be rectified. At least in his opinion. And that was what led him to start sniffing around for accounts of it in regards to certain companies. More specifically, those with ties to the noble Seiran House of Orb.

He narrowed his eyes as he started to scan over the numbers.

Frank's eyes flicked left and right on the screen as his fingers darted over the keyboard. A few companies stood out to him, but one that really hit him was North American Heavy Engineering, the LOGOs-run counterpart to the California-based Anaheim Electronics. "Hmm... This is interesting..." he muttered, running a hand down the screen thoughtfully. "It looks like these shares in NAHE are in the name of the Seirans..."

That was one thing he wanted to investigate. And he knew of a few people whom he could contact to get this information, as they worked on the stock exchange floor. But to get the investigation objectives to them would have to be done discreetly. And a small phone call would not be enough. As to how this would be relayed to them, it would have to wait.

Right now he needed to focus on trying to find more in terms of the insider trading. The communications aspect would come into play later, he mused. The only way that this level of insider trading would happen was if it was done through encrypted communications. A theory that made Frank narrow his eyes. If that was the case, he'd have to start poking around. And he knew just who to contact for that info.

However, before he could do anything else, a waiter came over with his food.

Frank took his meal and glanced at the kid, seeing a look in his eyes that was becoming all too common: a look of helplessness and slowly mounting despair at his circumstances. His own gaze softened as he held out a handful of bills for the boy. Not enough to really give away what he was doing, but enough to make the boy's day somewhat better. As he accepted the money, he could see the youth's eyes light up with a familiar glint of hope, a hope that said his faith in humanity had been restored somewhat.

The teen scampered off, pocketing the bills and Fran turned his gaze back to his meal. He grabbed the fork and started eating.

His contacts could wait.

First came lunch.

. . .

November 20th, CE 73

Earth Orbit, George Washington

The infirmary was dead silent as people gathered to stare at the deceased body of Harris Davidson.

Off to the side, Dennis Krantz narrowed his eyes as he looked over the dead Marine.

When the 1776th had been put together, the political officers picked had been thoroughly screened, not just for ideological purity, but also for health issues. Anyone that was deemed unfit physically had been rooted out and assigned to other duties. Davidson had been in peak health when he joined the battle group. And he had not had once even touched a cigarette or alcohol.

So how was it possible this had happened? Davidson was no fool. He was as cunning as they came. But to suddenly do something foolish and break his neck?

He scoffed. He knew the Marine had always been a bit of a hair-trigger temper. So maybe he had just been overeager and pushed off the floor too fast, slammed into a wall and broke his neck. It did seem possible. Accidents like that weren't uncommon, but nor were they common. It was a freak occurrence, but an accident nonetheless. But it still rubbed him the wrong way.

Beside the bed stood Commander Krane, his eyes solemn as he closed the man's eyes.

He stood up and closed his eyes.

"Harris Davidson was an exceptional soldier..." he muttered, "...and it is with deep regret that we continue on this mission without him."

Murmurs of agreement reached Krantz's hearing.

"But in some ways... it was a sort of blessing for us as well." The commander looked up, his eyes hard. "A blessing in that we now have a reason to continue this fight. A fight that should show to the world what we all can do... as human beings... regardless of whether we are enhanced or not."

Krantz's eyes narrowed as he heard this.

"Whether or not we were enhanced to fight, or whether or not we were born as we are, we have to show the world why we fight. And, despite all that we have been told about the Coordinator menace, there is always an even greater threat at hand. A threat that tends to work from the shadows. And that threat is why we fight." Commander Krane looked at each of the officers and captains, medical personnel, and even the Extended as they watched with primal curiosity. "This threat is one that we must address, not as men, but as men and women alike." He directed his statement at the female Extended at that.

Krantz scoffed. There was no way that thing was considered human. But he would play along with the commander's fantasy for now.

"Now, due to political and security reasons I cannot say what this threat is directly, but what I can say is that this threat has launched attacks on us time and again, and it has made itself known in the massacres at Vienna and Berlin, as well as the coming attack on Moscow. This threat... is our greatest darkness. And in order to show that darkness how strong we truly are, we must embrace the light of civility." The commander's eyes darkened considerably. "If we are ordered to assist in the liberation of Europe, we must not - I repeat, MUST NOT - attack the populace who are protesting or trying to cover the efforts."

Everyone was dead silent at those words.

Krantz was baffled. Why would he insist on that?!

"Sir, why would you insist on such pointless actions?!" Krantz demanded as he started to make his way over to his commanding officer.

"Because, Dennis, it is wrong." The way he had simply said it with certainty and force caused him to blink. "If we do such things, we are no better than the enemies we fight against."

Some of the men looked at one another, surprised at his words.

Krantz on the other hand looked him directly in the eyes. "And you say that because?"

"Because it is the right thing to do." Commander Krane met his eyes with a dead seriousness. "I am only trying to ensure that we get the mission done, not carry out some executions of rebellious protesters," he stated. "I wish this unit to be highly effective in battle, and that means focusing on the enemy, not going after civilians who speak their displeasure of the war. Is that clear, Dennis?"

The man was surprised. He wanted the unit to be focusing on the mission alone and to ignore the rabble?

A look of mild suspicion crossed his face briefly. Despite his loyalty to the Atlantic Federation, there was something about this man that still set him on edge. There was not just the fact he couldn't be indoctrinated. That alone was disturbing enough, but as long as he fought the enemy and took them out, that was all that mattered. Mostly in his insistence in ignoring the rabble. To show force and force them to give up was the way to do things.

