The Committee for National Security

Chapter 8 – Karma

6 Months after expulsion / June 6th, 1980

Four-Thirty PM, June 6, 1980

"Cleanse up your body, cleanse up your soul- All you need is Twin Islands Milk!"

Mili,"Painful Death for the Lactose Intolerant"

Binah [United States Government – (Illegally-hired) Central Intelligence Agency Agent] Langley, Virginia — Dated June 6, 1980

Binah could not help but chuckle as she sat on the bed while Tiphereth tried her damndest to reach for the remote of the television which was placed on a shelf just barely above her, even with her extending her toes upward.

"Come on, Binah!" Tiphereth shouted as she turned to the right to face her, having become desperate for any help in reaching the remote, as Yesod had went outside to do something that she didn't know enough about. "Help me out here!"

"I prefer seeing your struggle and any adaptations to it, young one."

"I am not a kid!"

"The tone and inflections you give me say otherwise, Tiphereth. Surely, your aptness should match your supposed age, no?"

"Agggghhh!" Tiphereth shouted, eyes closed and locked in an almost frame-perfect recreation of an angry face only Gebura would make. A light chuckle escaped once more as Binah smirked.

"It would pay well to temper yourself."

"I'm going to have the Director fry your ass."

"He may try, but I fear that he lacks the courage to protect himself as of late," Binah shrugged. "He is a scared animal, but he is not backed yet into a corner. I would not fear a man like him in his current state."

Tiphereth stopped for a moment, looking at Binah with narrowed eyes and curled lips, before speaking up to Binah. "...What do you mean by that, actually? You've been real creepy with him in the, uh, airport-" Tiphereth double-checked herself as Binah nodded. It was indeed called an airport. "I mean- Like, you literally managed to infer that he liked a particular brand of tea- Shit, you even scared him with tea. What's up with that?"

"When you want to train an animal you want to destroy your enemies, do you simply let it whimper and cower, or do you back it into a corner and enrage it?"

"Cut to the chase, Binah," Tiphereth sighed. "I'm not in the mood for these word games. Just tell me what the hell you wanna do to our poor Director already."

"Very well," Binah nodded. "I have noticed that our Director, while an otherwise admirable man, is up against threats that he, in his current form and attitude, cannot hope to face without risking distortion," She said. "I have spoken with Angela while commuting to our flight. When the Director was out of earshot."

"What'd you talk about with her, then?"

"Bush is, simply put, a man who cannot be called ready to face Carmen," She said. "That is it."

"What's your reasoning for that, in that case?" Tiphereth shifted to sitting on a chair and talking to Binah, having long given up on trying to get the remote. "I mean- He seemed perfectly capable of surviving her."

"Therein lies the problem," Binah said. "He may survive the first encounter, but Carmen is a creature who knows how to break those who refuse to bend the knee," She sighed. "Tell me, young one. What happens when a creature like her manages to force the Head to kneel to her?"

"...Shit."

"It is her desire to bring forth the base form and instinct of man, a cowering and sniveling animal prone to breaking when the lightest of force is applied to it. That would be an extreme impediment—and stating that is cloaking its status as an understatement—to our interests," She looked out of the window. "Not to mention that it impedes the interests of our director and, I presume his allies."

"Oh that reminds me, where's the Director now?"

"He mentioned he was heading out to work-" She chuckled. "Though I suppose he may not come back to work in time."

"What do you mean by-"

The sound of gunshots erupting from the floor below Binah had confirmed her statement. A light chuckle escaped from her. She had managed to deduce something was terribly wrong. Paranoia is only unfounded if no results come from it, after all.

After all, why would any establishment like this have the entirety of their fourth floor booked at such an unassuming day like this?

Binah calmly stood up and glanced at Tiphereth. "You and Yesod stay here. I will handle this on my own," Binah said, opening the door and walking outside, head still glancing toward the room. "Do not leave until the shooting ceases."

"Understood, Binah," Tiphereth nodded. "Yesod. Help me barricade the door-" She began just as Binah closed the door to their room. Turning to the right, Binah saw the room containing Hod and Malkuth preparing for combat.

"I would advise against going into combat in a situation like this, especially after our… rather recent arrival. Conserve your energy for a more worthy enemy," Binah said. "Malkuth, Hod- Guard the floor. Prevent other intruders from entering."

