Lance Corporal Bobby Gene Plump - 2803 Communications Engineer, Communications Company, Headquarters Battalion, 1st Marine Division, I Marine Expeditionary Force, United States Marine Corps

Fort Duqua Dar - Quadrant G-19, Coruscant, Coruscant System, Core Worlds, Republic Space, "The Galaxy"

09:16:16 ATC /Tuesday, September 16th, 1969 -10:12/10:12 AM

The sweltering heat of the basketball court inside the barracks pressed down on the players, the air saturated with the scent of sweat and 'asphalt'. Bobby, his Hoosier roots as deeply ingrained as the sweat on his brow, stood poised. The memory of those packed gyms, the roar of the crowd, and the squeak of his sneakers on polished wood felt like a lifetime ago, a poignant reminder of the life he'd left behind. Now, he guarded a man who seemed to shed his Hollywood persona.

Sergeant Eugene Allen 'Gene' Hackman, previously a 'North China Marine', a former field radio operator who had been recalled to the Corps, was his opponent on the court. The easy charm of a movie star was gone, replaced by a steely resolve. He wasn't playing a role here, he was playing basketball, and he was playing to win. The worn leather of the basketball slapped against the duracrete, its rhythmic thumping echoing in the humid air.

Guarding him was Plump, his eyes sharp and focused, tracking the ball like a hawk. His stance was low, balanced, a posture honed in countless hours on the hardwood, from the cramped gym at Milan to the hallowed halls of Butler Fieldhouse. He remembered the smell of rosin, the feel of the ball in his hands, the weight of expectation on his young shoulders. The memories fueled him, keeping the competitive fire burning even in this unlikely arena. The man who'd sunk 'The Shot' against Muncie Central now faced a different kind of opponent, a man who embodied a different kind of pressure, but the intensity remained the same. He knew Hackman wanted to score, needed to score, and while it was not an official game Plump was still determined to make Hackman work for every point.

While Alvin York Meyer hadn't played organized ball like Plump, his skills honed in casual farmyard games and impromptu matches, his height and innate understanding of positioning still made him formidable. He watched the play unfold and was prepared to snatch any errant rebound.

Joining Hackman was Corporal Thomas 'Tommy' Russo, a wiry man from Buffalo, New York with a lightning-fast crossover and a trash-talking swagger. He was a streetballer at heart, moving in a manner that could only come from years spent dominating on the concrete courts of the city. Russo was Hackman's foil, his energy a counterpoint to Hackman's controlled intensity. His trash talk was relentless, but never malicious, just a way to get under his opponent's skin and gain a slight advantage.

The rhythmic thump of the basketball and the squeak of sneakers against the aged duracrete were the only sounds that dared to break the stillness of the late afternoon. Hackman faked left, a subtle shift of weight that pulled Plump ever so slightly in that direction, a move reminiscent of the feints that had baffled Muncie Central's defense. It was a subtle gesture, barely perceptible, but it was enough. Then, with a burst of controlled power, he drove right, the ball a natural extension of his hand. Plump, a seasoned defender, stayed with him stride for stride, matching his speed and mirroring his movements, as if it were the tight, fiercely contested games of the '54 tournament. He anticipated Hackman's move. Hackman pulled up just inside the free-throw line, his shot arcing gracefully towards the basket, a perfect parabola against the hazy sky, a shot not unlike the one that had stopped time at the Butler Fieldhouse. The ball hung in the air for a moment that felt like an eternity. Plump leaped, his hand extending, his fingertips just grazing the ball as it swished cleanly through the net.

"Nice shot, Gene!" Plump said, a grin spreading across his face, a fleeting glimpse of the youthful exuberance of his high school days, the same grin he'd worn after that final buzzer. The compliment was genuine. "You can shoot but even I know there's more to the game than shooting! There's fundamentals and defense! Welcome to Indiana basketball!"

Hackman chuckled, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. "You're getting faster, Bobby. I might have to start using my Hollywood tricks on you." His tone was lighthearted, a playful jab that underscored the competitive spirit that fueled their game, a spirit as fierce as any tournament game.

Meyer, retrieving the ball, tossed it back to Hackman with a casual flick of his wrist. "Let's see 'em, Hackman. We Hoosiers could use a laugh."

"Yeah, come on, Gene, show us those movie moves!" Russo chimed in, a grin splitting his face. "Unless you're just acting like you're good."

As Hackman prepared to dribble again, bouncing the ball purposefully against the rough surface, another Marine approached them. He was a young Private, fresh-faced and nervous, his santeens slightly rumpled. He moved with a hesitant gait, a stark contrast to the assured movements of the four men on the court. The Private shifted from foot to foot, unsure whether he should speak up.

"Coach Dale? Norman Dale?" The Private asked, his voice a mix of awe and uncertainty.

Hackman stopped dribbling, the ball held firmly in his hand. A puzzled look crossed his face. "No, no, you must be mistaking me for someone else. I'm Gene Hackman." He glanced at Plump, a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"It's funny how easily someone can resemble another person." The Private stammered, a slight blush creeping up his neck.

Plump, seeing the Private's embarrassment and discomfort, stepped forward, his natural empathy shining through, a trait that had made him a hero to so many. "He must be a fine coach."

"He sure is, he even reinvigorated my confidence in the game when I was playing for my school's team back home in Moravia." The Private, with the last name of Chitwood, replied, a hint of wistfulness in his voice. "Sorry."

He nodded to Hackman and Plump, a quick, respectful gesture, then turned and walked away, disappearing into the anonymity of the barracks.

The four Marines watched him go, a brief silence hanging in the air before they resumed their game. The rhythmic thump of the basketball and the squeak of sneakers reclaiming the court. The game continued, a small slice of normalcy in a world, a universe on the brink, a reminder of the simple joys that connected them, like the shared memory of a small-town team conquering giants.

Special Agent Clinton J. "Clint" Hill - Presidential Protection Detail, United States Secret Service

Hot Shoppes - 4340 Connecticut Avenue, NW, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America

09:16:16 ATC /Tuesday, September 16th, 1969 -10:12/10:12 AM

Clint slid into a booth, the red vinyl cushions yielding beneath his weight. The off-duty Treasury Department officer signaled to a waitress, a middle-aged woman with a warm smile and a neatly pressed uniform, and ordered a black coffee. "Just coffee." Clint said, his voice a low, steady rumble. He watched as she poured the steaming liquid into a thick, white mug, the Hot Shoppes logo emblazoned on its side. The diner was bustling, a mix of government workers on their lunch break, families with young children, and a sprinkling of tourists, even if presently were a rarity due to the war, a slice of everyday D.C. life still contemporary in spite of the circumstances. He settled into the booth, his gaze drifting towards the large windows that looked out onto the busy avenue. Even in this seemingly mundane setting, his eyes scanned the crowd, cataloging faces, noting potential exits, assessing the environment. It was an automatic process, a reflex honed by years of close protection.

The coffee soon arrived and Clint took a slow sip, the warmth spreading through him. Suddenly, a series of sharp, percussive sounds ripped through the air, shattering the calm. Clint's body tensed, his hand instinctively moving towards the place where his service weapon would have been if he were on duty. His eyes darted around the diner, searching for the source of the sound. The other patrons reacted with varying degrees of alarm, some ducking under tables, others staring wide-eyed, their faces etched with fear.

Then, the sounds came again, followed by the distinct rumble of an engine. It wasn't gunfire, but the unmistakable backfire of a car with a faulty muffler. A wave of relief, quickly followed by a surge of adrenaline, washed over Clint. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his racing heart.

The waitress, her face pale, rushed over to his booth. "What was that?" She asked, her voice trembling.