And on top of it, there was the suspicious way in which Davidson had died.

He would have to be very careful as he conducted his own personal investigation into the matter.

Especially as Krane was supposed to be a very smart man.

He wasn't too sure about the man's real standing as he lacked any political connections to the upper elite of the Atlantic Federation. But as long as he was loyal and put the mission before any lingering sentiments regarding those freaks of nature, then he was by all means a useful tool. But also there was the fact that he was not willing to be used as a pawn. His authority was supposed to be only in name. And yet here he was, acting as a real commander.

Krantz snorted and turned away. "As long as the mission gets done."

As he left, his eyes narrowed.

'Something tells me to be wary of him,' he thought. 'He's not supposed to be a real commander. He's supposed to only be a puppet for the real commander: me. That's what the brass promised, anyway. But even with the limitations, he's working to build rapport with the men. Well, as long as he isn't really allowed to enact his authority the way I do, then that's fine by me.'

Krantz turned and headed into his quarters, his mind already reciting his speech to Lord Djibril.

Krane would be dealt with later.

Right now he had other matters to attend to.

. . .

Spray watched as Krantz drifted out of the room, and he frowned to himself.

He didn't like the man, even if he was his second-in-command.

Krantz did seem competent, but the rebel pilot was not about to let the man keep him sidelined.

And he knew it.

His eyes hardened as he discreetly touched the pocket that held the syringe.

A smirk crossed his face as he turned and drifted out of the room as well, having finished his speech. He had to report in anyway.

He made his way down the hallway, slowly pulling out his phone and bringing it online. Spray slowly drifted to the nearest restroom and slid inside, closing the door. Once he was out of sight of the cameras, he activated the communications encryption program and the device flickered briefly as the transmission was scrambled and sent down to the network of satellites that the AF had lost several months ago to the rebels. It was not easy to keep those things from being discovered to be under rebel control, but if not for the tech guys, they'd have been found sooner.

The screen flashed with the words he was waiting for. CONNECTION ESTABLISHED.

The words then gave way to show the face of his handler, and Spray saluted. "Agent Phoenix reporting in!" he said.

"Ah. About time. I assume you have something to report?" Grey Eyes asked.

"That would be an affirmative," Spray replied. "One of the adjuncts has been removed from play."

"Already?!" His contact's eyes went wide as he heard that. "I thought you'd've held off a bit longer."

"The war's heating up, and we need all available manpower we can get," Spray stated seriously. He lowered his hand. "Harris Davidson is now gone. He won't be using fear to keep his troops in line anymore."

"I see. I'd have thought you went for the Extended handler," Grey Eyes remarked.

"No. That'd be the next one on the list," Spray said. He narrowed his eyes. "But there is one that I'm not too keen on, and that's my second-in-command... or rather the guy who's benched me from the field."

"Hold on. You mean to say you can't be allowed on the field?" his handler inquired.

Spray shook his head. "They did say I could be allowed out... but only under certain circumstances, which I have not been informed of by any of those men," he explained. "So that means I'm benched until I can take them out."

"And that includes the second-in-command you got stuck with?" Grey Eyes wondered.

The rebel pilot nodded. "Yeah. Hopefully I can."

"Speaking of, how did you take down Davidson without being caught?" his contact asked.

Spray quickly outlined his scheme, and he heard Grey Eyes whistle in approval when he was done. The whole time he had to admit, during the takedown he had been utterly terrified of failing his mission.

"I must admit, your plan was brilliant," Grey Eyes praised. "To take him out so effectively and without being seen too. I knew you were creative, but that was just something else."

"Hardly. Anyone with a brain could do something like that. But carrying it out is another matter," Spray remarked. He leaned back against the wall of the restroom, his eyes narrowed. "But that's beside the point. The first officer is down."

Grey Eyes nodded. "Right. I suspect you have Henkel next on the list?" he inquired.

The rebel pilot nodded. "Yes. And I have an idea on how to take him down." His eyes darkened. "I know he's got that thing for young girls. And since there aren't any here on the ship, aside from the Extended, well... you get the idea..." His voice was hard as he said this.

"And what do you plan to pass it off as?" Grey Eyes wondered.

"Simple." Spray's lips curled into a dangerous grin. "Overexertion of his heart. He always seems to enjoy it too much and well... I'm not gonna go into detail, but when he is engaged with the girl, I'll do it and he won't even know. He seems to get too roped into the act and it blinds him."

"I assume you have the codes to his quarters?" his handler asked.

The rebel nodded. "Yes. That's one thing I'm glad for. In fact, tonight I'll be heading out to the ship with the Extended to observe them... officially, anyway." His grin faded as he looked down, his eyes softening. "Poor kids didn't deserve this..."

"I agree. But that's why you have to take down Henkel," Grey Eyes reminded him.

"Oh, trust me, I'm well aware," Spray noted. "I'll be sure to get him down soon." He then looked up. "And speaking of, I need information on the remaining political officers."

"I already figured you would be asking, so I have my guys already on it," his handler said. "I'll have the data ready for you by the time Moscow is defended."

"Huh? What's happening down there?" Spray wondered.

"Just keep an eye on things from orbit. I think you'll be surprised." That was all Grey Eyes said before the line cut and he looked down, closing the phone's encrypted communications app. He pocketed the device and cast his gaze back up towards the ceiling.

"Moscow... What's going to happen there?" he mused to himself.

He exited the restroom, making sure to wash his hands before leaving to add to the illusion. Spray made his way down the hallway, his eyes landing on the windows looking out at the planet below. Spray could already see Russia coming into view, and he noticed the lights of Moscow below. The site of the operation to conquer Eurasia.