"Who gave you authority over us?" Malkuth asked- Only for Binah to grimace and shake her head.

"We cannot reach the director at our current state. It is in our interests, however, for this room to guard this area of the floor from enemy attack."

"But-"

"I have tasked Tiphereth and Yesod with fortifying the rooms. It thus falls upon you to guard the floor."

"She's right," Gebura interrupted as she manifested her legendary sword, Mimicry. The eyes blinking and rapidly shifting, while the woman known as the Red Mist strut forward. "I've told Chesed to assist with defending. You two should join him."

"Gah," Malkuth said. "Fine. We'll take it from here-" She said she looked at Gebura and Binah. "And destroy them for me, will you?" She grunted. "Weakness means death."

"Good luck, Gebura," Hod said. "And good luck, Miss Binah."

"My gratitude eternal, young Michelle," Binah said as she stepped aside to let Gebura out of the room before she closed the door, with Gebura then moving forward as Binah followed. Just in front of Room 522 came Roland, strutting forward as he began putting the gloves on.

"My my," Binah said as she chuckled. "Come to defend your brother in arms?"

"He's my boss, Binah," Roland huffed in irritation. "Nothing more, nothing less."

"Must you deny that you are your brother's keeper any longer?" Binah chuckled as Roland closed the door. Presumably, Angela had opteed to stay behind, as did Netzach and Hokma. Baffling decision they have made, but she could not judge them. They were brids freed from a cage after all.

The elevator dinged as it arrived, Gebura having pressed the button to call for it. Awfully convenient, as the doors slid open and the three backed into it. Binah smirked as she finally realized that she could once again slip back into the role she was always cast in by the strings of fate.

An executioner.

An arbiter.

A vanguard for the will of the Director and his United States Government.

So, once more, she shall go forth in one last reprisal of her accursed performance lost to time millions of years ago in the hell that was Lobotomy Corporation.

Perhaps the Director would appreciate the show, no?

"I… I get that I look like him, Binah," Roland said as the silence died down, not putting on his gloves until they would get into a proper combat situation. "But… Are you really sure that you see me in him? He- He's just…"

"One must not doubt their eyes when they see themselves in a mirror, Roland," She said. "Lest your vision be clouded by the same mistakes you once made those many years ago," She glanced at the elevator door. "Our Director is not suited to fight Carmen as of now. However, as a mirror of you…"

"...You're hoping to put him through the same hell that he went through in the Library," Gebura scoffed. "Underneath all of that fancy talk, there's the same Arbiter I stabbed those many years ago after all."

"Experience does not come without hardship," Binah chuckled. "But hardship without education is simply a wasted experience." She said as the elevator dinged when it hit the fourth floor.

"...If you say so, Binah." Roland scoffed as he put on his mask, the powers it possesses immediately taking into effect as Roland's outward appearance shifted- A blank, formless yet familiar and almost incomprehensible face combined with clothing shifting to the form of those within its vicinity. Those being Binah and Gebura.

"Let's go." Gebura commented.

It was the time to return to the accursed art of theatrics for the Director's sake, Binah's mind thought as she stepped out of the elevator. "I will take the right side," She said as she looked at where she arrived. There were three entrances and places to go. Immediately in front of her was a long hallway, while to her right and left were shorter hallways that then turned forwards from either the left or right respectively. "I do not trust the capacity of our adversaries, so assume this to be a tragic yet foregone conclusion for those against us."

"Oh it's on now," Gebura chuckled. "They're not making it out of here alive." She said as she made a slashing motion with Mimicry in the air. Meanwhile, Roland began putting on the black gloves, silencing anything within a short distance, forcing those in his path to pay for the price of silence.

As Gebura marched straight forward while Roland took the left, Binah's mind went to work as she approached from the right, eyes narrowed and a disgusted look on her face. Who were these whelps to dare challenge a former Arbiter, precluding the possibility of them being suicidal?

Her answer was given to her when one of the rooms to her left—the quarters of a janitor, to be exact—had its entryway forcefully pushed outwards, a fool taking refuge in there seeking to destroy her in the process. His feeble attempt at striking her were met by her grabbing the arrm holding the inadequate pistol he used and tearing it off of his shoulder in a flash, a splash of blood momentarily blinding her.

