[h1]Michigan[/h1]
[h2]Lansing[/h2]
[b]September 5th, 2018[/b]

Crowds choked Capital Avenue from West Kalamazoo to Shiawasse, and from the Grand River to Pine Street. A massive central chunk of the city was a sea of people who milled about the streets, chanting and holding signs. Just days prior, protesters who had marched on Washington DC had been shot dead by National Guardsmen. Though the protest had dispersed, dozens had fallen dead on Jefferson Avenue and a war now seen as even more critically unjust for its deployment of nuclear weapons was now seen as outright criminal. The seeds of that scattered protest were now blown back to the states, and men and women of all stripes marched in solidarity had descended on the capital of the state of Michigan to shout and sneer from from the rifles of federally controlled guardsmen in DC.

It was a temperate autumn day, the sun was warm, but a crispy chill breeze blew. The trees on the capital lawn were in the very beginning stages of turning and green leaves were beginning to turn yellow and orange at the edges, but these were high above the heads of the picketers who had come to surround the capital on all sides and effectively shut down central Lansing. The office workers in the city and state offices surrounding the axis of power that was the state capital building had to push themselves out onto the street simply to stop by Jimmy Johns. So far the protest had not turned violent, and was merely loud with its amplified leaders shouting anti-war and anti-government slogans and leading in chants.

The Lansing Police and nearby State Police had descended early on in the protest when it was small, dressed in riot gear and with shields expecting and fearing violence. Moments before there was indications that someone, somewhere, and at some point would turn the presently peaceful protest violent. But the entire incident was too spontaneous to properly react to and by the time the intelligence had hit the state and city police chief's desks it was only hours before. Only a small deployment of officers were in, standing in an uneasy thin line around the neoclassical capital buildings, most of both houses of Congress were in discussing the implications of a bill to declare their withdrawal of support for the war, and how as a state body they might goad Washington into deescalating the conflict and restore a status quo. It was considered a weak bill, and flimsily drafted in response to the outcry of the Washington massacre. Its language – if it could be called that at all – had the verbal impact of a wet noodle and even then most of the aging men in their closed sessions were believed to not even vote to let it pass to a general vote it was such a joke.

If anything, the teeming mass of people out in the clear autumn afternoon were a stronger, blunter, and more direct response to the Washington protest and the war in general. “Bring our boys home!” they demanded. “We want our Washington back!”

It was unlikely the federal government was listening.

On the steps of the capital building there was some uneasy shuffling from the riot-ready police men. A sergeant walked over to his potbellied lieutenant who had stepped out from behind his desk to put as much manpower on the street possible to this post. The two exchanged uneasy glances at each other. The squawking on the radio opened complaints by the reinforcements trying to get into the city that their path had become complicated. Beyond even East Lansing and all about Lansing edge the roads had become inexplicably blocked. There was a car-accident on 496 involving several semis that had closed both lanes when one had ramped the concrete divide. But more suspiciously there weren't anyone at the accident site and the traffic was stopped for ten miles up and down the highway, many had simply abandoned their cars in frustration.

On the side-streets and along Grand River and outside the MSU campus smaller satellite demonstrations had blossomed and they refused to move for emergency responders, outside the odd ambulance or fire-truck. But even aside from them were the numerous cars parked across the roads. The reinforcements were spending too much time searching and probing for a way in.

Then tension in the air was palpable and despite the cool autumn breeze the officers were sweating under their armor. The anger here today was like a furnace and the air was heavy with rage. The tension could be cut with a knife, if you could prevent the knife from melting away from it.

From the top of the steps the officers watched as the crowd began parting in several spots. Someone, or some groups of people were making their way through. But through the masses of hats, heads, and signs they could not get a clear view of who it was. But as that parting force grew close they could hear clear and demanding voices bellowing out over the chaos. 

“Coming through!”

“Let me passed!”

“Fuck off!”

Stepped out in front of the crowd the officers raised their guard. The sergeant and lieutenant raised their hands to their pistols and shouted to the men on the ground as a new class of protester stepped forward. Their riot shields went up, but the defensive line was too porous, if anyone wanted to they could easily over-run the token defense. But the rest of the mob was too passive for it, they just wanted to vent their anger. But unlike the rest of the mob the individuals that now stood at its head didn't look liked they care.

Holding rucksacks or backpacks to their chests several dozen men with hoods drawn up over their heads with masks or balaclavas hiding their faces looked up and stared down the state's only meaningful line of defense.