And the eventual battle in a brawl unlike anything the world had seen since World War II...

Along with the resistance's greatest operation...

. . .

November 21st, CE 73

French Countryside, France

Eurasian Federation

The countryside was serene.

Deceptively so.

For Kyle Eisen, this was just one more reason to hate the AF.

In fact, he felt sick to his stomach at the realization he had almost been complicit in a war crime on the scale of what the Third Reich had pulled back in 1945. His eyes narrowed as he considered his next move.

So far the unit he had been a part of, the former Force B, had been on the run for the last few days, but thankfully the reinforcements from the Battle of Berlin had offered to put in a good word for their actions in trying to stem the slaughter as best they could. Still, he despised having been made an accessory to nothing more than conquest and genocide.

'How far have we fallen...?' he wondered.

While he was not an idealist, the pragmatic part of him knew that it was wrong.

Right now, all he could do was remain on the run, trying to stay ahead of the enemy.

As it stood, his machine needed to be repaired, and despite the damages the rest of the unit had taken in the subsequent retreat and desertion, they remained strong in terms of morale and a number of them had managed to whittle down their pursuers by a large margin. But even so, they were on borrowed time, and Kyle knew it. All they could do was keep running until they either reached a friendly force... or were caught and executed. He didn't put it past his former masters to do that at this stage.

But thankfully, things were about to look up... and in a very unexpected way.

His unit was coming up behind him, and a quick look at their machines indicated that they could not keep fighting for much longer. At best, in their current state, they'd be able to hold out only two more days at best. And that was with sheer amounts of luck on their side.

Kyle's teeth gritted as he brought his machine to a halt, fixing his gaze on the console before him. Already he could see his unit forming up behind him on the radar and via his external cameras.

"Sir? Are we stopping for the day?" one of his men asked.

"...For now, anyway," Kyle remarked. "I need to figure out where we are to go from here."

"Affirmative. Do you wish me to relay it to the men?" he asked.

"Yes. We're halting here for the day," Kyle ordered. "But do not let your guard down for a moment."

"Yes, sir." The pilot saluted before his image vanished and he slowly opened the cockpit of his Demolition Dagger. The cool November air was a fresh reprieve from the hot, stuffy air of the cockpit. It also allowed him to stretch his legs as he undid his restrains and stood up.

The very feeling of the air on his pilot suit was a welcome sensation, and he slipped the glass faceplate up, wincing briefly at the chill in the air.

He took the opportunity to look around, his eyes narrowed.

The snowy countryside looked like something out of a postcard, with a few big homes in the distance. It was so pristine, and yet, Kyle could already see the marks of war tainting the beauty of the French countryside. Tracks made by the land battleships marred the snowy landscape, and he could also see the footprints of mobile suits and tracks by standard vehicles left behind.

A scowl crossed his face.

'Those monstrosities are not even worthy of being called mobile suits...' he thought as he turned to the left, and his eyes narrowed a bit more as he saw smoke curling skyward... from the direction of Paris.

In truth, he could've cared less about the capital of what was once France.

But after seeing what his former countrymen were capable of doing, he was not about to be an accessory to mass murder any longer.

And he just wanted to give the Atlantic Federation a great big middle finger.

He had no idea that his actions would set him on course to becoming one of the United States' latest war heroes.

The man turned back to his forces, whom were already starting to huddle around fires made with wood gathered from destroyed and overturned trees. While they were not too far off, he was torn on what to do now. But the more he looked at the smoke reaching up to the sky, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, closing his eyes as he ducked his head.

The pragmatic side of him insisted it was useless, that they had no additional firepower and their machines were nearing the end of their service lives. But the more he thought about it, the more the tactician insisted it had to be done. After all, it argued, there had to be people who could repair their machines from the damages sustained during the retreat from Berlin. And... it could be a big blow to the Atlantic Federation forces if they saw the power of the Demolition Dagger...

He wasn't sure why, but he felt that it was for the better. The tactician in him had a valid point. He slowly lifted his gaze and fixed his eyes on Paris' direction, seeing the smoke like a beacon... a cry for help.

He glanced to his team, and decided.

After this day, they would head out to Paris.

He hopped out of his machine and landed on the ground, walking through the snow until he came to the main fire where the majority of his troops stood or sat. Right now, all that mattered was recovering as much strength as they could.

After that... they would go in and help hold Paris.

The rest of the day passed by uneventfully, or as uneventfully as it could. Sure they were out in the open, but for some reason the Atlantic Federation seemed to be ignoring them. Kyle wasn't too sure what was going on, but he was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially now. He figured, rightly so, that their former country was focusing too much on Paris to be paying attention to a rogue unit.

But even if Paris was holding, it was only a matter of time before it fell. And as long as it held, the less forces could be diverted to bringing down Moscow.

It paid to still overhear communications, he figured as he sipped a bit of his soup. Sure it was not as good as real food, but it was a huge improvement over the ration paste the regular soldiers had been eating as of late. And it was a serious morale booster in his opinion. After all, an army traveled on its stomach, as the old saying went. But if the regular soldiers didn't have enough food, it would make sense morale was low.

The late afternoon sun was harsh with the sunlight reflecting off the snow around them. And it also made them a prime target if the AF was going to find them. Here they were, sitting in the middle of pristine countryside with damaged mobile suits, and very little supplies. There could be no more tempting a target than them as they were now. And yet... why hadn't anyone made contact to alert them of the information of a rogue unit?

Something was not right.

The young man looked around, his eyes narrowed.