"Just a car." Clint said, his voice low and steady, but with an edge of tension that betrayed his lingering unease. "Backfire."

"Oh." She said, her shoulders slumping with relief. "Scared me half to death."

Clint nodded, taking another sip of his coffee. He knew the feeling. Even off-duty, the threat was always there, a constant undercurrent in his life. He was a protector, and that responsibility never truly left him.

He finished his coffee, paid his bill, and stepped out onto Connecticut Avenue. The sounds of the city filled the air. He walked down the street, the crisp autumn air a welcome change from the stale air of the diner. Despite a change of administration, his mind drifted back to the Kennedy years. He remembered the moments of hope, the belief that they could make a difference, that they could change the world. He remembered the man himself, the charisma, the intelligence, the unwavering belief in the American dream. The Kennedy years were once a symbol of hope but had instead became a nightmare yet Clint held onto his own memories of Kennedy, the man he had sworn to protect, the man he still deeply respected even if many of his fellow agents lost their respect for 'Camelot', a word now spoken with disdain and bitterness. He knew that history was going to judge Kennedy harshly, but he also knew that history was often written by the victors, by those who had the loudest voices. He knew that he would carry his own memories, his own truths, until the day he died. He knew that he would always remember the man he had sworn to protect, the man who, in his own way, had tried to make the world a better place only for it to be upended by radicalized college students and naive pacifists who thought they could change the world.

'I guess it's true what they say: The road to hell is paved with good intentions.' Clint thought sardonically as he reflected, convinced that there would never be another Camelot.

Peter Henderson Meyer

U.S. Army Recruiting Office - Avon, Washington Township, Hendricks County, Indiana, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:16:16 ATC /Tuesday, September 16th, 1969 -10:12/10:12 AM

"I would like to enlist."

"The Draft is in effect and voluntary enlistment is suspended for the duration, son." The desk-jockey dismissed offhandedly without even bothering to look up. "Come back with your notice and then we'll get the ball rolling."

"I'm seventeen." Meyer clarified.

"Nevermind." The pencil pusher acknowledged as the age of the young man before him was the only exception for the otherwise wartime conscription of any eligible able-bodied man of 18 - 37 Years free from any reserve occupation such as militarily essential factory work. "Do you have parental consent?"

A middle-aged brunette woman standing next to Pete stepped forward and revealed her presence to the Non-Commissioned Officer. "I'm his mother." She then turned to her son. "Are you sure you want to do this? You still have another year."

"The boy's alright, he's in fine company, isn't that right, son?" The recruiter gazed at Pete squarely into the eye to see if he was positive to not wait for another year before he was inducted.

"Yes, sir." The young man confirmed as he was handed a pen.

Lance Corporal Jake Gregory Meyer - Fireteam Alpha, Second Squad, First Platoon, C/Charlie Company, Second Raider Battalion "Carlson's Raiders", Second Raider Regiment, Second Marine Division, II Marine Expeditionary Force, United States Marine Corps

Collective Commerce District "CoCo Town" - Galarb District, Coruscant, Coruscant System, Corusca Sector, Core Worlds, Republic Space, "The Galaxy"

09:16:16 ATC /Tuesday, September 16th, 1969 - 12:09/12:09 PM

'You got to be kidding me.' Jake thought, initially believing it to be a mirage as he saw a row of restaurants with familiar signs in what denizens of this galaxy called 'High Galactic Standard' with a translation in Aurebesh just below them: There was a Ralph's, a Dalessandro's, even a Geno's and like in Philadelphia just across the street was Pat's Kings of Steaks or at least an imitation inspired by the original in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A yet the Hoosier decided on another replica that reminded him of the one near Frankford called Jim's South St.

As he stepped inside and looked around, Jake noticed that the diner itself was eerily perfect, as if a slice of Philadelphia had been transplanted to the chrome and flashing lights of Coruscant. Yet it was not quite perfect. The staff was the truly unsettling part. Instead of a vibrant mix of alien species, sleek automatons glided behind the counter, their movements precise and sterile, lacking the warmth and personality expected in a diner. Behind them, cooking-droids relentlessly manned the grill, tirelessly churning out the culinary staples of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and even America itself.

"Okay." Jake began, pushing aside the nagging feeling of unreality that threatened to consume him. He needed a cheesesteak. "I would like one of your cheesesteaks."

The server-droid behind the cash register, its metallic face impassive and devoid of expression, tilted its head slightly. "Wit or Wit-out?" A synthesized voice, surprisingly laced with a convincingly replicated faux-Philly accent, chirped from the machine.

"With and Cheez Whiz please, if you have it." Jake requested.

"Is that all, hon?" The droid inquired tonelessly.

"Cheese fries." Jake promptly replied. His gaze then drifted up to the menu board, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion. "Huh? That's different. What are the flavors for the Italian ice, I mean 'water ice'?" He caught himself, instinctively correcting his terminology to match the regional lingo, a habit ingrained from countless visits to similar establishments while stationed in 'The Birthplace of America'.

"We only have cherry for wooder ice. Is that alright?" The droid responded.

"Perfect." Jake affirmed.

The robotic waitress glided away to fulfill his order. Relieved, Jake retreated to a faux-leather booth, intending to relax for a moment. Just as he closed his eyes, the bell above the door jingled, announcing new arrivals. He paid little attention until he overheard a familiar cadence, a pair speaking in unmistakable, authentic Philadelphia accents.

One of the voices, rough and boisterous, cut through the diner's general hum. "Say, Jarhead, are you from Philly as well?"

Jake opened his eyes in surprise. "No, Indiana, actually." Jake revealed. His North Midland accent with wash being pronounced as 'warsh' was unmistakable, yet the dialect of Central Indiana was similar enough to the accent spoken in Western Pennsylvania that his fellow patron couldn't refrain from reaching a logical conclusion.

"Indiana as in the Borough or the County?" The voice scoffed playfully.

"Neither, the Hoosier State, as in Sugar Cream Pie instead of Shoofly Pie." Jake clarified, amused. He knew the Keystone State had not only an Indiana, Pennsylvania but a Wyoming, Pennsylvania as well.

"Oh."

A brief silence hung in the air before Jake decided to bring up another fad emerging in this galaxy, not only Star Trek and Doctor Who but an American city considered to be the direct equivalent of Coruscant. "I still hard to believe but Phillymania has officially arrived." Jake chuckled. "It seems like only yesterday when The Modern Gomorrah was ballyhooed as the greatest place on Earth. I would rather be tormented in Hell than live in that overrated garbage dump."

"Well, to be fair, we did have our own problems but Mayor Rizzo has been cleaning house." One of the men declared, a hint of pride lacing his voice.

"Tawk about service, the tourism industry should be boomin' after the war." The other chuckled as the men slid into the booth across from Jake. "Still, I'll admit that it's a shame what happened to the Big Apple, it's a disgrace."

The first man, with a mustache within regulation, extended a hand. "Name's Rod."

Craig gave a curt nod. "Craig Fitzpatrick, pleashed ta meetcha'."

"Say, Jake, lemme askya sumpin." Rod piped. "Doncha just love it when those Jedi monks keep getting in our way?"

"It would be easier without them." Jake concurred, nodding in agreement. "Theatrics is fine and all but this is war, not a foreign movie starring that guy from Hong Kong I overheard one of the guys talking about, Bruce something..."

"Bruce Lee?"

"That's him." Jake affirmed. "But it's not just the theatrics, it's the Olympic-style fencing as well." The Hoosier added with a deadpan. "Still, when the Sith leap it's like trap-shooting and when they're armed only with swords it takes just a rifle or handgun, I wouldn't take one hand-to-hand if I have to but it's almost like Camp Perry with the odd thunderstorm, the Imperial Army and Navy are the real concern."

