[i][right][sub](Starring: Yun)
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Yun hates having to go out, these days. Everything you see is a reminder. No, scratch that: everything you [i]hear [/i]is a reminder. There is no silence on New Hollywood. The Oligarch-controlled media is everywhere, omnipresent. It stands at each street corner, shouting at you through speakers attached to the neon streetlamps. Only partially drowned out by the beat of distant music, and the little thumping of raindrops all around.

Because, of course, it's raining again.

He doesn't bother with an umbrella, or even a hood. Just like he didn't bother shaving today. Or yesterday. Or whenever it was that his facial hair started to look like a wiry jungle. He could pass as homeless, if he didn't have a home.

Is that a stupid observation? Probably. Yun doesn't care any more. He looks like a wet dog, by the time he finally gets to the little market stall- the only one nearby to have survived both the recent weather and the recent politics. Everyone else is shutting down. As soon as the White Flowers took over New Beijing, the local economy near imploded.

On a mounted screen nearby, jutting uncomfortably out of the brick wall, a new announcer has a lot to say about that. Yun tries to ignore him; Oligarch mouthpiece. He focuses on the old woman running the stall.

"Hey, uh, you happen to have any mushroom?" Some people think it's strange, but Yun always had a taste for them.

The old woman at the stall nods her head. She's so old, it's barely noticeable amongst all the shaking she's already doing. Yun nods back. Silently, trembling, the woman starts to move; it takes her a thousand years to reach down into the depths of her stall. Yun begins to wonder how long he's going to wait.

In the meantime, the news announcer keeps talking, unaware and unabated.

"You see, Leong," he's saying to another man on the screen, who must be Leong, "these White Flower rebels have no idea how to run a city. None. I'm telling you, they're running the beautiful city of New Beijing into the ground. The Colombians are having to evacuate their people from our whole planet, is how bad it's getting. It's an embarrassment."

Below his talking head, the headline "[b]NEW HOLLYWOOD EMBARRASSMENT[/b]" appears in ultra-bold text. The old stall woman can't seem to find the promised mushrooms; but don't worry, deary, she's still looking. Yun assures her it's alright.

"And that's the problem!" Leong answers back, still on the screen. "We only barely won the Zetan war, but you know what, we went out there and we did it. We did what we had to do. Nobody else was going to stand up for humanity. No other nation cared enough. The Earth Cultural Union is the only colony in the world that has truly, honestly held on to who we are. And these White Flowers, or Mixtists, or whatever they're calling themselves these days-" he snorted, a sound that was distorted so strangely by the static and the rain- "they just have no appreciation of that. None at all. Honestly, I hope to Earth the Matuvistansa kill every last one of them. Is that too harsh? I don't think so. They've turned their back on what it means to be human. Just like the Zetans. Just like the Xandalians."

Aha, some mushrooms! They were buried underneath only five or six million pots and pans, each one styled after a different culture and time period. How much kitchen equipment does this one stall sell? Its overhead tent is tattered and full of holes, only barely holding out the water. One wonders how the uncovered screens and speakers never short out. The woman wraps up the mushrooms slowly, tenderly, each one individually.

"The [i]Xandalians[/i]," not-Leong starts up again. "Oh, boy, let me tell you about the Xandies..."

Yun pays for his mushrooms. He holds his hands over his ears on the way home.

[center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center]
[i][right][sub](Addressing: [@Crusader Lord])
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Floating far over the lights and joys of New Hollywood, someone is pretty bored.

Since the Zetan war ended, life as an ECU fighter pilot has not been particularly exciting. You spend half your time docked in a cruiser. You spend the other half of your time doing meaningless "patrols" around the Gateway and the planet. You do drills nobody cares about. And, if you're like Pilot Klaus, you watch anime on your infopad while the hours crawl by.

Klaus has been watching anime since he was old enough to pick his own shows. His favorite are the action-themed ones, released in Old Japan largely at the end of the 20th century. All bright colors, dramatic fight scenes and a generous helping of explosion. Part of him knows they are aimed at kids, but the rest of him doesn't care.