He was very tempted to go back to his machine and check its radar for any alerts of Atlantic Federation forces coming their way. But a fair number of his men had remained in their machines to act as lookouts and scouts for any possible incoming enemies. And so far, from what they had reported, nothing had shown up on their sensors. It was so eerie.

It was like they were being ignored.

Maybe Command had chosen to ignore them in the grand scheme of things, he mused. After all, it did seem possible.

But they didn't have much longer to be on their guard.

And nor did they have much longer to be on the run.

As it stood, Kyle wasn't sure how much longer Paris could hold. So if they were going to help, they had to move.

As the sun began to set beyond the horizon, he glanced to his forces.

Everyone was looking at him as he stood up.

He cleared his throat. "Okay. I'm going to be blunt here." He looked around at the men as they watched him. "We're sitting ducks. Our machines are damaged and some of them are nearing the end of their service lives. We're low on ammo, supplies, and we need to recover our strength. But somehow we've managed to fight back the Atlantic Federation forces that have been pursuing us even though by all means we shouldn't have."

"And yet we have," he continued. "We've fought them off, managed to make it this far in just three days, which is saying something. After our defection at Berlin, it makes sense we'd be hunted and taken out. But we've endured. I'm not sure as to what this means, but one thing I know is certain. We got this far for a reason. And we should do what we can to give our former masters hell." He turned to look over his shoulder at the blazing inferno in Paris which was slowly becoming visible in the darkening sky. "And if it means going against our own countrymen, then so be it."

"You... You can't be serious!" one of the men said. "We'll be killed!"

"Not necessarily," Kyle explained. "Paris, in spite of being overwhelmed by numbers and attackers, has held this far, hasn't it?"

"Well, true..." the man said softly.

"And if Paris is still holding, we can bolster their defensive strength," Kyle retorted, cutting off another man who was about to interrupt him. He closed his mouth and let his commanding officer continue. "That means we can also have our machines repaired."

"But even if we do get through..." another man started. "...we could still be wiped out."

Kyle knew he was right.

But if they didn't try, then what else could they do?

"All right. If anyone has any objections, I won't stop you from leaving. But it would be prudent if we worked together to get through. All hands on deck would be preferred, but I'm not stopping you if you want out." Kyle scanned over the soldiers and pilots critically.

A few were, from what he could see, were torn on the matter. But in the end, those few did choose to stay as he got up.

"We're moving out as soon as the sun sets."

. . .

The battle was getting worse.

Already the city was taking losses for the defenders, but in spite of it all they were somehow holding onto the city center.

Henri Burkhard was standing amidst the ruins of a destroyed apartment complex on the top floor, scanning with his binoculars as he observed the fighting raging around him.

Fires were burning from infernos covering the streets or buildings, and he could see people struggling in the darkness as soldiers of both nations clashed. The AF was trying to get past the barricades erected in this section of the city's barriers, but his forces were holding them back. It was not easy, as it was brutal and the song of gunfire was heard a few stories below him.

A few Strike Daggers fired on the AF's Jet Windams as they wove and evaded, but they were picked off by one pilot whose machine lay sprawled on its chest atop a pile of rubble from an office building. A makeshift ghillie suit made of tarps covered the majority of its frame, and the rifle was covered in debris to camouflage it from sight. The pilot pulled the trigger a few more times, taking down two machines before a third was clipped. Its wing was sheared off at the shoulder and it plummeted, falling right for one of the streets below.

Henri saw that this was a perfect opportunity to capture one of the enemy. As the wounded Jet Windam landed on its back, a few military vehicles surrounded the downed machine, followed by a Strike Dagger aiming its weapon at the cockpit. The pilot seemed to have the right idea and opened the cockpit, exiting from his machine.

The sheer hatred in the man's eyes was enough to make Henri grit his teeth. Clearly this man was an Atlantian, not an American, from what he had heard. The French military moved in and ushered their prisoner down to the makeshift bunkers within the catacombs of Paris. His eyes narrowed as he turned back to face the battle raging around the city.

Smoke was curling skyward and he could see explosions caused by missiles and mobile suits clashing in the air and on the ground. The city's defenses were holding, but it was only a matter of time before some component or part of the defensive line failed. And he was not about to let that happen. He gritted his teeth as he observed some artillery bring down a couple of those Grognards, or whatever they were called. The artillery struck one in the legs and one in the arms, bringing them both down. The one missing its legs landed on its chest, only for two Strike Daggers to move in and drag the Atlantian machine onto its back. One Dagger pried the cockpit open and the pilot let out sexist wearing as two women dragged him out by his hair and shoulders, one delivering a nasty blow to his face with the butt of her machine gun. The man lost a couple of teeth and he glared at her, only to recoil in shock as she stared him down with an impassive face that wouldn't look out of place on a stone statue.

The second Grognard fell to its knees, only for a Strike Dagger to kneel down and coax the pilot out. The man - in reality a youth not much older than nineteen - was blubbering as the Strike Dagger's pilot talked to him. And Henri couldn't blame the kid. No one deserved to be forced to serve genocidal masters. And he wondered what the general's old friend would say if he saw this.

Henri turned his gaze from the two Grognards and their pilots before adjusting his uniform. Just beyond the ruined city the sun was beginning to set, its fading light painting the entire area a bright blood red color. The very idea of a city bathed in hellish light was enough to make him flinch a bit. And the snow beginning to blow as clouds moved in didn't help matters either. It only served as a contrast, and to Henri, it represented the worst of both worlds.

One side was that of the darkness in the hearts of humankind, festering and growing with every passing day. That was shown by the blood-red sunset.