"You're one of 'em national match shooters?" Rod asked upon noticing the Distinguished Rifleman badge on Jake's uniform.

"I am." Jake confirmed. "The Sith are nothing more than target practice."

"Jedi, Sith, they're just both a bunch of weirdos if you ask me, obsessed with this Force. Is it a religion or is it a philosophy based on pseudoscience?" Craig continued, his voice laced with skepticism.

"I don't understand it myself." Jake sighed. "It reminds me of my time in the reserves, when the Dalai Lama arrived in Indianapolis back in '64 before he went to visit his brother, I think he's a professor named Thubten Norbu, down in Bloomington and the monk also toured Indiana University alongside his brother." He paused, lost in thought for a moment. "It was quite a hullabaloo, no one can grasp his teachings or the whole fuss about this Buddha, even in 'Nam ancestor worshiping is important but while the Jedi might believe in nirvana they certainly don't believe in reincarnation."

"There's no atheists in foxholes." Rod smirked as he gave Craig a look.

"That's true but if I bought the farm I would rather see the Lord Almighty and his angels than become fuel for those Force-minded crackpots." Jake snorted.

The bell above the door jingled once more, but he ignored it deliberately, content to enjoy the unexpected company of Craig and Rod. Laughter filled the small corner booth, fueled by greasy cheesesteaks and easy camaraderie. Then, a familiar voice cut through the chatter, a voice that yanked him back to a reality he hadn't expected to encounter.

"Jake?"

Jake turned, his eyes widening in surprise. There, framed in the doorway, stood a figure he hadn't seen in over a year. "Herb?" The half-eaten cheesesteak in his hand now felt like a leaden weight. Herbert. Herbert Claussen. A Philadelphia Claussen. But the Philadelphia branch were no longer the only ones in America as his father's maternal first cousin Burkhart had arrived from Föhr back in '61 with his family, settling in Indianapolis and a few months later distant fifth cousins had surfaced from Minden, popping up like unexpected messages from the past. He hadn't seen any of them in what felt like an eternity.

"You know this fella from the State of Indiana, Herb?" Craig asked, his own surprise evident, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. He gestured between Jake and Herbert, clearly piecing together the shared confusion.

"We're related." Herbert confirmed, a wide grin spreading across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Talk about a coincidence." Rod exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief. He slapped the table lightly, the movement causing the remaining ketchup packets to jump. "What are the odds?"

"A Jedi would say it's the will of the Force." Craig quipped, rolling his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips, clearly amused by the improbable connection.

"Ha-ha, we all know it's because we wanted a cheesesteak." Rod joked, clapping Herbert on the back with a hearty laugh. "Welcome to 'Philly-on-Coruscant', Herb! Let's get you your own!" The air buzzed with renewed energy, the surprise encounter injecting a fresh dose of excitement into their afternoon. Jake, still slightly stunned, could only manage a weak smile, he was family and the conversation with Herb's acquaintances were bound to be interesting.

Elise Athena Westbrook

C Eighth Avenue Local - IND Eighth Avenue Line, New York City, New York City, New York, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:17:16 ATC / Wednesday, September 17th, 1969 -9:25 AM

Elise was impeccably dressed and her posture remained ramrod straight, her black hair perfectly coiffed, not a strand out of place, even amidst the grimy reality of the C train. Despite Noel offering to escort her, she declined even though he insisted it wasn't safe and he did have a point, there had been an uptick in crime that started increasing back in '64, with plenty of 'no-go areas' that seemed to be straight out of the Wild West and over forty percent of the Bronx had burned down during the spring and summer of '67 but recently - chiefly in the Bronx - it was getting worse with shops closing down for good and families making an exodus if they had the means to do so. The rumble of the subway car, the screeching of brakes, the muffled announcements - it was all a familiar, if slightly distasteful, soundtrack to her daily routine. She was en route to 740 Park Avenue, a fortress of old money and WASP sensibilities.

As she waited for her stop at 81st Street-Museum of Natural History, the Rockefeller Republican was lost in thought after reading the New York Daily News with the headline 'Walker to City: Drop Dead' due to Congress backed by the President refusing to give a direct bailout and instead insisting that the formerly illustrious city gradually yet exponentially becoming a shadow of itself met Albany's demands even while the rest of the country prospered and the current Governor of New York residing in his office upstate was considering removing yet another Mayor from office, which would be the sixth dismissal under Chapter One, Section Nine of the New York City Charter in a row . The Edwin Anderson Walker administration was proving to be a formidable adversary and how to effectively combat his archconservative, small government, pro-states' rights federalist and strict construction constitutionalist agenda occupied her mind as did Buck Owen's latest hit I Wouldn't Live In New York City (If They Gave Me The Whole Dang Town).

Suddenly, the relative peace of the car was shattered. A Latino man, sweat staining his threadbare shirt, lurched towards her, his eyes wild and unfocused. He grabbed her arm, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Get off of me!" Elise shrieked, her voice a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the din of the train. She attempted to fight him off, clawing at his hand, but he was larger and stronger, easily overpowering her. Fear tightened its grip on her chest, constricting her breath. This wasn't the abstract fear of political opposition, but a primal terror that vibrated in her bones.

"Leave the lady alone!" A booming voice commanded, thick with righteous anger.

Elise watched, momentarily paralyzed by shock and fear, as a quinquagenarian African-American man, broad-shouldered and imposing, intervened. He moved with surprising speed and force, pulling the assaulter off of her, throwing him against the graffiti-covered subway car wall. The attacker, momentarily stunned, glared back with venom, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage and desperation. The train screeched to a halt, the abrupt stop jarring them all. With a final, forceful shove from her rescuer, the attacker stumbled out the open doors and disappeared into the anonymity of the platform.

After catching her breath and composed herself, smoothing down her rumpled skirt and adjusting her pearl necklace, Elise finally managed to speak. "Thanks." She said, her voice still trembling slightly, the carefully cultivated composure cracked like fragile porcelain.

"It's an absolute disgrace what happened to this city." The man said, his tone thick with disgust, his gaze fixed on the retreating figure of the assailant.

"It's better than a few years ago, with many of the riots occuring in the Bronx." Elise pointed out, attempting to diffuse the negativity, to bring a semblance of normalcy back to the unsettling situation. She knew this was likely a platitude, a privileged observation detached from the harsh realities faced by many.

"If anything, I honestly think Posse Comitatus should be repealed so the Regular Army can be free to clean up this plight of ours, at least for the units still here." The man continued, ignoring her previous point, his voice rising with fervor. His muscular arms were crossed tightly over his chest, revealing the contours of a well-built physique. "It would also help give the recruits combat experience."

Elise did not expect to hear such a statement out loud, especially not on a subway car full of strangers. She was taken aback, genuinely unnerved by the suggestion. Deploying the regular military on American streets yet again following the invocations of the Insurrection Act of 1807 was a terrifying prospect, she believed that it was a slippery slope towards authoritarianism. "You know…" Elise started, carefully choosing her words. "I'm not sure that's the right solution. The implications of-"

"Well, Walker might be a supporter of segregation, but at least he and Governor Adams are trying to clean this mess, especially The Bronx." The man interrupted dismissively, cutting her off with a wave of his hand. "I'm moving my family to Tennessee tomorrow and taking a job at a local war plant, I suggest you leave and don't return to this Big Rotten Apple for a while, it isn't safe for naive, idealistic little girls."

