Appearance: Special thanks and credit to Discord user immortalkitten for this image, used for a previous original character Zuzanna is 5' 9" (174.5 cm) and weighs 200 pounds (90 kg) with a mesomorph type
Noble Arm Rank:C Power: C Speed: C Range: C (E) Persistence: B Precision: E (F) Potential: D
Noble Arm Type, Element, and Range: Support (Healer), Sanguine and Toxins, Mid- to Short Range
Noble Arm Abilities:
Regeneration: Wounds across Zuzanna's body heal simultaneously at a fixed, constant rate. For example, a thousand paper cuts will be healed before a single gash. Hemostasis, inflammation, proliferation, and remodeling happen at roughly a hundredfold the typical human rate. However, any wound (or set of wounds) that would normally kill a human instantly instantly kills Zuzanna.
Substitution: For one individual at a time within a tenth of a mile, all wounds disappear and reappear on Zuzanna's body in the same respective locations with equal intensities. Lodged artifacts (i.e., a bullet or a blade) and any infections also transfer over. Wounds in the same area of the body can stack (meaning that if she already has a cut in the same place that is three millimeters deep, she can take on a four millimeter cut for a resultant seven millimeter cut) but cannot be split (meaning, she cannot choose to absorb two millimeters of a three millimeter cut). Zuzanna does not need to sense the individual but must know of the individual's presence. However, people within twenty feet (6.1 meters) automatically have their wounds transferred onto Zuzanna: friend or foe, whether Zuzanna is aware of the individual's presence or not. Substitution does not work for chemical or biologic toxins, only for burns and external and internal bleeding.
Transubstantiation: Zuzanna can tear her flesh apart, creating a wound. This flesh can be fed to an individual, removing deadly chemical or biologic toxins. The larger the chunk, the larger the wound, but the more thorough the detoxification. The flesh tastes like bread. It rots like human flesh, can't be preserved, and has no effect when rotten.
Intercession: If an individual's trajectory is to die from passive, unnatural means (poison, etc.), Zuzanna can keep that individual impervious to external harm until those unnatural means are dealt with. As soon as the individual is no longer at risk of death, Intercession ceases. Intercession can only focus on one ailment, and that ailment must be addressed before any other ailment (for example, if an individual bleeds out while having snake venom, Intercession can only focus on either venom or bleeding out. If venom, the person will still be bleeding out, and the venom must be addressed first. However, the individual cannot be shot, incur fall damage, etc. while Intercession is active).
Misc Abilities: Zuzanna has Special Forces training, specializing in personal care, and has a beautiful mezzo soprano voice.
Personality: A Pollyanna-type: always making a concerted effort to be cheerful and raise spirits but not oblivious to the circumstances around her. Every so often, if the situation is bleak enough, she will privately cry herself to sleep. She actively searches for ways to alleviate the suffering of others even at great expense, as her life is not her own. She expels stress as fast as her body expels wounds.
*Likes: Old hymns, old patriotic songs, old people, and knights of ages past. Christ above all.
*Dislikes: Uncleanliness (spitting, not washing hands, etc.)
Fears: The ever-encroaching grip of the devil, and the slippery slope of sin. It's why she carries no smartphone.
Bio: Zuzanna was a local hero well before becoming a national superhero. From childhood, she volunteered endlessly for multiple nursing homes, libraries, and churches. On Sunday afternoons she famously serenaded what elderly were too infirm to attend the morning's church service. Her parents instilled this Christian benevolence into her, and she herself deemed it a proper diversion from the devil's distractions. Worlds naturally collided in the close-knit Kashubian community, and artificially different organizations vied for her after school schedule. Even though she was shamed to have such a spotlight on her, she became renowned as a helping little angel. Always she would come home with these cuts and bruises, and everyone naturally assumed this was the fault of her tireless efforts. So her parents told her, and she never doubted them.
One year, when she was in high school, a mystery plague swept through a nursing home in Kartuzy. The ambulances normally on standby were busy transporting the sick, so Zuzanna took it upon herself to use the family car to drive certain critically sick patients to the hospital. No sooner had she passed by the surgical ward of the emergency room than she dropped to the ground, convulsing. The surgeon on duty opened his door, shocked that his patient's internal bleeding had stopped just as she was sedated. He found Zuzanna lying there in agony with identical medical condition and ordered that Zuzanna replace the recovered patient on the surgeon's table. Halfway through the procedure, Zuzanna's hand blackened with a third degree burn. For every wound that was healed, another would appear, sometimes in the exact same place. The doctor passed out from stress and fatigue. Thankfully, the hospital's top surgeons were present, their patients no longer requiring surgery for some miraculous reason. One expert, thinking the problem to be a hemorrhage, grabbed the nearest cleaver on the rack. He dropped it in shock, and it clattered fiercely on the floor. It was very clearly a cleaver meant for battle, and it faintly glowed.