The other side was the abyss of space, cold and unfeeling. Much like that of the PLANTs, in some way.

Or was it the other way around? Was the blood-red sunset a mark of those up in space fighting for their very right to exist? And was the darkness of the coming storm a symbol of the heartless side to which the Atlantians had fallen?

This war was not simple in any way.

The fact that a resistance movement was forming in America was a key part to this. He had a vague idea as to how vast they were now. But without numbers to back up that claim, he could only theorize as to how many rebels even existed. But the fact that such a group was gathering strength was enough to prove to him that many people were in fact against the whole idea that Coordinators were a threat to the human race. His general's old friend had revealed to him that the people had been digging up old books on World War II and delving into the ideology of the Nazis and comparing it to Blue Cosmos' ideology. Upon finding similarities, many had up and decided to join the resistance. Sure the numbers joining now were impressive, but many more still needed proof or evidence. And with the war heating up, it wouldn't be long before such things happened, he hoped.

His musings were interrupted by the sudden beeping of his phone and he grabbed it, bringing it online.

"Yes?"

"You have incoming reinforcements." That was all the caller said.

Henri pulled the phone away. "Reinforcements? For whom?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "And who are you?!"

"Just call me a friend." The mysterious voice hung up, leaving him confused. Who had that been? And why had they contacted them now? Whatever the case, he was just glad that help was on the way...

Or so he hoped.

The defenses were holding, but not for much longer.

His eyes hardened as he saw the land battleships moving into position for another strike. Their cannons were still armed and ready for a fight, and it seemed like they were coming about to hit their strongest defensive point. If that fell... then so would the city. It would be a slaughter. Henri was not about to go down without a fight though.

He turned and ran down the stairs of the apartment ruins and over to where a wounded EF pilot lay not too far from her machine which was almost through being repaired by the local mechanics. She turned to look at him in shock as he came to a stop beside her. "Sir?" she rasped.

"Do you mind?" he asked, gesturing to her Strike Dagger.

The woman smiled thinly. "Give them hell," she whispered.

Henri nodded and boarded the Dagger. Once inside, he went through the motions he had gotten used to over the last few years. He may have been the commander of the French military, but he was not about to sit back and let this go on. So he had trained in how to pilot a mobile suit during his down time when he had some. And that experience was about to be put to use.

He felt the machine start up, the mechanics finally stepping and nodding as he got the machine to its feet. Henri gripped the controls, his eyes hard as he joined the ranks of the soldiers defending the spot where the attack was going to come. He steeled himself and took in a breath as he narrowed his eyes.

This was it.

Their final stand.

Start ALLIED FORCE (Gundam Build Fighters OST) - by Yuki

Or so it seemed.

The next thing they knew, a loud explosion from further back caught their attention and Henri's eyes widened as his sensors beeped. He turned his attention to the screen beside him and he stared in shock at these unknown forces coming in hot.

For a moment, it seemed as if there would be no way they could defeat these newcomers with what they had left.

But then he watched as another explosion rocked the area and then he stared as several battered, damaged, but still intact machines came barreling through the attackers' lines, one of them with its arm in - of all thing - a makeshift sling to keep it from flopping uselessly against the chest and chassis. This machine had on its head a single horn, and reports from his old friend's contact came through to his mind's eye.

He had been briefed on this one, and he knew instantly it had to belong to the rebel unit. That, and these other battered machines as well.

Help had finally arrived.

"Attention Paris Defense Force! This is Kyle Eisen, formerly of the Atlantic Federation Force B. We are here to assist you," the pilot of the horned Dagger said over the machine's external speakers.

Henri was quick to respond, keying his borrowed Dagger's external speakers as well. "This is Henri Burkhard of the Paris Defense Force, commander of the French forces in zis region!" he replied.

"Ah, good. I wasn't sure if anyone from the French Regional Command survived," Kyle responded.

"Mind me asking why you are here?" Henri asked, his eyes narrowing at the horned Dagger on his monitor.

"...I can't really explain it, but..." Kyle's voice trailed off hesitantly. "... this feels like it's the right thing to do in the aftermath of what our superiors did at Berlin. I can't stomach the thought of genociding innocents like that."

Henri quirked an eyebrow at the word. "Genociding?"

"Yes. Committing genocide to force others into line," Kyle explained. "That's what it means."

"I see then." Henri's eyes narrowed a bit more. "And you wish to atone for your country's crimes against humanity by assisting us, oui?"

"Yes. I do," Kyle stated. "Me and my men."

'That explains why they showed up then,' Henri thought. 'And it proves that the general was right. There is common sense in these men. And that is what we needed here to begin with. It seems common sense is starting to make a return.'

A smile crossed his lips at that. "Then by all means, we could use the help," he said. "But we do need your IFF to mark as friendly."

"We terminated that when we defected," the rogue pilot stated. "So we need to come up with a new one. Just for now, put us in as allies until we can do more."

Hearing this made Henri think. Terminating their Atlantian IFFs was a smart move. But it also left them without any way to mark them as friendlies. Unless a temporary one could be made on the spot, which they didn't have time for. And only after Paris held would they be able to make proper IFFs.

"Very well. I'll relay orders to my forces to avoid firing on the damaged machines that have arrived," he stated. "That's the best we can do for now. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances, you'll have to be assigned to the strongest point. That is where they are attempting to breach."

"It's a feint," Kyle explained. "They're making you think they'll go for the strongest point when they'll circle around and target your weakest point. I would send us there instead if I were you."

For all his smarts, Henri had fallen for an obvious feint. He was shocked. "But... they are..."