Elise realized with a jolt that this man, her savior, held views that were as troubling in their own way as the attack she had just endured. The encounter had transitioned from a simple act of heroism to a complex and uncomfortable collision of how to most effectively deal with the dilapidation of New York City compared to the rest of the nation, an alternative to the law and order rhetoric yet everywhere she looked in this city, formerly the very metropolis synonymous with American in the minds of foreigners with the crown being retaken by a revitalized Philadelphia due in part to literal birthright and also investment from extraterrestrials, the citizenry who stubbornly remained in the Big Apple were blind, optimistic even amid the five-year surge in muggings and homicides, as if they believed Walker was their liberator, as if their pleas, like those from many Americans, were finally being answered and addressed.

Lieutenant Waylon Brantley Meyer - Emergency Service Squad 9, Emergency Service Division, City of New York Police Department

113th Police Precinct - 167-02 Baisley Boulevard, Jamaica, Queens, Queens County, New York City, New York, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:17:16 ATC / Wednesday, September 17th, 1969 - 10:36 AM

Waylon was hunched over his desk, working on paperwork when the jarring ring of the phone sliced through the still air of the office. He automatically set the well-worn ballpoint pen down, the plastic clicking softly against the mahogany surface. He picked up the receiver, his voice automatically adopting the clipped, professional tone that was as much a part of him as his worn leather belt. "Hello, Officer Meyer speaking."

A pause. A fractional hesitation, almost imperceptible. Then, a voice, thin but clear, reached him across the miles.

"Hi, Dad."

The professionalism he'd so carefully cultivated crumbled, replaced by a warmth that bloomed in his chest. Frauke. His eldest. She'd moved to Central Indiana, seeking a different life, a slower pace. He missed her more than he cared to admit.

"Hello, sweetie." He breathed, the words laced with an affection he usually kept carefully guarded. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, crinkling the lines around his eyes. Time had passed too swiftly, it seemed like yesterday the pair were inseparable.

"Well, while I can find good pumpernickel here and around Indianapolis, I miss the bagels from Orwashers." The lilt in her voice was familiar, but he detected a faint tremor, the almost imperceptible vibration of homesickness. Orwashers. The name conjured a flood of memories. Sunday mornings, the two of them bundled in winter coats, the frosty air biting at their cheeks. The small, crowded bakery, the aroma of steaming bagels and freshly brewed coffee. He could practically taste the chewy, slightly sweet dough, feel the warmth of the bagel in his hand. They would huddle together, sharing the precious circle of dough slathered in cream cheese, the smell of yeast and toasted sesame clinging to their clothes. The small, domestic pleasures now seemed somehow monumental, almost impossible to recreate.

"I'll have to see if I can send a parcel." Waylon chuckled, the image of shipping New York's finest baked goods, of mailing fresh bagels across state lines all the way to Indiana was ridiculously, charmingly absurd as well as a logistical nightmare. The idea of navigating the postal system, ensuring the bagels arrived fresh and unspoiled, was a welcome distraction from the piles of paperwork and the ever-present weight of his responsibilities, brought a smile to his face. He imagined carefully packing the dense, chewy bagels into a box, praying that they would arrive still fresh and delicious, it was something he was willing to try for his little girl…all grown up.

But his moment of levity was short-lived. The door to his small office creaked open, a sound that cut through the hum of the phone line like a knife. He turned his head, his eyes landing on Officer Davies, a subordinate, standing in the doorway. Davies's face was grim, etched with tension. He was offering urgent, almost frantic waves of his hand, his eyes darting towards Waylon's watch, conveying a message that time was of the essence.

"I hate to cut this short, but something came up, I got to go." The warmth of the phone call, the comforting image of bagels and shared laughter, dissipated like smoke in the wind. He felt a pang of disappointment, a familiar ache of priorities clashing. He had learned to live with it, but it never got easier. "Don't forget to write." He added, almost as an afterthought, a plea whispered into the speaker before he replaced the receiver with a soft, decisive click.

He barely had time to register the lingering disappointment before Davies was already launching into the details, his voice tight with urgency. "I'm sorry to interrupt, sir, but we got a situation at Flushing Meadows Park. A hostage situation."

Lieutenant Waylon Brantley Meyer - Emergency Service Squad 9, Emergency Service Division, City of New York Police Department.

Flushing Meadows Park - Queens, New York City, Queens County, New York, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:17:16 ATC / Wednesday, September 17th, 1969 -11:00 AM

Despite being the lesser-known sibling of Central Park, the tranquility at Flushing Meadows, the second largest recreational park in the city, on this particular afternoon had been shattered. Waylon stood amidst a chaotic scene that threatened to spin entirely out of control.

"We got deranged aliens holding hostages!" A bystander shouted, his voice cracking with panic as the men of the ESU made their way to the scene. Some of them carried bolt-action rifles, weapons more suited to hunting deer upstate, but they were going to be used and the men took up positions, prepared to bag the gunmen if in sight.

Waylon watched as a small crowd of onlookers pressed against the flimsy perimeter established by hastily deployed patrol officers. The yellow tape, stretched precariously between trees and lampposts, seemed pathetically inadequate against the unfolding absurdity. Beyond the yellow tape, standing near the skeletal frame of the New York State Pavilion, was a figure unlike anything he'd ever seen - even in the melting pot of New York City - gesticulated wildly.

The alien in view was tall and spindly, with skin the color of dried seaweed. Its hair-like appendages seemed to bend at odd angles and in one of its hands it clutched a blaster pistol. The hostage it was holding was a middle-aged woman with a meticulously sculpted bouffant hairstyle and a floral dress. She was petrified, her eyes were wide with terror, and her lipstick was smeared. She trembled visibly.

"I ain't going back!" The alien screamed, its voice a garbled mix of dolphin-like clicks and guttural tones that made Waylon's teeth ache. "There's no kriffing way!" Waylon had heard worse language on the streets but the sheer wrongness of it froze him for a moment.

Waylon sighed inwardly. He'd dealt with crazies before, plenty of them - junkies with knives, domestic disputes, even a guy who thought he was Napoleon Bonaparte which got on his nerves and Waylon had refrain from choking him as he was obviously no Frenchman, just a delusional nut all the way from Pasendena, California who was out of touch with reality. But this... This was a new level of bizarre, a whole Galaxy of crazy. He ran a hand over his closely cropped hair, the sweat already beading on his brow, stinging his eyes. This was going to be a long day, probably a career-defining one.

"Who's in charge here?"

The voice, calm and strangely resonant, cut through the nervous chatter of the officers and the shrill cries of the increasingly agitated crowd. Waylon turned around, his hand instinctively hovering near the butt of his service weapon, a Smith & Wesson Model 10. He saw a man dressed in what could best be described as monastic robes, a simple brown garment cinched at the waist with a rough leather belt. And, inexplicably, holding a lasersword - a glowing blue blade that hummed with contained energy. It was undeniably a lightsaber.

'Great.' Waylon thought, channeling his inner cynic. 'Now we have a Trekkie convention meeting intergalactic fugitives situation. What else could go wrong?'

"I am." Captain Muldoon bellowed, his large frame imposing, his tone firm and authoritative enough to still the murmurs of his men. Muldoon, a veteran of countless riots and hostage situations, was not easily rattled. But even Waylon noticed a flicker of uncertainty in the Captain's eyes.

"Let me talk to him." The monk requested, gesturing toward the alien with an outstretched hand. His gaze never wavered, his expression serene.

"Absolutely not. We got it under control. We have protocols for this." The NYPD Captain insisted, his patience wearing thin. He was used to being in charge, to having his orders obeyed without question due to being backed by law for the sake of enforcing it. Yet the Jedi, seemingly oblivious to Muldoon's authority, brushed past him with an infuriating smoothness. Waylon was the next in his path to confront the interloper.