The splatter blood distracting her vision was soon replaced by the scream of the man who dared to strike her. Binah tossed the arm she ripped off to the side, the gun going off negligently as it fell to the floor attached to the arm.

A momentary glance at the man who failed to attack her revealed him to be wearing a cap patterned in the United States of America that the Director so proudly worked for. Disgusting. Her snarl curled up as she further analyzed the man as he stumbled back into the janitorial room, vainly clutching where his arm once was.

Whatever vitriol he could have said was drowned out as she took a closer look at the man whose self-importance was overestimated. What met her was a young, if disheveled face. The clothes he wore felt less like the clothing of someone from the backstreets, and more like a uniform of a Wing security force.

Greeting her was a dark, olive green attire with two breast pockets out front, its right one having the numbers '1776' embroidered on them, while its left pocket had "KATE – BORN '68" emblazoned on top. This uniform was the defaced facsimile of a proper uniform, something which greatly angered Binah. It was a poor attempt to personalize workwear. No sense. No taste. And no greater personality other than false loyalty and petty tribute to pretender family members.

His left arm—his only remaining arm, in fact—had an armband on it, depicting a shield with a flaming sword embedded inside of it striking a rainbow down. A poor attempt at mimicking the iconic symbolism of the wings. What it represented mattered not to her, and never shall it matter to her. Dead men tell no tales, and so do dead groups.

His lower garments were not much better, being a cheap pair of pants—whose material was shoddily made. To the left lay a holster, once proudly concealing the gun almost used to make a vain shot at her. Now, an empty testimony to failure, a symbol of poor training in the art of timing.

It almost baffled Binah how rapidly she caught onto criticizing the fashion sense of someone as pathetic as this man, whose hurl and hurl of misogyny was drowned out by her focusing on just how wrong he dressed.

She grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up, giving her a closer look—His hat wrapped tightly around his head, almost risking bursting open, having been adjusted poorly. His prized uniform was a mess of folds and a collar way too large for his size. And his pants were just wrong.

As her mind finished internally processing the criticisms and utter revulsion she possessed for his particular clothing choice, the first thing she was met with was a hurl of spit into her eye—a problem that she easily avoided as she used her free hand to rub the spit off, while using the hand holding the man to throw him to the floor.

"Y-you-" He spat out as he recovered from directly impacting the concrete in the room. "F- F-Fuck-ing-"

"I have not given you permission to spew vitriol," Binah said as she kicked his face in with her left boot. Raising one hand, she aimed it towards the man as he recovered from the blow to his face. As he turned back to look at Binah, all he saw was a raised arm. "The penalty for impeding enforcement of the law-"

"Fuck you-"

"-Is death," Binah said as she pulled back her arm, allowing a large swarm of fairies to gather around her palm, then unleashing them on the man as he tried to speak. The fairies immediately swarmed into his open mouth, causing him great discomfort-

Which then turned into screaming and flailing in terror as he was slowly torn from the inside by the fairies unlocking the keys that chained his flesh, muscle, and blood to his skeleton. Blood and the nearly-liquidated organs of the man spilled out of the holes caused by the fairies, coating the floor in red, viscous fluid. Blood.

What remained of him was a man whose chest had been burst open out of by the fairies, and whose face was cut in its entirety. His chest was opened up by fairies in a ''V' shape as blood and organs poured out, continuing to paint everything red.

"The Director will be pleased to hear of this," She said as she turned around and continued where she left off- But not before she stumbed across the arm she had torn right clean off from him. Clutched in what was left of it was a gun with a wooden grip and a design that felt very… American.

She crouched down, moving the fingers from the gun as the floor nearby continued to pool red from Binah tearing it clean off. A cursory glance at the gun, meanwhile, gave her an answer to what she was looking at.

"Patented April 20, 1897," The weapon had engraved on its slide. "Colt's PT.F.A. MFG. CO."

So this firearm was most likely made by one of the workshops in this world. Perhaps this Colt Workshop provided some of the best firearms for those in the United States. Perhaps it had not. She did not know. Now, had someone from R. Corp been using a weapon like this, she would have ignored it- Tax exemptions granted by the Head were sacred, after all.