[i]Beep, beep![/i] Interrupting the anime time that Klaus takes very seriously, sensors detect something rising up out of the atmosphere of New Hollywood. Whatever it is must be relatively small, built for stealth, and highly insulated: to ECU scanners, it read like the echo of a ghost. But it's close. Very close.

Curiosity wins over. Klaus pivots the entirety of his shuttle, aiming carefully so that he might see what it is with his own eyes. And then his jaw drops.

Rising out of the hazy gray-blue atmosphere of New Hollywood, against a backdrop of wastelands and cities, is a man. But not a man: it is metal, all black, with a face almost like a knight's helmet. For a moment, the sunlight bounces off of its smooth exterior, and Klaus swears he can make out hands and feet of alloy.

It's a mech. 

In shock, Klaus flies to his feet. His head bangs- ouch!- against the cramped ceiling, and the little infopad in his lap goes scattering to the floor. By chance, it lands in a very acoustic spot, so that the whole cabin is suddenly filled the sound of a [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D0-i1gSrq8w]familiar song[/url] that has just begun to play.

For a moment, inspired by the thematically appropriate theme song, Klaus doesn't even want to fight the creature. He just wants to stand there and stare out his cockpit, taking in the awe of a spacecraft in the shape of a robot in the shape of a man. It rises out of the hazy air, fully in space now, right alongside Klaus' ship; which now feels clumsy and garish by comparison. But then, sadly, whoever is within the black suit seems to spot him, and Klaus quickly has to jerk his ship out of the way before he is obliterated.

A missile flies through where he used to be. The moment of awe passes; panic asserts itself. With a finger jabbed on the "Comms" button, Klaus sends out a distress call, soon answered by four other fighter pilots. Together, they give chase.

The mech is not alone. Five identical comrades appear, rising up from the surface in the same way. The fighter pilots are divided in trying to catch them all. The unknown figures duck and swerve, move sometimes like humans and other times like ships. Klaus calls out, "I can't catch them!" His commander cries back, over comms: "[i]Then just fucking shoot and hope![/i]"

All at once, the ECU fighters open fire, releasing a motley assortment of mass-driver weapons. Bullets built for spacecraft crash into two of the mechs at lightening speed, sending them spinning. It is several seconds before they can right themselves. But the ones not hit release a kind of weapons fire that flare up in the void, like a light show in space.

"That's- so cool!"
"[i]Klaus, they are trying to kill us. Please focus.[/i]"

Klaus tries to focus. They pursue the mysterious figures for another two minutes, even though it feels more like two hours. At last, all six disappear behind the moon of a local gas giant. And when the fighters round it, they are gone.

"Who [i]were[/i] those guys?"

[center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center]
[i][right][sub](Addressing: [@Irredeemable] and [@TimeMaster])
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Far below the interstellar dogfighting, and far to the West of Yun's silent little struggle, is a man on a mission. His mission is simple, but heavier than the world. Because he is the man who will save the ECU.

Technically, that man should be Savant James Heralds. But, well, he's not. The Savant has been almost an absent commander lately, withdrawing more and more into his old passions of philosophy and engineering. He'll see nobody but his friends; and even them he mistrusts. Dark rumors swirl around his head.

In his place, an Oligarch named Jean Pierre Dupont stands tall as the new Emergency Director. Except he doesn't stand tall, because he is only 5'2, and the nickname "Neo Napoleon" has already began to haunt his every step. (He constantly reminds others that Napoleon was average height for his time, and they constantly remind Jean that he's not.)

He walks over a large, holographically enabled map that dominates the floor of the Strategic Command Warroom. As he steps, little three-dimensional displays project upwards from the floor map, responding to his presence. They display cities: seven of them. Two, labeled Neo London and New Beijing, are wreathed in a very menacing shade of red. Enemy territory.

The other five are colored after the ECU's trademarked gold. Mostly, that is: little dots of red represent where White Flower activity has created hotspots of dissent. Already, they're exporting their revolutionary ideals. If it did not frighten and anger the Oligarch Dupont so much, he would be impressed at their quick spread. The Flowers are populists to the core, promising a better life for the disenfranchised, the outsiders, and the poor. And there are plenty of those in New Hollywood today.