"Listen, sir, you can't just walk in -" The Jedi, however, ignored him just as easily, stepping past as though Waylon was a mere obstacle to be circumnavigated. Waylon felt a surge of indignation, a prickly heat rising in his chest. Years on the force made you unaccustomed to being ignored; people generally listened, or at least pretended to.

"Escort the monk out!" Waylon barked to the nearest patrolmen, his voice sharp with annoyance.

"Come here, sir." One of the patrolmen, a young rookie still wide-eyed with nerves, said, gently trying to guide the Jedi away from the scene with a placating smile.

The patrolmen escorted, but the Jedi suddenly spun with a speed that belied his age and leaped up, landing directly in front of the alien perpetrator with surprising grace. He ignited his lightsaber with a snap-hiss that stopped everyone in their tracks. The alien recoiled, its garbled screech turning into a whimper.

"What the hell!?" Waylon yelled, both shocked and enraged. He'd never seen anything like it. "You're under arrest!" He declared, his face flushed with anger. His hand was now resting firmly on his pistol's grip.

"On what charge, Officer?" The Jedi responded, a hint of amusement in his voice, the blue glow of his lightsaber illuminating his serene face.

"Penal Law 265.01 non-citizens cannot carry any blade whatsoever, New York Penal Law 195.05, interfering with the official duties of a government employee or officer, with the intent to obstruct or impair their ability to perform their duties, and assaulting an officer, smartass." Waylon growled, rattling off the charges with the practiced ease of someone who knew the law inside and out. He abruptly wrestled the lightsaber away from the Jedi, the weapon surprisingly light in his hand. Then, with a practiced motion honed over years of street confrontations, he slapped a pair of handcuffs on the space wizard. "I'm sure the DA will think of other charges as well."

"I didn't do anything wrong!" The Jedi protested, his voice tinged with indignation.

"Like hell you did! This is New York City, not Coruscant!" Waylon snapped, his temper finally boiling over. He grabbed the Jedi by the arm and dragged him to the nearest patrol car. He unceremoniously shoved him roughly into the back like a common thug, and then slammed the door with a resounding thud. "Get this presumptuous imbecile out of my sight!"

The Patrolman, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement, scurried to the driver's side of his assigned vehicle. He fumbled with the keys for a moment, then started the engine with a nervous jerk. The siren wailed, a discordant cry piercing the already chaotic scene. The patrol car sped off, tires squealing, leaving Waylon standing in the middle of the chaos, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Unbelievable! Next, for all I know, someone is going to dress up like Batman and Robin to fight some deranged clown on the street!" Waylon muttered to himself, running a hand over his face again, feeling the grit of the city and the weight of the day settling on his shoulders. He stared off toward the alien, still ranting and gesturing wildly as he was hauled away in handcuffs, his companions nowhere in sight.

"I don't know, we could use some of the repellents and gadgets, perhaps the prop house who created them for Adam West and Burt Ward could build us functional ones." One of the remaining officers, trying to lighten the mood, said with a nervous chuckle.

Waylon glared, not in the mood in the slightest for levity. "Next time, keep these so-called intergalactic peacekeepers out of the perimeter, and arrest them on sight if they insist!" He spat out the words like venom, turning back to the alien hostage situation with a renewed sense of grim determination. This day was far from over.

"We think they may be deserters from the Republic Army, the one that our unhelpful interloper amputated is a Nautolan, I'm not even going to try to pronounce his name. The other four ran deeper into the park when we arrived."

"Okay, we're going in…"

Lance Porter Westbrook - Office of Public Diplomacy and Public Affairs, Office of the Legal Adviser, United States Department of State

State Department Building - 2201 C Street, Washington, District of Columbia, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:18:16 ATC /Thursday, September 18th, 1969 - 8:00/ 8:00 AM

"Why does it have to be a Meyer?" Westbrook muttered under his breath, a wave of exasperation washing over the career Harvard-educated State Department bureaucrat. This seemingly minor incident a day prior at Flushing Meadows Park, involving Jake's First Cousin Once Removed and fellow officers from the City of New York Police Department, was spiraling into a diplomatic headache of intergalactic proportions. While Waylon was merely enforcing local and state law, the Jedi Order by contrast, who saw themselves as protectors of peace and justice, perceived this as undue harassment, an affront, a gross overreaction. It was a chasm of perspectives, a cultural divide, and as a Westbrook, as a product of Harvard's hallowed halls, Lance knew he was tasked with navigating this delicate situation with the utmost diplomacy, meticulously considering the viewpoints of all parties involved.

Lance steepled his fingers, composing himself before speaking. "While the Jedi's commitment to justice is noble and appreciated." Lance began, his voice carefully measured. "You have to understand that vigilantism, regardless of its intentions, is generally frowned upon under our legal framework."

"He has diplomatic immunity." The alien insisted, cutting him off.

Westbrook sighed internally. "Not here, Master Pazvo is not even a consular employee. For lack of a better term, he's considered a tourist. He's been charged with carrying a blade, a Class D Felony, under New York City law." He paused, attempting to convey the gravity of the situation. "He's treated like any other non-diplomatic citizen. Deportation proceedings are inevitable, I'm afraid. My advice would be to hire a local attorney to try and keep him out of incarceration. Alternatively, you could attempt to convince the Governor of New York to issue a pardon, but that's unlikely for purely political reasons. Governor Paul L. Adams is rapidly acquiring the reputation of being the 'Law and Order Governor'."

The Republic official regarded him with an almost unsettlingly calm gaze. "You Earthlings sure know how to wiggle your way through technicalities."

"I don't make the ordinances, statutes, and treaties." Westbrook replied, his tone even. "I simply follow them."

"Neither do I, blindly ." His parallel countered. "From my government's perspective, he possesses diplomatic immunity according to galactic law."

Westbrook leaned back in his chair. "Then we have reached a fundamental disconnect. The United States government's opinion, based on the accord on diplomats which we did indeed ratify, specifically the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations of April 18, 1961, is that except for members of the Jedi High Council, your Order holds no diplomatic immunity." Lance reached for a meticulously organized file and extracted a copy of the agreement, showcasing the signature of then-President John Fitzgerald Kennedy and the Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. He pointed to a specific clause. "Right here, in article one, section twelve, it explicitly states that the Galactic Republic will respect and abide by the Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations until another agreement has been reached by our respective governments." He emphasized the following words. "In other words, he has no diplomatic immunity."

"There must be some mistake." His counterpart insisted, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face. "Surely it's reciprocal."

"I looked into that matter, ironically..." Westbrook trailed off, choosing his words carefully. "...We haven't had the occasion to discuss matters relating to granting your diplomats diplomatic immunity on Earth nor the full scope of it and who has it aside from diplomatic agents, their families, and some staff. Until it changes, on this world the Vienna Convention applies."

The Republic staffer rose to his feet, his resolve hardening. "Then I suppose we'll have to argue this in your Supreme Court. You're not the only ones who can read laws, Earthling. Good day, sir."

Westbrook watched him leave, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a butterknife. He leaned back in his chair, a weary expression settling on his face. 'And this is why it's a thankless job.'

Patrolman Tyler Christopher Meyer - Patrol Car 65, West District "David Sector", Indianapolis Police Department

Indianapolis Police Department Station, West District - 551 North King Avenue, Indianapolis, Marion County, Indiana, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:18:16 ATC /Thursday, September 18th, 1969 - 8:00/ 8:00 AM

The linoleum floor of the station, smelling faintly of stale coffee, the fumes of cigarettes, and the acrid tang of printer ink, echoed with the crisp click of Tyler's polished Oxfords as he walked in. The air hung heavy with the low hum of police radios and the rhythmic, almost frantic, clatter of typewriters hammering out reports of petty crimes and felonies.