However, to see such a civilian—no, a cowardly whelp—brazenly carrying a sidearm like this in the City? She scoffed. To think that the authority of the United States of America would foolishly allow such a policy.

It almost made her laugh to think that whelps could purchase a weapon like this so easily. While it might not have tipped the government to ruin—after all, the United States of America stands—but it is certainly foolish.

Her musing stopped as she heard shouting from her front and saw a rather rotund man with a body type that would render any Fixer combat ineffective. In his hands was what appeared to be a rifle-

Three bullets immediately impacted Binah's stomach, the light form taking damage. Not enough to incapacitate, but it hurt enough. A grin erupted from her face as she clutched her stomach, only to retaliate immediately by manifesting a pillar, launching it at the direction of the man.

At high speed, the pillar immediately impacted the man, the former container of L. Corp. unleashing a flurry of fairies into the attacker who dared shoot at her. Immediately the fairies poured out and unlocked the chains binding his bodily composition, showering the end of the hallway in a red flood as blood and organs spilled onto the walls and the floor. The man himself, having been flayed alive by the fairies, fell to the floor, dead.

Binah looked back at the pistol she held, before opting to put it in a pocket inside her coat. She would have to take a holster sometime soon, owing to the peculiar circumstances in the United States.

A strut later, and she found herself standing over the flayed corpse of the man who tried to attack her with his rifle. Crouching down, Binah immediately picked the rifle up to take a closer look at it.

"COLT AR-15" read the left of the weapon's receiver. "PROPERTY OF US GOVT, M16A1, CAL 5.56MM" it continued.

So this was a weapon of the United States Government this time around. A weapon most definitely not supposed to be in the hands of insects like these men. She supposed the Director would want them confiscated.

And so confiscate them she did. She pried the rifle from the blood-soaked skeleton of the man she flayed, and examined the weapon herself more. Its other side was covered in blood from the fairies unlocking him and causing the blood to exit from his body.

The rifle looked more like the last testament of a man who foolishly tried to fight against the Arbiters, rather than a weapon of war.

She supposed that was a deserving fate of insects like these men. Pathetic imitations of security forces, of fixers, of people who deserved a more dignified fate than to have their… style stolen by those undeserving.

"Pathetic whelp," She said as she kicked the bloodied skeleton in after she grabbed the rifle, completely crushing the skull and the ribcage with her boot under tremendous force. "It is nothing but delusional to assume that imitating security forces does anything more than open yourself to ridicule."

She soon turned left, turning to-

Immediately, she watched with a smile on her face as a man who tried to back into a wall was impaled by Mimicry, before Gebura pulled the sword upwards, slicing him vertically. A Great Split, if one were to say.

The blood splattered on the ground got her thinking.

How many were there supposed to be on this floor. It had been a long time since she had the chance to inflict a Shockwave.

Though, perhaps in due time that would be corrected. Those were her thoughts as she stepped over to Gebura.

"Satisfied with sluggishness, Gebura?" Binah asked, crossing her arms as Gebura frowned and shook her head.

"You're lucky that I don't have a cig on me right now," She scoffed. "I'd kill to take one right now," She said as she glanced over to Binah, holding the M16 rifle on her hands, clutched at the grip with her right and pointed up into the ceiling. "Is that a gun?" Gebura asked, a baffled expression and her left eyebrow raised.

"Yes indeed," Binah chuckled. "It amuses me to think that an unimporant speck in the City could get their hands on such a weapon. Normally such a thing would be saved for the Head, yet…"

"You're telling me that the average backstreets dweller just has these now?"

"Supposedly. But it is highly implausible to think that such weapons would be in the hands of the disenfranchised, such as those in the backstreets. Rather, it is more weighty to assume that weapons such as these belong to a more privileged class. Those able to surrender only a small portion of their life to own such a pathetic piece of armament."

"Cut the fucking chatter, Binah," Gebura sighed. "You're telling me that stuck-up rich assholes get shit like this then?"

"Predominantly so," Binah nodded as she began to grip the rifle normally, holding it by the… hand-guard, if she knew her firearm correctly. She needed not to use such a primitive tool of destruction. However, it deters those who repudiate the idea of attacking those with armaments. A good deterrence is a frightening weapon, after all. "However, not the ruling class specifically, as they would be less likely to subject themselves to this."