"The land battleships are a decoy!" Kyle snapped. "You have to shore up your weakest point! That is the main priority!"

Henri was floored. His eyes widened as he finally grasped the whole plot. The land battleships had not once gone for their weakest point, which would've opened them up to attack. Instead, by faking an attack on their strongest point and drawing attention to it, they were leaving their rear exposed to an attack by enemy ground forces!

"Send us to the rear!" Kyle demanded. "We'll stall them there and give you time to send reinforcements there."

"Very well. But I hope you are wrong..." Henri muttered.

"I wish I was too," the former Atlantian remarked. "Believe me, I wish that too. And that's saying something coming from me."

The French commander nodded. "Right. Then get going."

The horned Dagger nodded its head as the newly arrived forces started to head back to the rear of the defenses. As they left, Henri felt a surge of hope. For once, things were going to work in their favor. If this plan worked... then the Atlantians would be halted. And Paris would hold.

Despite the odds, things were looking up for once.

And he smiled.

End ALLIED FORCE (Gundam Build Fighters OST) - by Yuki

. . .

November 22nd, CE 73

New York City

Frank looked up from his lunch and eyed the news reports.

He had to keep a smirk from forming on his face in public.

Task Force Narrative was already working behind the scenes, and with the defection of Benjamin Carson to their side, things were starting to change.

With the attacks in Poland and Russia being blunted by a combined effort of Terminal and Eurasian Federation forces, it was also starting to show the truth behind the sense of racism the war had achieved. The facts were now being put out, but with the barest hint of Blue Cosmos propaganda to make it seem as if things were still going according to Djibril's plans. For his part, he had to admit that the President's plan was perfect, even if it was flawed to an extent.

But the real source of information people were tapping into was unnoticed, and he was grateful for that.

And with that source now up and running, there was a lot more anger and rage starting to simmer beneath the surface.

He could sense it in the way people were averting their gazes from the big news screens playing all the usual Blue Cosmos ideology propaganda. He could see it in the way their bodies were tense. He noticed the way they were starting to whisper. And whispers spread rapidly. Word of mouth was key for this. Not to mention that it was easier to dismiss so-called rumors by the fanatics in power.

He tore his gaze from the reports and turned his focus back to his investigation.

So far it had borne some serious fruit.

The Seirans did have a lot of stock in North American Heavy Engineering. Way too much, in his book. He understood a thing or two about how stock trading worked, and from the looks of things, this smelled of insider trading on a completely different level. Almost as if someone had been feeding them information on what stocks to buy and invest in. He would have to sniff around for that at a later date, but it looked so far like things were pointing in the direction of someone having bribed them in the big financial way.

His eyes narrowed as he tented his fingers in front of his mouth.

This also would probably tie into why the late Azrael's computers had been wiped of any and all data, he mused.

He glanced left and right before he discreetly reached into his pocket and pulled out a flash drive attached to a string.

While it looked innocent enough, there was a secret about this particular flash drive. This flash drive held a special line of code that, upon analysis, would open a gate into the Resistance's greatest weapon: The Onion Router Network, otherwise called TORN.

Based on the old concept from the 21st century AD, TORN was an improved version, using, ironically, the oldest version of security they could find, not just because of how old it was, but because of how hard it was for many amateur hackers to breach due to its outdated coding. But when combined with the latest as well, it created a three-fold layer of security that would take even LOGOs' professional hackers months or even decades to crack. TORN was also connected to what many resistance fighters were calling the Hub. The Hub was the main source of everything in the group.

Mission assignments. Live real-time updates. Information relaying. General chatter. News on operations in the field. Medical reports from the hospitals. And so on.

It all took place in the Hub.

And it was efficiently organized.

Frank had to admit that the tech industry really came through with this as he brought up the Hub on his computer. He was fortunate enough to be working in an isolated section of his office cafeteria at that point, facing away from any cameras that could be observing him.

He plugged the USB into his laptop and brought up the browser.

The coding within the USB was scanned and recognized. The screen flickered once before a stream of data flowed past and the Hub was opened on his monitor. Off to one side was a series of chats that blipped, with the ones marked as priority for him being at the top of the list. In the lower left-hand corner of his screen was a series of news articles from the underground papers, as well as a link to the Atlantic News Network that Ben headed. On the top right-hand corner was an envelope that flashed every now and then with a number, indicating the messages within had to be read. Small arrows indicated he could switch to other windows.

He clicked on the envelope, showing that there was a slew of messages waiting for him. He clicked the top one and it opened.

His eyes narrowed as he read it.

'So that's it then,' he thought. 'Azrael had access to a black-market programmer, so that makes a lot of sense as to how he was able to erase any and all data pertaining to communications.'

He composed a quick email to his contact who responded within minutes. The businessman nodded to himself. His contact would see about sniffing out someone who could retrieve that data. He felt a bit uneasy about having to resort to asking someone who was halfway into the criminal underworld, but at this stage, what other choice did he have? He did pay good enough to hire someone like that. But this was still a risk.

But it was calculated.

And as for the Seirans? Well, he had enough to send to the President.

He signed out of TORN and removed the USB, having finished his business on the Hub.

He brought out his phone and selected the number he knew all too well.

His courier would get a bonus for this if he got it to her in a day.

. . .

November 23rd, CE 73

Resistance Headquarters Warehouse

President Eisenhower watched the news with her eyes narrowed, hands tented in front of her mouth.

She could already see the fight was progressing, and she was tense.

Her shoulders were hunched, and people around her could sense that she was anxious. The way the sweat glistened on her forehead was enough proof for them to know she was worried about the outcome of the fight.