Tyler found his sister, Kate, hunched over her desk, the fluorescent lights casting a stark, unforgiving radiance on her towheaded blonde hair and fair, almost porcelain skin. She was writing furiously, pen scratching against the official form with a purpose typically reserved for household chores.

"Hey." Tyler said, trying to inject a lightness into his voice that he didn't quite feel. He was still chewing on the morning's breakfast made by his wife Insa -including sausage, a staple of the Meyer's traditional German-American diet. "Busy day?"

Kate glanced up, her expression fleetingly softening before hardening again into a mask of professional detachment. "Hey, Tyler." She replied, her voice flat, almost nonchalant. She immediately returned to her report, her shoulders subtly tense beneath the stiff fabric of her uniform. While she wasn't in the Marines or the Army she was in the Police Department - again - and it was still preposterous.

Tyler's jaw tightened. He knew this confrontation was brewing. He'd rehearsed the argument in his head a dozen times, each time hoping for a different outcome. "Honestly, Kate, you should be home, where you belong." The words came out sharper than he intended, revealing a deeper frustration than just her career choice. It tapped into the anxieties gnawing at the edges of their perfectly ordered world - the previous unrest that had gripped the country, the War in Vietnam, and yet there was another conflict, against the Sith Empire.

Kate sighed, a puff of exasperation that ruffled a strand of light blonde hair that had escaped her coiffure. "I don't have any kids, and I was getting lonely without Darrell." Her husband of only a year, a Private on the Indianapolis Fire Department she met at cookout and who worked alongside Uncle Ryan, was concurrently in the National Guard. He had been called up for duty, their father Wyatt also had been recalled after the last world war and Korean conflict whereas Tyler, despite previously being in the United States Army Reserve for the two years, hadn't been summoned.

Tyler's irritation flared, surprised that Kate was allowed to return to her previous position despite being a married woman. He shifted his weight, pulling at the crisp fabric of his uniform. "Grandma is very disappointed in you, Kate, you know that." He knew it was a low blow, weaponizing their grandmother's unwavering disapproval, but he was desperate to make her see reason. The women of the Meyer family were supposed to be the bedrock of their conservative ideals - nurturing wives, devoted mothers, keepers of the home.

Kate ignored him, taking a long, deliberate sip of coffee from her mug. The silence stretched, punctuated only by the clatter of another officer's typewriter across the room. Finally, she spoke, her voice laced with a weary sarcasm. "Lucy went into the Marines to free a man to fight."

"And Aunt Lucy, bless her, regrets it." Tyler scoffed. "She was coaxed by Rebecca, you know the story. It was a mistake ." Lucy had only joined the Marines because her friend encouraged her, it was a decision she'd spent the rest of her life regretting, sacrificing her womanhood to a misguided sense of duty. The proof was in how she'd dedicated herself to Paul and her children, despite how the twin sisters, Heather and Dawn, had both become a BAM and a WAC respectively.

Kate put down her pen, the click echoing in the sudden quiet. She turned in her chair, fixing Tyler with a steady, unwavering gaze. "Do you really think it matters to me what Grandma, Dad, or anyone else thinks? It isn't like I'm doing this forever, Tyler, I'm still the subservient and obsequious Misses Darrell Eifert, I still long to be a wife and mother, but now is clearly not the time."

There was an abnormal steel in her voice that made Tyler uneasy yet he shook his head, fighting back the anger that threatened to consume him. "I just don't get it, Kate. You've always been the stubborn one."

"Except to my husband but you've always been the one to follow the rules." Kate shot back, the corner of her mouth tilting in a small, almost imperceptible smile. "Maybe that's why we balance each other out." She gestured to the reports stacked on her desk. "Someone has to do the job, Tyler, filing documents, to free up men for the war or patrol even if it means breaking from convention fleetingly."

Tyler couldn't help but smile back, despite his frustration. A small part of him, the part that remembered climbing trees with her in the orchard as children, before the weight of expectations and the pressures of the world had settled on their shoulders, missed this easy camaraderie but she also preferred playing with her dollhouse in her youth. "You did say not forever." He acquiesced.

Kate took another sip of her coffee, her eyes softening. "Let's not argue about this, Tyler. Not now. We're family, after all."

Tyler nodded, the tension easing ever so slightly. There was a war on and manpower was finite, there was only enough that could be spared without impacting industry and agriculture, someone had to pick up the slack. "Yeah, family. Always." He said before noticing that his second cousin, Frauke, who had fled from the Big Apple, was here as well. "Frannie is here too?"

"Her first day, at least on this department." Kate simpered, causing her brother to groan. He knew what was coming. Kate loved to act as the older sibling and would use this to her advantage. "Oh, come on, Tyler. Give Frannie a break. She's probably still terrified, having moved from a bustling metropolis like New York City to sleepy old Indianapolis." Kate chuckled. "Besides…" She added, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Who knows, given her experience with Mob-Molls maybe she'll bring a little excitement to this place." The idea seemed to spark a new energy in Kate, a brief escape from the tedium of her daily routine.

Tyler groaned, there was now another Policewoman in the office, one who was formerly with the City of New York Police Department no less.

Valerie Jenner Meyer

Meyer Farm, Acton, Franklin Township, Marion County, Indiana, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:18:16 ATC /Thursday, September 18th, 1969 - 16:45/ 4:45 PM

Valerie emerged from the weathered barn with a half-empty paint can swinging in her hand. She'd been touching up the fading red paint on the chicken coop, a never-ending task on a working farm but as she walked towards the farmhouse, a distinct, high-pitched chirping cut through the usual sounds of rural life. It wasn't the cheerful twitter of birds, but something more urgent, almost frantic. Valerie paused, her brow furrowed. The sound was coming from the family's most unusual pet.

"What's the matter, boy?" Valerie wondered aloud.

Himig, their still unexpected pet of seven years, a male Sumatran Rhinoceros, was standing rigidly alert near the edge of the pasture. Their father had returned from an auction in Peru, Indiana, a town ironically dubbed the 'Circus Capital of the World', with the then young rhino in tow, much to the family's astonishment. Now, Himig's small eyes were intensely focused on a patch of disturbed earth before backing away as a certain rodent, a Microtus pennsylvanicus, a Eastern Meadow Vole, emerged out of it.

"It's just a vole." Valerie chuckled, dismissing Himig's agitation. It was endearing, in a strange way, to see the beast so concerned over something so insignificant.

Suddenly, the crunch of gravel announced a visitor. A cloud of dust billowed as a car pulled into the driveway, stopping near the worn wooden fence that separated the yard from the pasture. Valerie glanced up and recognized the distinctive lines of Frauke's 1952 Hudson Hornet.

"Nice day?" Valerie called out, leaning against the fence.

Frauke stretched her back with a groan. "It was alright, I only had to deal with a truancy case in the office and admittedly I got spazzed with her, I'm no social worker and I'm also not her mother but that gal really needed the lecture." Frauke sighed dramatically, then leaned against the fence, her gaze fixed on Himig. "If I didn't see it with my own eyes I would've still thought you were pulling my leg." She shook her head in disbelief.

"Why would I lie about a rhino?" Valerie asked, feigning offense.

"I heard of pet raccoons, ocelots, pumas, and lions, you can even get a pet squirrel monkey through the mail for less than twenty dollars but a singing, woolly, two-horned rhino? It's something out of Doctor Seuss like 'Horton Hears a Who!'" Frauke exclaimed, her voice laced with amusement as she threw her hands up in mock exasperation. "It just doesn't seem real."