"What do you mean by that then?" Gebura asked as she glanced at the man she just eviscerated. "Look- These assholes don't exactly look like the type of people to be rich enough to afford this."

"I have not concluded my statement yet," Binah chuckled. "But I firmy do believe that there is more power given to the… I believe the term was middle class. Those who seek to enforce their rule over the peasantry, yet must bow to the whims of the rulers entirely."

"So… stuck-up pricks who blow off the steam of being stomped on by stomping on other people too?" Gebura grunted as she looked down at the man split in half. "Nest inhabitants seem to be everywhere no matter we go, fuck. And to think I had high hopes about this place."

"It would not be incorrect to say that the Nest inhabitants seek to use their access to firearms to put down those who wish to move and break the chains that bind them," Binah shook her head. "Yet it is with their ease of access written into the law that those of the Nest will fall to the people they so oppress."

"But I imagine you don't have the same hopes about them overthrowing the Head, the Eye, and the Claw. Did I get that right?"

"Oh yes," Binah sighed as she glanced back at her rifle. "You cannot abolish the Head, and neither can you abolish its constituents. Like a hydra, if you cut off the Head, they will simply be replaced by a new Head. A government cannot be dismantled completely. I therefore do not have any confidence should those of the backstreets rise up specifically against the Head."

"But you really are assured that the Nest brats get their ass kicked, pfft," Gebura grinned as she glanced to the side. "I see that you've never really stopped being an Arbiter. Still married to the job?"

"That is… a way to put it," Binah laughed. "But, I suppose it simply is because revolutions are cyclical. Those who rise up against the Nests will then settle in the new socioeconomic situation, therefore becoming the new Nest inhabitants, and panic whenever their power is threatened."

"Which then drives them to do everything in their power to ensure that everything to put down the poor is coded into the system, I suppose?" Gebura shrugged. "I mean, I blame that more on the head than anything- But go on."

"From the perspective of someone in the Head," Binah sighed as she inspected the rifle, looking at what appeared to be a safety switch on it. Colt Workshop had foresight that most didn't. Baffling. "The issues are systemic. They are inherent. But with the people stuck in perpetual cyclical revolution, the system cannot change. The Head will remain, but the Nest and the Backstreets will forever be captured by their irrational desire to destroy each other," She looked over at the window, seeing what appeared to be the R. Corp security forces of this world. "To repeat Roland, 'That's that, and this is this.'"

"Well, I suppose I get that," Gebura sighed, looking to her right, an eyebrow raised as she seemed to realize something hasn't shown up yet. Or perhaps, someone. "Hey, speaking of- Has Roland appeared yet?"

"No," Binah shook her head. "I have not caught sight of him."

"Damn."

"With apologies to Roland," Binah said as she stepped over to Gebura. "Would you kindly allow me to requisition a cigarette?"

"Psh, an Arbiter asking for a cig? Didn't know you hit the lowest of low."

"It seems to be comforting, even across the stream of space and time. I desire to be conscious of why it is so." She said, looking at the dead body- And spotting a lighter located somewhere in the pockets of the man Gebura just killed.

"Well, suit yourself," Gebura sighed as she procured a cigarette pack from her pocket with her free hand, flicking it open and leaning closer to Binah. "Take one."

Binah lurched forward and took one cigarette, before crouching down to the man's dead body and procuring the lighter from his pocket, getting a feel on the ridged wheel that served as the igniter.

"You know, I was about to ask if you had a lighter. Would've lit it myself if I had the chance."

"Gebura, Gebura," Binah chuckled. "The nobleman with a taste in caffeine would be heartbroken at your turn from face to heel."

"Stop using those terms, Binah- Isn't there already enough monologuing in the world?"

"I will not cease to monologue. It is my duty."

"I hope you like getting told to stick it up your ass then."

"Hmph. Civility lays deceased these days," She said as she put the cigarette in her mouth, before igniting the lighter and putting it to the tip of the cigarette, the but lodged in her mouth. Immediately, the feeling of smoke inside her mouth tingled, yet Binah felt nothing more than the density from the smoke. She exhaled it, taking the cigarette out with her hand. "Hm. It seems that I can partially understand the appeal of a cigarette."

"There's a 'but' I'm not seeing here."