We'll never know which doctor put two and two together; half a dozen involved in the carnage wanted to take ultimate credit. The surgical ward was vacated, and Zuzanna was dragged out of the hospital for the final performed surgeries. Even so, once she was safely outside, the doctor could not locate the injuries. For her own safety, she was legally restrained from ever entering a hospital again.
Obviously Poland's government and eventually military noticed this strange ability, but they asked her guardians first for permission to study her. Her mother refused vehemently, but for the first time in her life Zuzanna openly countered her. This power was bestowed on her by the LORD, she reasoned, and this power, just as her life, was not hers to keep hidden. Besides, it was a natural evolution for where she could best help others, from serving at home to serving abroad.
Poland's military did not, in fact, find a proper usage for her skills. Their onboard medical services were already considerably more scalable and practical. Despite the setback, they happily gave Zuzanna Special Forces training for just those niche cases, and Zuzanna happily pledged her mind and strength to those endeavors. Throughout this time, she prayed fervently and evangelized to the Polish Armed Forces, most of whom were already Christian.
*Current Goal: To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, To bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go. To right the unrightable wrong; to love, pure and chaste, from afar, To try, when her arms are too weary; to reach the unreachable star!
Military or Civilian Rank: Chorąży ("Standard-Bearer," an Eastern European rank nestled between Enlisted and Officer ranks from the days of knighthood)
Appearance: Special thanks and credit to Discord user immortalkitten for this image, used for a previous original character Zuzanna is 5' 9" (174.5 cm) and weighs 200 pounds (90 kg) with a mesomorph type
Noble Arm Rank:C Power: B Speed: C Range: C (E) Persistence: B Precision: E (F) Potential: D
Noble Arm Type, Element, and Range: Support (Healer), Sanguine and Toxins, Mid- to Short Range
Noble Arm Abilities:
Regeneration: Wounds across Zuzanna's body heal simultaneously at a fixed, constant rate. For example, a thousand paper cuts will be healed before a single gash. Hemostasis, inflammation, proliferation, and remodeling happen at roughly a hundredfold the typical human rate. However, any wound (or set of wounds) that would normally kill a human instantly instantly kills Zuzanna.
Substitution: For one individual at a time within a tenth of a mile, all wounds disappear and reappear on Zuzanna's body in the same respective locations with equal intensities. Lodged artifacts (i.e., a bullet or a blade) and any infections also transfer over. Wounds in the same area of the body can stack (meaning that if she already has a cut in the same place that is three millimeters deep, she can take on a four millimeter cut for a resultant seven millimeter cut) but cannot be split (meaning, she cannot choose to absorb two millimeters of a three millimeter cut). Zuzanna does not need to sense the individual but must know of the individual's presence. However, people within twenty feet (6.1 meters) automatically have their wounds transferred onto Zuzanna: friend or foe, whether Zuzanna is aware of the individual's presence or not. Substitution does not work for chemical or biologic toxins, only for burns and external and internal bleeding.
Transubstantiation: Zuzanna can tear her flesh apart, creating a wound. This flesh can be fed to an individual, removing deadly chemical or biologic toxins. The larger the chunk, the larger the wound, but the more thorough the detoxification. The flesh tastes like bread.
Intercession: If an individual's trajectory is to die from passive, unnatural means (poison, etc.), Zuzanna can keep that individual impervious to external harm until those unnatural means are dealt with. As soon as the individual is no longer at risk of death, Intercession ceases. Intercession can only focus on one ailment, and that ailment must be addressed before any other ailment (for example, if an individual bleeds out while having snake venom, Intercession can only focus on either venom or bleeding out. If venom, the person will still be bleeding out, and the venom must be addressed first. However, the individual cannot be shot, incur fall damage, etc. while Intercession is active).
Misc Abilities: Zuzanna has Special Forces training, specializing in personal care, and has a beautiful mezzo soprano voice.
Personality: A Pollyanna-type: always making a concerted effort to be cheerful and raise spirits but not oblivious to the circumstances around her. Every so often, if the situation is bleak enough, she will privately cry herself to sleep. She actively searches for ways to alleviate the suffering of others even at great expense, as her life is not her own. She expels stress as fast as her body expels wounds.
*Likes: Old hymns, old patriotic songs, old people, and knights of ages past. Christ above all.
*Dislikes: Uncleanliness (spitting, not washing hands, etc.)
Fears: The ever-encroaching grip of the devil, and the slippery slope of sin. It's why she carries no smartphone.
Bio: Zuzanna was a local hero well before becoming a national superhero. From childhood, she volunteered endlessly for multiple nursing homes, libraries, and churches. On Sunday afternoons she famously serenaded what elderly were too infirm to attend the morning's church service. Her parents instilled this Christian benevolence into her, and she herself deemed it a proper diversion from the devil's distractions. Worlds naturally collided in the close-knit Kashubian community, and artificially different organizations vied for her after school schedule. Even though she was shamed to have such a spotlight on her, she became renowned as a helping little angel. Always she would come home with these cuts and bruises, and everyone naturally assumed this was the fault of her tireless efforts. So her parents told her, and she never doubted them.