Or more importantly the outcome of Operation Shield Medic.

She knew that the whole operation was determined on whether the hospital would be attacked.

But she was more concerned about whether or not the firing systems were altered accordingly. Her teeth were gritted, and despite the calm facade she put on, her heart was racing big time. Her hands were also clammy with sweat, and she had to struggle to keep from tapping her foot. This was the big deal. Either Moscow held, or it fell.

And with it their credibility.

So far her moves had been well planned, and well executed. But from what she was seeing, she was not liking it.

The Eurasians and Terminal were not following through with her plan.

But there was some hope.

Recent movements carried out by the Eurasians were showing something big was happening. More specifically behind the city's lines.

Way behind the city's lines.

Thanks to their ability to hack into the Atlantian spy satellites, they were able to see that Moscow had summoned up huge reserves from the rear.

But it all hinged on whether or not Terminal could stall the Destroys and the major fighters. Particularly those monstrous beasts.

She could already see that despite the best efforts, the Atlantians were practically steamrolling over the defenses and defenders alike. It was so far not looking so good. But much to her surprise, as the battle progressed, the two Hyperions that had fought their potential allies before were assisting the defenders of Moscow, and keeping the Colonel at bay, along with others from his forces. The fight was starting to turn in their favor...

Only for the Destroys to transform into mobile suit mode.

Eisenhower leaned forward a bit more, her eyes hard as she watched this critically.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl at that point. The air was filled with tension as the first machine shifted their targets towards a hospital...

And then...

It turned...

And opened fire on its comrade!

The second Destroy was forced to retaliate and defend itself with its shields.

And Eisenhower couldn't help it.

Despite the tension and worry in the air, she managed to crack a grin. Not a calm or serious one. No. This was a full on, shit-eating, predatory grin. Hidden by her hands, she grinned as sinisterly as she could.

'Perfect...' she thought. 'Djibril, Azrael, your efforts are coming to a halt here and now!'

With the fighting raging before them, this was the moment of truth.

Would Moscow fall... or would it hold?

"CONTACT!" someone shouted.

"Huh?" Several people looked over as the woman glanced over her shoulder.

President Eisenhower shot a glance back out of the corner of her eye. "What is it?" she barked.

"It's Terminal! They're on the field!" the woman exclaimed. "The mechanical Grim Reaper struck down one of the Destroys!"

Here the resistance leader chuckled. "Perfect! Djibril's operation is coming to a screeching halt!" she purred. She looked up, her grin still on her face. "And with the losses... Oh, this is gonna be good!"

"Ma'am? What are you planning?" George asked.

"Simple." Eisenhower sneered. "The Atlantians take such great pride in their military, right? Well... with the losses they suffer today at the hands of Terminal and Eurasia, well... Let's just say we have a prime opportunity to fill those ranks ourselves."

Some people were confused, but an older man in his late forties caught on to her plan. "Wait... you mean put our own forces in, right?"

Eisenhower nodded. "You got it, Haruto," she remarked. "We intend to get our own people in there... and by that, I mean we can play this right. They have men working in logistics, right? Well... our plan is simple. We play to their machoism and get the men on the front lines, but at the same time, we put forward the idea that women are good organizers, and that they are much more suited for it. So if that happens..." Here her eyes took on an icy tinge as she smirked in that predatory manner again. "We can get women back on the front lines. Logistics sometimes means one has to go on the battlefield, right? This is a perfect way to get around that gender-based discrimination policy."

"Oh, I get it!" Haruto Ishiyama exclaimed. "That's rather clever!"

The rebel leader raised her head up. "Yeah. As I said. I know war. Djibril and his cronies do not."

"Right."

The room fell silent again as the deadly fighting continued to rage.

Eisenhower kept her eyes fixed on the screen, feverishly hoping against all the odds for the best.

The whole time she could see the fighting raging. People struggling to survive, others trying to hold the lines. Despite the resistance's proposed plan being used, Terminal was definitely taking full advantage of the chaos to deal damage to the Atlantian forces. And with each one that was taken out, that reduced the rot within their military. And Eisenhower was not unaware of the possibilities of this, both good and bad. Her eyes were narrowed as she clenched her fists in front of her mouth. She could also only hope that the rogue unit made contact in Paris.

Thankfully, she didn't have much longer to wait.

The communications officer perked up and placed a hand to her headset. She listened in for a moment before she nodded. "Yes, sir!"

She shifted in her seat. "Ma'am, we just got word! The Paris Defense Forces have been bolstered by the rogue unit! They just held off an assault that could've broken through their rear lines!"

The President glanced over. "They did, huh?" She smirked. "Perfect. Get me on the line."

"Yes, ma'am!" the officer replied.

. . .

November 23rd, CE 73

Paris, France, Eurasian Federation

"I see..." Kyle pursed his lips as he pondered this.

It had only been a few days ago that the former Force B had made its debut in Paris, assisting them in defending their rear flank and stopping an attack cold. While the force attacking had not been as strong as it could've been, the fact still remained that they had suffered severe damage in that fight. So they were down to only five combat capable machines, one of which was his Demolition Dagger. But it was still something to say the least.

Had they not been there, then Paris would've fallen.

The mere fact they had been there was a huge morale booster to the beleaguered defenders of the city. In spite of all they had done, the commander of the garrison had opened his arms to them and welcomed them heartily after the attack had been thwarted. The men as a result had been given decent good food, something that boosted their morale as well. So it was a win-win for both parties, he felt.

And for his part, he was starting to feel like something could be done.