"You are correct. I feel no significant feeling. No alterations to the senses. I only feel the density of the smoke from the cigarette," She said as she put the cigarette back in, smoking once more, before pulling it back out and exhaling. "However, I suspect that it is either due to my form's constriction from Light, or the generation of the cigarettes from Light."

"Could be either," Gebura shrugged. "I suspect it to be because we're made of light, because I also feel the same. But my memory's replicating the senses- If you understand what I mean."

"Your consciousness aping the sense of stimulation from when you were human, then," Binah mused. Perhaps the Director could get a second opinion. "The Director, however, would perhaps settle it."

"Oh, yeah. Definitely."

The conversation came to a halt as the sound of a sword slicing through flesh erupted just to the side of both of them. With Binah turning to the left and Gebura turning to her right, they both watched as one of the combatants attempted to use his weapon on Roland, only for Roland—whose mask shifted his appearance into an imitation of the false uniform—to impale him with Durandal.

Immediately, Roland pulled the sword out and swung the sword to the neck of the combatant, decapitating him in a swift strike. Durandal then went back to the space within the gloves, before Roland took the gloves off in an instant then took off his mask, unveiling his disheveled face and clothing stained in blood.

"Hey, wait, Roland," Gebura opened up as she stepped closer to Roland. "There's something I just realized-" She said as Roland raised an eyebrow, hand on his hip combined with a raised eyebrow and a lip curled up in a questioning expression. "You ever notice you kinda look like Director George Bush?"

"No shit, actually," Roland scoffed. "I mentioned to Angela while we were at the airport. Hell- When we first saw each other I actually stopped to take a look at him. Looked just like an aged-up version of me," He chuckled. "Gee. What I could've been."

"Though, what'd you say are the main differences between you and the Director?"

"He's more colorful than I am. He's got brown hair. And he's… aged," He hesitated as he said the last portion. "I… I'm going to be honest…"

"Hmm?" Binah said. "Be not afraid; Speak your mind, Roland. What is it you want to tell us?"

"...I actually think that he really would've been me if everything went right," Roland said. "Don't get me wrong. I like Bush. He's alert. He's experienced. He's a great man. But…"

"You speak as though he is liable to getting himself killed."

"That's the thing. I see myself in him," Roland sighed. "And not in a great way either. Angela told me that he… He was a very irascible man. Like he's got something underneath his skin."

"Hmm?"

"She told me about how when he proposed the, uh, sabotaging this… Raygun guy… He was almost very giddy talking about it. Almost… Almost like me, actually."

"And you fear that this will lead him into the same destructive path you pursued in the Library those many months ago, then?"

Roland nodded as he glanced towards the nearby elevator. "Yeah. I'm afraid he'll get blinded by his revenge for this…"

"Reagan, his name was."

"Yes, yes- Reagan," Roland shrugged. "I'm concerned he'll go nuts over him."

"I understand and sympathize,"Binah stated as she took a drag from her cigarette and walked over to the elevator before pressing the button. They were going to cleanse this place as they moved down floor-to-floor. "Nothing but a dire fate awaits us all should we be foolish enough to not guide him properly to become more than a sapling guided by hate."

"I don't get the metaphorical bullshit, but I get what you mean," Roland said. "Heard you're planning on putting him through the wringer."

"Where'd you learn that information, hm?" She grinned slyly as the elevator came down.

"Just my intuition. Ma'am."

"Good. It would pay to remember who lords above you, even outside of The City."

"You really have a thing for crushing people under boots, don't you?" Gebura asked as she stepped into the elevator first. Binah grinned, and shook her head as she exhaled the smoke one more time before tossing the cigarette down to the floor and crushing it underneath her heel.

"Perhaps I do." She said as she stepped inside, with Roland following suit.

"Well, off to the third floor we go."

A feeling grew in Binah. Something she hadn't felt in a long time since her days as a proper Arbiter. To think that she would get the chance to enforce the will of the Head, if a different one, once more… It felt rejuvenating. To crush insects and rodents underneath her boot to uphold authority. To destroy those who claim false loyalty to the institutions they fail to uphold. And to work for the advancement of the Head.

Only, the Head is, apparently this United States government.

But, perhaps they would appreciate someone like her.