"We need to make them doubt themselves," said a voice. It belonged to a man named Aamadu, who like Dupont, was a native to Neo Istanbul; one of the cities being overtaken by a sea of red dots.

Dupont shook his head violently. "We've done that, my old friend, a trillion times. They still hear the news. And get the holo-films." Another red dot appeared, this time on the city of New Rome. An open air holo-suite had just been bombed there. "We need to use force."

"Force? Come on, Napoleon-" Aamadu is the only non-oligarch Dupont has met who's not intimidated by his title- "force is what created this problem. The protectors." He spat the word out like it was a curse. "And we are not soldiers. It doesn't matter how many maps you make, or Strategic Command Warrooms you build. The ECU is not an army. We're storytellers. We're propagandists. We are..." he smiles, clearly having an idea, "[i]magicians[/i]."

But Jean just rolled his eyes. "Stop talking in riddles, and tell me what you think I should do."

"I don't think, I know." He tapped the hovering recreation of Neo London, which enlarged itself at his touch. Neo London was displayed in perfect, exacting detail, down to the last piece of litter on the sidewalk. And in the center of all the red lighting, New Westminster was a glowing beacon of blue. "We have powerful allies here. Far better in the art of war than we could ever, ever be. Yes, I know that our back is against the wall. But that is the time to rely on only our skills. Tell me, do you Oligarchs still have access to the media systems?"

Jean affirms that they do. And finally, Aamadu begins to spill his plan.

First, they'll pump up every light in Neo London and New Beijing, making it brighter than daylight even in the middle of the night. Then they'll crank up the volume on the street-side speakers and screens, too, so that you'll hear them indoors with a pillow over your head. Jets will fly over the two cities in random patterns, occasionally blasting off fireworks, and occasionally dropping bombs onto the homes of well-known rebels. They'll turn the public holo-suites off. The 24/7 news broadcasts are to be replaced with a constant, loud music that plays into every street and alleyway, because there is no escape from the music of New Hollywood.

And more: Jean mentions that the Flowers often communicate via electronic messages, shared through their infopads. Every citizen uses such things; it's New Hollywood's version of the internet. But loyal agents will now hack into every vulnerable White Flower message board, and flood the rest with false information, making it completely untrustworthy.

In the end? A city of uncoordinated, sleep-deprived, on-edge civilians who have no chance against any military effort. And then, [i]then[/i], says Aamadu, they can call in Dupont's beloved protectors to sweep everyone up.

The two men talk late into the night, until eventually, their planning turns to celebration. They order champagne and propose a toast. Not because they are certain they're going to win. No, just the opposite; because in their hearts, they know this is the last ditch effort before the rebels overwhelm them, and the last chance to save their peculiar culture. Because, if the ECU is to fall, at least it shall fall doing what it has always done. 

As they clang their glasses together, golden champagne spills out over the floor.

"To our final act!"

[center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center]

[i]His office isn't as clean as it used to be[/i], Tanaka thinks, correctly. [i]And it smells like oil.[/i] Both these observations are true, but he will not say them. You can't say these sorts of things to a Savant.

The Savant in question, James Heralds, is leaned over the metal carcass of his most recent project. Even if there were a gun aimed at Tanaka's mechanical heart, he couldn't guess what it was for. It's something with spindly, leg-like appendages that jitter and jump while Heralds prods at them. It reminds you of a patient on an operating table.

He does not like that thought, and quickly brings up the subject he came here for.

"Savant Heralds," he says, in a carefully modulated tone, "I was sent by the Noocratic Counc-" but he is interrupted.

"Tanaka, my youthful friend!," Heralds exclaims, without bothering to turn around from his twitching metal abomination, "It has been too long since we've seen each other. You've been so preoccupied. The Meeting Place is a harsh world."