“Stand back!” the police lieutenant shouted at them, “Get back in with the rest!” he turned towards them to accentuate the pistol at his hip.

The masked figure closest to him looked down at the firearm at his hip and scoffed. “Fuck no.” he called up to him. He reached his hand into his bag and let it fall to the ground, revealing an SMG and a bandoleer of spare magazines for the weapon.

He fired the weapon as a warning shot and the loud shattering rattle of the weapon startled the protest and the officers jumped, instinctively reaching for their own guns from behind their shield. The face of the capital building now pocked with fresh bullet holes and the narrow tall windows of the Michigan House of Representatives sparkled, the glass blown inwards by the barrage of fire.

The gesture was matched, as  the rest produced weapons of their own. Assault rifles, shotguns, handguns, and machine guns. The sudden appearance of arms spooked the front line of the protest and they began to chatter and shout nervously as the new cast of characters brandished their arms, pointing down the police.

“You step the fuck aside, our beef isn't with you.” the man with the SMG shouted at the lieutenant.

He looked around at them. They hadn't come ready for this. His stomach felt weak, his heart hanging heavy. His hand wrapped numbly about his pistol but there was no effort to actually withdraw it. The others looked confused, locked in a standoff with the armed vigilantes at the Capital's doors. If they opened fire, they would hit the protesters behind them and they'd have another massacre on their hands.

Resigned, the police lieutenant obliged and lifted his hand from his holster, stepping aside with a downcast look. The armed men took  it as a sign and advanced up the front steps as a contingent went behind the steps through the visitor's door at the side and base of the otherwise ceremonial entrance to the capital and gained entrance.

Shortly before power into the city had been cut, and the capital was dark. Sunlight streamed through the windows and reflecting off the high polish of the tiled marble floors illuminated the entire capital building in a dull temporal glow. The vigilantes streamed in with organized determined precision. Taking not just for the main offices of the governor and the congressmen – though they would not be there, they were at their own functional offices or home, and were being dealt with – but to the numerous side-doors forcing them open and checking inside.

“Get on the fucking floor!” demanding voices roared through the halls. Someone fired an assault rifle into the air as a warning and the rotunda echoed with the gun fire and the sounds of combat boots racing up the stairs and the halls of the capital. Several groups descended on the halls of the House of Representatives and Senate, the rest went up to the cloak rooms at the top of the building dragging behind token hostages as if they were loot to be collected into one spot.

“Who the fuck are you?” a senator shouted as the team infiltrated the Senate chamber. There were only a handful in at the time, 90% of the few desks in the chamber empty.

“Get on the floor.” one of the masked men demanded, leveling a Kalashnikov at the statesmen. He didn't need all the lights on in the Senate chambers to get the hint, the sunlight glinting off the gunmetal gray barrel was enough to tell him and the others they meant business. The statesmen obliged the demand, and they dropped to their knees and their stomach. Hovering on the periphery the assailants loomed in dark shadows overlooking them. In the gallery above additional men raced above, charging into the offices on the top floor at the far side of the chamber. As the wing was declared empty one of the men issued a new order.

“On your hands and knees, crawl outside.” he said with a snapping voice, waving a handgun. He sounded no older than thirty, but they didn't need to know the age, just that they had the guns.

“Senate chamber is ours, taking them to the central point.” another one of them said coolly over smart-phone assisted radio.

“Copy. House of Rep clear, bringing ours out.” the voice of a young woman said, “Waiting for confirmation on top team.”

The senators were lead crawling out to the heavy glass floor of the Rotunda. Beams of sunlight streamed through the windows at its very top, dimly illuminating the paintings that decorated the rotunda ceiling's surface. On the walls the portraits of the passed governors looked down at the men in darkening ethereal light.

The senators were soon met by the men from the House of Representatives. They were sat together with their knees drawn up to their chests and hands up over bowed heads. “Top is clear.” a voice said over the speakers.

“Copy that, call the news. Get someone in here. Mlive, WHMI, NPR, anyone who can get here first and soon.”

“I'm on that.” someone in the rotunda chamber said into their phone, and began dialing away.

“Who are you people?” a congressman asked in the dark.

“The people.” the man who gave the order to call in for the news. His voice warbled with tension, and he fought to keep a certain level of composure.

“What does that mean?” the congressman said in disbelief. “We are the people!”

“Not anymore, this is a coup.” the man answered him, with a light uneasy chuckle, “We're declaring Michigan as ours. For the people, by the people.”

“You're just terrorists.”

The man laughed, “Yeah, sure. We'll see who the terrorists are when the system is in our control.”