It would be… unwise not to, after all.

George Hebert Walker Bush [United States Government – Central Intelligence Agency Director] Langley, Virginia — Dated June 6, 1980

George Bush cursed internally as his face contorted into an expression of fear as the sound of boots marching reached the desk he stood behind. God, if you could hear me, please grant me salvation. His thoughts kept repeating that mantra as his heart raced almost uncontrollably, the risk of exploding and taking out Bush becoming more and more real as time passed on and he found himself clutching his chest closer.

He stopped himself from mouthing any more words as he clutched the truncheon on his free hand. Netzach hadn't used it when they raided the KGB safe house, so it was given back. And now here he was. Clutching onto it as if it was a last secret weapon.

Hell, how did it come to this? He had easily swept past the fucking KGB base- His mind replayed the images as the feeling of excellence came back to him so easily. Hiding behind a wall… Grabbing a pistol off the ground when the shooting started. Roland told him.. Shit… "Only one shot had hit…" He flatly reminded himself as he cursed, teeth baring and eyelids pressing down in anger as he continued clutching his chest with one hand and holding the truncheon with the other. God, how could he have lost any of his competence when dealing with a bunch of rednecks?

His grip on the truncheon began tightening, knuckles whitening and the grip on his shirt intensifying as his eyes opened, mouth agape as footsteps marched towards the desk he hid under. Ceramic clashed with what appeared to be rubber as Bush cursed. Could it have been him muttering about the shot? Could it have been his heart beating? Could it have been-

Fuck. Bush wanted to scream as he accidentally slammed the truncheon into the wall of the desk. His mind raced and breath grew more hazy and rapid as he flashed back his tactical assessment. This floor was a wide floor in a hotel. This was only the first floor. There were four gunmen in this floor. Four gunmen. Four gunmen.

The appearance of a rifle barrel and soon handguard just so calmly poking from behind the desk as the gunman pointed his gun at the floor just in front of him activated his fight or flight response- And Bush screamed in a girlish manner as he immediately grabbed the handguard with the hand he used to clutch his heart, then pulled the gunman with all his might onto the floor in front of him in an angular manner.

Immediately, the man suddenly fell to the floor, thrown by the force of Bush. His build was very thin and lean, almost skinny and emaciated. Just enough to hold a gun and look scary but not enough to actually handle the recoil. Immediately, he rushed out of the desk, truncheon in hand.

As soon as he saw the mouth of the rather skin-and-bones gunman, he immediately shoved the truncheon in his mouth. Brows furrowing and mouth curled in a murderous snarl, Bush stomped on the truncheon lodged inside the man's mouth, immediately causing him to jerk around, rifle still in hand-

Rapidly, Bush grabbed the carry handle of the assault rifle with both of his hands and ripped the rifle away, the gunman's strength weakened by the feeling of being thrown and the truncheon being pressed into their mouth. Turning the rifle around so that the stock would be aimed at the man's head...

George Bush seemed to shout in rage as he bashed the man's nose first. A muffled, agonized scream greeted George Bush. In retaliation, he simply bashed the gunman again, pressing the gun stock against the nose, before lifting the gun and slamming it into his face again. And again. And again. The stock-bashing bloodying the man's face. As soon as Bush felt he was incapacitated enough, he turned his sights to bashing the eyes in.

With a quick and rapid movement, the left and right eyes of the gunman were destroyed as Bush grunted and grunted, hands grasping the stock and handguard of the rifle while he continued to beat the gunman over and over and over-

Bush then pressed the stock down the man's nose, before once again putting his foot on the truncheon lodged inside the gunman's mouth- and crushing it with all of his might once again, perforating his skull. Bush breathed heavily as he held the rifle in his hands, the stock bloodied and covered in eyeball material.

"Fuck me," Bush said as he wheezed, eyes widening at the realization of what he had just done. "I just…" He stopped himself as he shook his head, eyes wincing at the man he just so thoroughly murdered in an extremely violent fashion. May God accept his soul in heaven.

Bush then took the truncheon out of the deceased man's mouth, taking in the appearance of who he was and what he was doing. On the right shoulder, the emblem of the Allied Expeditionary Force—a sword penetrating a rainbow while surrounded by flames—greeted him, causing him to furrow his brows and growl. The rest of his uniform was no better.