The young man smiles. (Heralds, still having his back turned, has not bothered to wear one.) "Indeed, Savant. I'm glad to be on temporary leave. And as I was sayi-"

"Are you now? That doesn't sound like the Tanaka I know. In fact, I'm positive you still want to be up there." Tanaka feels a stab in his chest, and at that same moment, remembers what it's always like to talk to the Savant. Heralds goes on: "But I don't mean to contradict you, my youthful friend. You know, you've always been my favorite. Have you gotten the chance to visit Old Japan since you've been back?"

The youth shrugged. "I have never been one for culture parties, Savant." Or for Old Japan. "And of course, in the holo-suites, I prefer-"

"The Wild West!" Heralds turns around. His face is wearing that smile now, for the first time in three or four weeks, and is also covered in grease and oil. Almost nothing is left in him of the Savant, genius leader of the ECU: he looks more like a deranged mechanic. Tanaka wonders how long Heralds has been stuffed up in here. The Noocratic Council contacted him specifically to check on the Savant. They said...

"Oh, yes, cowboy shoot outs and wandering heroes. Yes, very playful. Quaint. Childish. Not," he promises, "that there's [i]anything wrong with that[/i]." But his eyes say otherwise.

Tanaka swallows it. "Savant, may I ask-" he gestures to the room at large, as grandly as he can without feeling like he's taking too many liberties- "what is all this?"

"Just projects," Heralds answers immediately. And when he talks next, his voice is somehow harder. Like gray iron: "Why? What did they say? Who have you been talking to?"

This time, the other man doesn't even get the chance to be interrupted. Heralds has resumed before he can open his mouth. "That's why you're here, isn't it? My enemies. They got to you? Who got to you?" Tanaka notes the scattered language. He has never heard the Savant speak so messily. "The Noocratic Council? The ex-protectors? That crazy woman, Kayla? The... White Flowers?" 

Tanaka's face goes near as white as those flowers, when Heralds says that, and then the Savant is laughing loudly. He turns and picks up a little box made completely of gears. He tightens one screw, then another, then places it down to whir loudly on the table. "I know [i]you're[/i] not my enemy, Tanaka. Not you. But you must be aware. There are some who would kill me, if they could. And you are so foolish. So young. They would use you to spy on me. Don't tell anyone a word. Don't trust anyone who is not me." He rubs his gray, stubbly chin. "If they kill me, they will kill you. Never forget that. You are my closest ally. They know this. My life is your life."

Tanaka looks down at the floor.

"My youthful friend," Heralds repeats again, "don't be so discouraged. This is the way things must go. You see, I am the Savant. I know things. I've read all the histories of Old Earth. Every nation, every culture, every war. Even the ones we censure from the public. I alone know them all. I am the Savant. And I know something else," he steps over scrap metal, leaning in close to Tanaka, and speaks in a conspiratorial whisper, "I know how this revolution will end. There's only so many ways these things can happen. And once certain evens have begun, and indeed passed, the outcome of any war is all but determined. Oh, those stupid, superstitious Mixtists may talk of 'prophecy,' but I know a real prophecy. I know how the White Flower Revolution ends."

Is it too much to hope for? Tanaka meets Herald's eyes. "How, Savant? Do... we win?" He wants to believe. So, so much he wants to believe. In the Savant, in the Noocracy, in all of it. His heart- robotic as it might be- is still fully loyal.

Herald's smile falters. "You've always been so... naive."

With that, the Savant turns to work on his miscellaneous projects again. Gears, wires and engineering consumes his world. Try as he might, and as he does, Tanaka can't stir the Savant to conversation again. It is a steel wall.

He turns to leave, at last. But as soon as he reaches the cramped office door-

"Tanaka, look!" He turns around, and Heralds is holding... something. A misshapen lump of metal and plastic, beating rhythmically, bouncing the cords that dangle off of it. "It's your heart!"

He feels sick to the stomach. He walks out of the room without saying another word. When the Noocratic Council contacts him to ask if the Savant is still stable- because all the whispers suggest he is not- he will lie and say that Heralds is fine. Everything is fine.

Everything is fine, everything is fine.