"His parents were circus animals." Valerie explained, as if that simple fact somehow normalized it. "Dad said he had a beautiful singing voice, and he's only woolly here because Indiana has a terrible winter."

"And this farm is like a zoo." Frauke snorted, still staring at the rhino. "Call me crazy but now I need ham and eggs."

"In a box with a fox?" Valerie asked, a playful glint in her eyes, suspecting that her second cousin was still making references to the children's author.

"Oh, hush up." Frauke retorted, a smile playing on her lips. "Just ham and eggs. And maybe a side of this crazy life of yours." She pushed herself off the fence. "Coming in?"

Meyer Farmhouse - Acton, Franklin Township, Marion County, Indiana, United States of America, North America, Earth, Sol System, Milky Way Galaxy

09:18:16 ATC /Thursday, September 18th, 1969 - 18:45/6:45 PM

"That little rascal tried to go after my flowers more than once." Lucy chuckled, her blue eyes crinkling at the corners as she passed the black pepper to Oakley.

"Talk about an exotic pet." Oakley responded, shaking her head in amusement. "Who expects to see a Sumatran rhinoceros in Acton, Indiana?"

"You can say that again, sister." Frauke, a half-second cousin, chimed in, her laughter blending with the general din.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of the telephone cut through the jovial atmosphere like a knife. The conversation at the table died down, all eyes turning towards Lucy as she wiped her hands on her apron and rose to answer it.

"Hello, Misses Paul Meyer speaking." Lucy said, her voice warm and welcoming.

"Lucy, it's Waylon." A familiar voice crackled through the receiver, a voice normally filled with booming confidence now laced with a worrisome strain.

"Your daughter is here. Would you like to speak to her?" Lucy offered, glancing towards Frauke, whose earlier cheerfulness had been replaced by a flicker of anticipation.

"In a minute perhaps, but that's not the only reason why I was calling." Waylon hesitated, a deep sigh audible even through the phone lines, a sound that spoke volumes about the burden he carried. "I'm probably going to send the wife and kids over. It's hairy here in the Big Apple."

"I think we can find room for three more." Lucy said, forcing a cheerful tone despite the knot of worry tightening in her stomach. Their house was already bursting at the seams but she couldn't turn away family in need and she was willing to find spare rooms and arrange makeshift sleeping arrangements. Besides, the thought of Waylon's wife, Anja, and their two other children, Bonnie and Tanner, being in danger spurred her into action. She knew that New York had dealt with protests and social unrest, fueled in part by economic anxieties and the riots that transpired seemed like only yesterday, but Waylon's tone painted a far grimmer picture, hinting at something far more volatile and unpredictable.

"I wished that it didn't come to it, but between the war and… circumstances here." Waylon's voice was laced with a weariness that sent a shiver down Lucy's spine. The ellipses hung heavy in the air, pregnant with unspoken fears. "It's not unpleasant in Yorkville yet, not exactly, but I think sending the family over to Indiana may be for the best, at least until the domestic tranquility is restored."

"No worries." Lucy reassured him, even as she wondered what exactly was happening in New York City. The snippets she'd caught on the news - rising crime rates, whispers of a city on the brink - seemed distant, almost unreal, viewed from the peaceful serenity of rural Indiana. "Frauke, honey? Your father is on the phone."

Frauke, wide-eyed with curiosity and growing unease, took the receiver. "Hi, Daddy!" She greeted, her voice brimming with a fragile hopefulness.

"Frauke, sweetie, listen. I tried to get bagels, all of the Orwashers have closed down, it isn't coming back."

A gasp escaped Frauke's lips. "Not Orwashers! They had the best bagels! Sesame, poppyseed, everything... they were perfect!" Her voice trembled with disbelief. "That's crossing the line!" For Frauke, Orwashers wasn't just a bakery, it was a it was a symbol of her childhood, a tangible link to the once vibrant, bustling city she had called home.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry, but welcome to Fear City, what used to be known as Gotham and The Five Boroughs."

"What is this world coming to? Without a thriving New York City?" Frauke lamented, clutching the phone tightly. "I still can't believe it. It's the cultural capital, the city that never sleeps... how can it just... shut down?"

"This mess didn't start overnight but this what happens when the criminals get more rights than the citizens and politicians reappropriate funds from the police: anarchy." Waylon's voice crackled with frustrated anger. "The city's falling apart, Frauke. It's not safe anymore."

"I know, Dad. I just hate 'Fear City'." Frauke whispered, a tear rolling down her cheek. The casual mention of Orwashers' closing, the end of a family tradition on Sunday mornings, was a tangible loss that resonated far beyond a simple craving for a bagel. It was the loss of a way of life.

Lucy watched her niece's distress, a wave of sympathetic understanding washing over her. The young woman's world was crumbling before her eyes, a chaotic mix of anxiety and disbelief swirling within as whatever was happening in New York City was far more serious than anyone had initially imagined. The doting homemaker had seen the blurry, disturbing images flashing across the nightly news. At first, like everyone else, she'd dismissed it as another fleeting headline, another distant problem but it was starting to dawn on her that this was not just another sensationalized news cycle blip, that this was no exaggeration. New York City, the formerly vibrant, pulsating heart of the nation, was a city teetering on the precipice, becoming moribund, while Philadelphia was flourishing, regaining its crown as the quintessential American metropolis.

General of the Army Dwight David "Ike" Eisenhower - Head of the Coalesced Forces from Earth

"The War Room" - Senate Building, Senate District, Galactic City, Coruscant, Coruscant, Coruscant System, Core Worlds, Republic Space, "The Galaxy"

09:20:16 ATC /Saturday, September 20th, 1969 - 9:37/9:37 AM

Inside 'The War Room', holographic displays flickered, projecting star charts and troop movements, while the air crackled with the urgency of a galaxy-spanning conflict. Eisenhower stood at the central command table, his brow furrowed in contemplation. He was a master of logistics and strategy, but even he found himself grappling with the sheer scale of this intergalactic war.

The latest proposition from Berthold Konrad Hermann Albert Speer, the controversial German architect, had certainly taken him by surprise. Speer, despite his past association with the Nazi regime, had proven to be an invaluable asset. His expertise in engineering and logistics was undeniable, even if Eisenhower harbored a deep personal resentment for the man's past.

'The Ratte?' Eisenhower thought as he read the paper file. 'He's serious?'

Speer's recommendation was nothing short of audacious. The Landkreuzer P. 1000 Ratte, a landship that had been one of Adolf Hitler's most outlandish pet projects, was being proposed as a counter to the colossal 'siege' walkers expected to be encountered on the battlefields. The irony was palpable. Speer had previously dismissed the Ratte as a ludicrous waste of resources, one that became known as a symbol of Hitler's megalomania.

Yet, Speer's arguments were compelling. He pointed out the vast, underutilized shipyards, the skilled workforce languishing without purpose.

He argued that converting these yards to produce landships would not only bolster their defenses but also preserve valuable expertise, leaving the yards to languish and conscripting the workers, placing them in the infantry where their knowledge would be lost if they're killed was a waste of capabilities and expertise, replacing any of the workers with experience couldn't happen overnight and although there was no significant requirement for oceanic warships the shipyards were still valuable and they could even transition into fabricating tanks in addition to 'landships'. He emphasized the need for a weapon capable of matching the enemy's colossal walkers, a weapon that could break through their defenses and turn the tide of battle.