Just a few meters below the man's bastardized AEF patch was another one, bearing the Confederate battle flag. That caused him to growl even louder than he did. This man was a bastard. One of the people who stood by and watched as he suffered. One of the fuckers who actively contributed to his suffering.

Everything else seemed to point towards that. A flatly red colored Republican hat greeted him. Armbands wrapped in the beloved red white and blue as though to mock him and disgrace this goddamn country. He wasn't a Republican. He wasn't a patriot. He wasn't even an American.

He was but a fucking slimy, hateful snake wrapping his poison under the thin veil of "Americanism." That was what he was. A worthless little shit who boasted that he was following Americanist ideals, only to betray the very fundamentals of being American by siding with that fucker. He couldn't stop his thoughts from urging him to continue bashing the man's already dead body.

But his conscience—whatever was left of it that wasn't swallowed by fight/flight or furious rage anyway—opted against it. It was better to gain control of the situation.

So that's one gunman down on this floor. Hypothetically speaking, there should be three more… Right. That means just three more to deal with. Three more.

Bush crouched down and sulked. This man had everything coming for him. Contributing to this nation's downfall. Causing everything to go to hell and back. His other hand's grip on the rifle handguard began to whiten his knuckles as the thoughts kept flowing in his head, with a furrowed brow and a contemptuous, sulking expression dominating his thoughts.

Almost immediately, however, the sound of gunshots across the first floor seemed to serve the purpose of interrupting his thoughts—and putting civilians in danger. Cursing, he crouched down and grabbed a pistol from the pockets of the dead gunman, placing it in his pocket as well.

He vaulted over the table, rifle in hand, and then moved to a wall leading to a hallway. As soon as he got to the wall, he pressed his back against the wall and kept moving forward, M16A1 in hand. Bush felt himself nearing the hallway leading into the rest of the first floor the more he moved.

In an instant, as soon as he felt the wall start to end and the hallway to start, Bush turned around with his rifle still pointed at the hallway. It seemed that the coast was clear for now. Of course, that theory needed to be proved, but-

Bang. Crack. Crack. The sound of automatic gunfire drew Bush's attention as his eyes widened and he almost recoiled, startled with his mouth somewhat agape. There had to be a reason why they were shooting.

Killing hostages? Highly likely. Exchanging fire with the Fairfax County PD? Hell- They just did that before the FCPD had to retreat. Seeing the rifle he held in his hand, Bush didn't need to put two and two to figure out why.

Other motives flashed in his mind. Perhaps they were simply doing it for negotiations. Maybe they were trying to gain an overall tactical advantage. Maybe they were just seeking to blow off steam. Maybe-

His mind was interrupted when the door to his right abruptly opened, causing him to hastily shift to the right, rifle still in hand as he came face to face with the man who had just ambushed the doorway right next to him.

The man wore a long-sleeved sweater as the top, with the bottom being the bottom portion of the purple uniform the staff at this hotel wore. He seemed to be here for other reasons. In a flash, Bush pressed forward and kept the gun aimed at him. "Tell me who you are, and how you got here!" He shouted as he pushed the rifle forward, intent transmitted clearly.

The man in front of him seemed to stop for a few seconds due to being ambushed while presumably moving throughout the hotel. His features were extremely eye-catching too. Red hair combined with grey eyes? That wasn't exactly something that Bush had expected someone to have. Regardless, the rifle still found itself aimed at the man, who stumbled back for a bit.

Panicking, the man raised his hands, immediately ceasing whatever priorities he might have had before George Bush held him up with the rifle. "Drop any weapon you have on you, now!" Bush shouted as last as he could with the illegal civilian assault rifle still pointed at him.

Without the American gun law system, what would we do? An apocryphal quote spread throughout the US. He never knew the importance of the Second Amendment's right to bear arms until this awful day.

Hmph. He may have chosen the wrong line of work.

He was soon interrupted by the man he took prisoner suddenly pressing his hand against his ear. And then, to Bush's shock, he began to speak, eyes widening as he spoke in German before Bush could do anything to stop him.

"Adler, ich bin auf die Zentrale Geheimdienststelle gestoßen. Sagen Sie dem Rest des RND, sie sollen ihre Verstärkung zurückziehen."