The damaged units of Force B were currently undergoing repairs, using what parts could be salvaged. It was just as well, too. The more machines they had, the better.

But to get a call from some group claiming to be a resistance movement within the Atlantic Federation? And that they were fighting against a shadowy group called LOGOs who really ran the country from behind the scenes? That all seemed like it could've been a cliche movie plot. But the sheer data that came in from this woman was a breaker right there.

"So to summarize, you guys are fighting a war underground to try and reclaim our country from these shadow lords, so to speak, am I right?" he asked.

"That's the gist of it," the woman's voice replied.

Kyle actually couldn't see the speaker, but from his perspective, it was a smart move to avoid being identified by the enemy. All he could see was a small image of a speaker on the screen of the phone he was using to communicate with her.

"And you want to induct me and my men into the United States Armed Forces, correct?"

"You catch on quick," the woman remarked with a chuckle. "Yes, I do. And for a good reason. We have already secured some measure of trust with Terminal, but not enough to really prove ourselves yet. Based on what we know, our own operation within Moscow did buy time for them to strike down those Destroys. And that secured Terminal and the Eurasian Federation a joint victory. And that alone is what is needed to tilt the balance of power away from LOGOs and in favor of the united forces of all nations across the world."

Kyle arched an eyebrow. "United forces of all nations across the world?"

"Yes," the woman stated. "Our objective is to stop this war at all costs. And we intend to do so. But right now, we're not, in Heero's eyes, legit. So if we're to do this, we need true American troops in Europe. And that's where you come in."

Now Kyle could see where she was going with this.

"I see. Well, when you put it that way, I don't see any real reason to refuse." His eyes narrowed a bit. "However, I'm still not sold on this LOGOs yet. If you can provide me with tangible evidence of their existence, I'd be more willing to believe it. But since you need help, I'm more open to doing what we can in France here to harass... Atlantian forces then."

"That's good enough for me for now," the woman conceded. "As of right now, your unit has been inducted into the US Army as Task Force 141. You will be acting in concert with Brigadier General Mathieu Neuville down in southern France. Henri will be your direct superior for the moment. We'll send you some US IFFs so this way you won't be targeted by friendly fire."

"Understood!" Kyle responded.

For his part, he swore the woman had a smile on her face as he heard her speak. "Good luck. God Bless America."

With that, the line went dead and he turned back to Henri and handed the phone back. "Well, it's settled. We're to be your additional support here in Paris."

"All the more reason to thank you for your efforts," Henri said with a grin. Then he became serious. "But you still need proper IFFs."

"I think our mutual friend will handle that," Kyle said as he leaned against his battered machine.

Henri nodded, wondering just how they intended to get the IFFs to the newly activated Task Force 141.

That would have to be dealt with later.

Right now, they had machines to complete repairs on.

. . .

Resistance Headquarters Warehouse

"We got Secretary Durbin on the line!" the communications officer shouted, surprising President Eisenhower.

"What? Why is she on the line?" she asked.

"She says it's urgent, and to check the news," the officer relayed.

The President pursed her lips as she turned to the main monitor now showing the battle's conclusion.

The major victory she had been hoping for had finally come about, but it wasn't enough to bring the room into spirits. In fact, it actually did the opposite. Because of one good reason.

The damned Patriot Youth Act.

If it passed today, then their victory at Moscow would be for naught.

"Patch her through, and bring up the news feed in one of the main monitors. But do not shut down the battle," she ordered.

"Yes, ma'am!" The technicians working at the consoles typed in several commands and one of the screens flickered, showing the news as it came on live.

Her eyes widened ever so slightly as she heard the reporter speaking.

"This just in from Washington, D.C.! In an upsetting turn of events, the Patriot Youth Act, which was supposed to have been passed by noon today, has failed to pass the Senate a third time in a row. Five days ago, Senator Richard Durbin of West Virginia enacted a record setting one-hundred-and-twenty-hour long filibuster, stalling any and all efforts to render the bill ready for President Copeland to pass. As of right now, the senator is being sent directly to the emergency room to be treated for his condition. His wife has-"

That was it.

People stared in shock as the reporter continued to relay the developing story. Eisenhower's face was stone as she observed this. The woman's face seemed to be a mix of emotions, from what she could see. Part disgust, part relief, part joy. That was a good sign in her eyes.

"-been stating ever since the Act's conception that children, no older than thirteen, should be indoctrinated and sent to war. As a result of his words, the entire Senate has decried the Act and voted unanimously to halt it in its tracks. President Copeland, as a result, has issued a statement decrying the Senate's actions, calling them treason at their core. However, many have stated that this is contradictory to what people want. Many are even starting to call our righteous goals into question. As of right now, however, the Patriot Youth Act has, effectively, died in the Senate. The House of Representatives has stated that they will no longer push the Act forward, insisting that their colleagues in the Senate open their eyes and find a compromise that both chambers can work towards."

As soon as she finished her statement, the entire room went silent.

All that could be heard was part of the battle raging, but even that seemed muted.

Then, someone let out a loud cry as he slammed a fist into his free hand, a grin crossing his face.

That was all it took.

People broke into cheers. Loud cries and whoops, shouts of relief and some people even hugging one another. People scrambled to their feet and some broke into hugs, tears streaming down more than a few faces at this point.

For her part, Eisenhower sighed as she leaned back, the tension easing out of her body as she closed her eyes, a relieved smile on her face. "Finally..." she whispered. "We did it..."

With the death of the Patriot Youth Act, young boys would not be sent to war.

And to her, that was even sweeter than even the finest wine.