Eisenhower considered the implications. The logistics were daunting, but the potential payoff was immense. If Speer was convinced that the Ratte could be effective, then Eisenhower wouldn't stand in the way. He knew that the ultimate decision rested with the procurement officers, the 'beancounters'. But the thought of a weapon born from a madman's obsession becoming a symbol of salvation was a twist of fate that even he found intriguing, it wasn't as if there was already precedent as the MG1 was entering widespread use, Hitler's infamous Buzzsaw firing the standard NATO cartridge but for the most part the standardization were American designs from rifles to guns and tanks to aircraft and the sooner the armaments were interchangeable within the alliance the better as logistics counted.

He turned his attention to the holographic display, his gaze fixed on the projected star chart.

"Ike." Malcom said, his voice laced with a hint of skepticism. "The Chinese have offered to spearhead the counteroffensive on Leritor."

The Red Chinese. Eisenhower wasn't surprised that the People's Liberation Army would be putting their foot somewhere. "And you're bringing this up because…?" He asked, his gaze fixed on the Chancellor, who stood at the opposite end of the command table.

"I talked it over with Marshal Su Yu yesterday, he wanted to discuss it with me alone. They're getting my support, Ike." The Chancellor declared. "They're eager to prove themselves."

"Chancellor..." Eisenhower said, his voice laced with caution. "The Chinese have a history of relying on attritional warfare, of expending manpower as a resource. That approach won't work in this conflict. They're vastly outnumbered." Despite not showing it, he also felt a sense of betrayal but he wasn't that surprised that he had been kept out of the loop, there was still a 'Cold War' back home.

"That may be true in history." Saresh countered. "But you realize that there have been reforms initiated under Chairman Shaoqi?"

"I don't know anything that occurred in mainland China, only Formosa, I mean Taiwan." Eisenhower replied, his voice laced with a hint of exasperation. He was also wary of the Chinese and their motives, but the decision has already been made, he didn't had the authority to recall them and he hoped that this...expedition wouldn't come back to haunt them.

Dajiang (Grand Commander) Su Yu "The Zhukov of China" - Commander of the People's Liberation Army

Aboard theR.N.S. Fortitude -Valor-class Cruiser: Coruscant System, Core Worlds, Republic Space, "The Galaxy"

09:20:16 ATC /Saturday, September 20th, 1969 - 9:37/9:37 AM

Su Yu, the revered 'Zhukov of China', stood before a sea of fresh-faced conscripts of the People's Liberation Army. His presence commanded attention, his reputation for strategic brilliance and battlefield victories preceding him.

He raised a hand, silencing the eager chatter that filled the air. "TÓNGZHÌMEN, SHÍJĪ YǏ DÀO, SHÍCHÉN YǏ JÌN, WǑMEN BÙ ZÀI DĚNGDÀI, LÚN DÀO WǑMEN DǍJÍ DÍRÉNLE! (COMRADES, THE TIME IS ARRIVING, THE HOUR IS NEAR, THERE WILL BE NO MORE WAITING AS IT IS OUR TURN TO STRIKE THE ENEMY!)" His voice, amplified by loudspeakers, resonated with unwavering resolve, stirring a wave of excitement through the ranks. The soldiers responded in kind, raising their Assault Rifle, Model of 1956s, into the air in jubilant cheers.

Su Yu pressed on, his words carefully chosen to ignite the fires of patriotism. "XIǍNG XIǍNG NǏMEN DE FÙMǓ ZÀI RÌBĚN RÉN SHǑUXIÀ ZĀOSHÒU DE CǍNTÒNG JIÀOXÙN, NǏMEN YUÀNYÌ ZHÈYÀNG DE SHÌQÍNG ZÀI FĀSHĒNG MA!? (THINK OF THE HORRORS YOUR PARENTS ENDURED UNDER THE HANDS OF THE JAPANESE, WOULD YOU LIKE IT TO HAPPEN AGAIN!?)"

A thunderous roar erupted from the soldiers: "BÙ! (NO!)"

He continued, his voice rising in intensity."NǏMEN YUÀNYÌ BÈI LUÒHÒU SUǑ NÚYÌ, BÈI WÀIGUÓ BÀZHǓ SUǑ NÚYÌ, BÈI KUǏLĚI SUǑ NÚYÌ MA!? (WOULD YOU WANT TO BE ENSLAVED BY BACKWARDNESS, BY FOREIGN OVERLORDS, OR TO HAVE PUPPETS!?)"

The response was even more emphatic: "JUÉ BÙ (NEVER)!"

"WÈILE ZHŌNGHUÁ RÉNMÍN GÒNGHÉGUÓ! (FOR THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA!)" Su Yu concluded, his voice ringing with conviction.

The conscripts echoed his declaration with unified passion: "WÈILE ZHŌNGHUÁ RÉNMÍN GÒNGHÉGUÓ! (FOR THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA!)"

As the echoes of the rally faded, the Soviet military attaché, Podpolkovnik (Lieutenant Colonel) Kolya Popo turned to Su Yu, offering a terse observation. "Quite the crowd." Kolya noted as he watched the enthusiasm.

Su Yu, unfazed by the casual remark, replied with quiet confidence. "The people back home expect nothing less than victory." He then outlined his strategy. "We will be attacking only at night and close in on the enemy, within reach of their belts."

"Like Korea?" Kolya interjected, drawing parallels with the conflict that was still in living memory.

"This time at the flank." Su Yu subtly corrected him. "I will privy our Republic counterparts and coordinate our assaults. By attacking where the enemy least expects it, under the cover of darkness, we should be able to keep our casualties to a minimum."

"The enemy have night vision and stimulants." Kolya raised, pointing out a flaw to Su Yu's planned night offensives.

"That is true." Su Yu admitted, acknowledging the enemy's advantages and the inevitable cost in lives. "And casualties are inevitable." But he was not deterred. "But their night vision has weaknesses, and the stimulants will wear out. We have star shells for our batteries to last us over a year and have issued flares to the men. The enemy won't get ample rest. We'll try to bombard them into submission, and if not, then we'll attack at night and at their flanks." His strategy was one of attrition, designed to exhaust the enemy both physically and mentally, and exploit vulnerabilities under the cover of darkness. Su Yu's plan wasn't a simple frontal assault, it was a carefully orchestrated campaign of relentless pressure and calculated risk, a reflection of his reputation as the 'Zhukov of China'. He knew that the odds were stacked against them, but he also knew that the People's Liberation Army, fueled by their unwavering patriotism and his strategic brilliance, could overcome any obstacle.

I know it has been sometime since the last update but rest assured that the story hasn't been neglected.

Also, while unplanned, there has been a pair of additions for this chapter as I'm sure many of the readers have heard about Gene Hackman passing away tragically, alongside his wife and one of his dogs. From the French Connection to Mississippi Burning to Unforgiven and The Quick and the Dead, Hackman was a legend, he was the submarine captain in Crimson Tide and an iconic anti-hero in many films.

This was the least I can do for a fine man and I was going to do something involving the 1954 Indiana State Basketball Championship anyway but of course the Milan Miracle, the 1954 Indiana State Basketball Championship, was adapted into the iconic movie Hoosiers with Gene Hackman portraying fictional coach named Norman Dale, the film does take liberties but it was based on actual events with Bobby Plump being the real life Jimmy Chitwood.

I also paid homage to Clint Hill, the Secret Service agent who attempted to leap into the car and shield JFK from the shots fired in Dallas that fateful day in American history, as he also had passed away recently.

While I can't say when the next chapter will be published, it is being worked on and I hope you are looking forward to it since as promised I'm keeping my word regarding a certain group I mentioned back in Chapter 22 though to be honest the only use for the Shaolin in the story is for propaganda purposes and if this story was different they likely would be force users, I'm honestly still surprised no one decided to write about 'Shaolin Jedi' but I digress.

Anyway, til next time, I hope you all have a nice day.