“You can't possibly get all of us. Snyder isn't even here.”

“We know that, we're dealing with that.”

There was a moment of tense angry silence between the two.

“So you have us, what now?”

“We will see what your personal correspondence say when we get them.” the man said, they could hear the smile on his voice, “If you're clean, you can go home as freemen; for trust. If not, you're ours until the police and guard capitulate and give it to us.

“Long live the revolution.”

[h1]Illinois[/h1]
[h2]Chicago[/h2]
[b]Present day[/b]

McCormick Place was perhaps the least viable place to attempt to practice  government on a sprawling scale, but it was the best option at hand for the structure of government in the Free Territory as nearly absurdly invisible as it was supposed to be while being so broad and bloated with people. While the size of the catastrophically wild assembly had had attempts to restrict its size by accepting delegates from recognize municipalities which accepted a delegate from barely incorporated townships or villages to small towns, larger towns, and neighborhoods in cities to “General Elective Municipal Districts”, this created a vague and sometimes nonsensical concept of what that entailed, and thus there always seemed to be too many individuals than the situation entailed.

In one of the large convention halls of the convention center folding chairs had been placed about to encircle a central space. There weren't any attempts to make staged elevation in the short time the Assembly of the Free Territory had been called, so viewing the center space for oratory was nearly impossible from the back. But it was the best they could do with limited resources. And besides, they were already leaving.

There was a tension in the air and the lights flickered from threatened electricity. The speakers were connected to a general local radio-station which was reporting on the progress of the Indiana State Guard who were with the backing of some federal troops attempting to invade and occupy Illinois with the goal of bringing order to the otherwise defected region. The main force were a day away, and presently held up by the citizen militias and organized legions. But even that far they were coming too close and every so often a passing plane would sweep the city, seem to decide on whether or not to do anything, and then leave threateningly. Most men were afraid of stepping outside in fear of drones and most of the cars had to be camouflaged with thermal-cloaking material to foil any attempts at picking apart the new Congress before they could get anywhere.

But before they could leave, they had to hear one thing. And the Assembly moved to their seats or stood impatiently about the edge with their hands in suit pockets waiting to leave as a thin man in worn fatigues took center stage. His fingers nervously played with the belt loops on his pants, and to hide the fact he pretended to hoist his pants up now and then, pretending to compensate for the military gear he still wore on his belt.

“Ladies, gentlemen.” he began with a nervous whimpering voice, trying his best to speak loudly and clearly so he may be heard all over the convention, “I know we are all eager to resettle in Green Bay as things go to Hell here, but I ask that any and all sensible people consider the needs, wants, and comforts of the men and women sworn to defend you and all the free cities united together in this confederation of ours.

“As you drive off into the sunset, remember that the gas which you use is a precious luxury, and the people in the field could stand to use some. I hope you do not use very much. Winter is here on us, and while we also need socks and gloves some gas for our stoves would go a long way in keeping us all from freezing. As the Batko told me before coming here, we're a long way from Valley Forge and a long way from the peace a winter season would otherwise bring us. But war now is not seasonal, and as we very well know it's happening here is not a seasonal campaign, but one measured out over years, or even months of continuous all-weather fighting.”

The young volunteer wondered if he was hitting the nail right on the head. At this point he was largely telling them what the enigmatic and mysterious figure known as The Batko 2.0 had told him before coming here. He could not make this appeal, since he needed to be in the field. And it was made in such chaotic circumstance the man sent in his stead was starting to worry he didn't get all he needed to know and what to say about the issue. He had to play it be ear, and that's what terrified him.

“We'll be cold.” he said, it sounded weak to his ears and his voice cracked around the last syllable. “I realize it is contentious to do so and to discuss, but we could really use the thought. Right now, it is not an issue of local needs or wants. It is an issue of proper... uh, defense! We have natural gas, we ask for this. Whatever the issues entail for its extraction its something we will need moving ahead. Not just to keep our cars running, and power plants burning. But to keep us warm, and to cook our meals.

“A frozen militia is no use to any of us. So... Please. Do something.”

He shrugged miserably and stepped back. “Thank you.” he nodded nervously, and turned to walk out.

The assembly chattered in hushed tone between themselves as he headed out a door. Around the corner the young man was stopped. “How'd I do?” he asked his comrade as they stood in the dim wintry light of the convention center's main hall.

“Fucking shit.” the other said, “But you gave it a shot. Bat'ko will need to follow it up later when they get to Green Bay. We got more important shit to do, so let's go.”