One year, when she was in high school, a mystery plague swept through a nursing home in Kartuzy. The ambulances normally on standby were busy transporting the sick, so Zuzanna took it upon herself to use the family car to drive certain critically sick patients to the hospital. No sooner had she passed by the surgical ward of the emergency room than she dropped to the ground, convulsing. The surgeon on duty opened his door, shocked that his patient's internal bleeding had stopped just as she was sedated. He found Zuzanna lying there in agony with identical medical condition and ordered that Zuzanna replace the recovered patient on the surgeon's table. Halfway through the procedure, Zuzanna's hand blackened with a third degree burn. For every wound that was healed, another would appear, sometimes in the exact same place. The doctor passed out from stress and fatigue. Thankfully, the hospital's top surgeons were present, their patients no longer requiring surgery for some miraculous reason. One expert, thinking the problem to be a hemorrhage, grabbed the nearest cleaver on the rack. He dropped it in shock, and it clattered fiercely on the floor. It was very clearly a cleaver meant for battle, and it faintly glowed.
We'll never know which doctor put two and two together; half a dozen involved in the carnage wanted to take ultimate credit. The surgical ward was vacated, and Zuzanna was dragged out of the hospital for the final performed surgeries. Even so, once she was safely outside, the doctor could not locate the injuries. For her own safety, she was legally restrained from ever entering a hospital again.
Obviously Poland's government and eventually military noticed this strange ability, but they asked her guardians first for permission to study her. Her mother refused vehemently, but for the first time in her life Zuzanna openly countered her. This power was bestowed on her by the LORD, she reasoned, and this power, just as her life, was not hers to keep hidden. Besides, it was a natural evolution for where she could best help others, from serving at home to serving abroad.
Poland's military did not, in fact, find a proper usage for her skills. Their onboard medical services were already considerably more scalable and practical. Despite the setback, they happily gave Zuzanna Special Forces training for just those niche cases, and Zuzanna happily pledged her mind and strength to those endeavors. Throughout this time, she prayed fervently and evangelized to the Polish Armed Forces, most of whom were already Christian.
*Current Goal: To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, To bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go. To right the unrightable wrong; to love, pure and chaste, from afar, To try, when her arms are too weary; to reach the unreachable star!
Military or Civilian Rank: Chorąży ("Standard-Bearer," an Eastern European rank nestled between Enlisted and Officer ranks from the days of knighthood)
Appearance: Zuzanna is 5' 9" (174.5 cm) and weighs 200 pounds (90 kg) with a mesomorph type
Name: Zuzanna Zalewski
Age: 20
Nationality: Polish (Kashubian)
Noble Arm Name & Appearance:
Noble Arm Rank:C Power: B Speed: C Range: C (E) Persistence: B Precision: E (F) Potential: F
Noble Arm Type, Element, and Range: Blade (Cleaver), Light, Melee
Noble Arm Abilities:
Regeneration: Wounds across Zuzanna's body heal simultaneously at a fixed, constant rate. For example, a thousand paper cuts will be healed before a single gash. Hemostasis, inflammation, proliferation, and remodeling happen at roughly a hundredfold the typical human rate. However, any wound (or set of wounds) that would normally kill a human instantly instantly kills Zuzanna.
Substitution: For one individual at a time within a tenth of a mile, all wounds disappear and reappear on Zuzanna's body in the same respective locations with equal intensities. Lodged artifacts (i.e., a bullet or a blade) and any infections also transfer over. Wounds in the same area of the body can stack (meaning that if she already has a cut in the same place that is three millimeters deep, she can take on a four millimeter cut for a resultant seven millimeter cut) but cannot be split (meaning, she cannot choose to absorb two millimeters of a three millimeter cut). Zuzanna does not need to sense the individual but must know of the individual's presence. However, people within twenty feet (6.1 meters) automatically have their wounds transferred onto Zuzanna: friend or foe, whether Zuzanna is aware of the individual's presence or not. Substitution does not work for chemical or biologic toxins, only for burns and external and internal bleeding.
Transubstantiation: Zuzanna can tear her flesh apart, creating a wound. This flesh can be fed to an individual, removing deadly chemical or biologic toxins. The larger the chunk, the larger the wound, but the more thorough the detoxification. The flesh tastes like bread.
Intercession: If an individual's trajectory is to die from passive, unnatural means (poison, etc.), Zuzanna can keep that individual impervious to external harm until those unnatural means are dealt with. As soon as the individual is no longer at risk of death, Intercession ceases. Intercession can only focus on one ailment, and that ailment must be addressed before any other ailment (for example, if an individual bleeds out while having snake venom, Intercession can only focus on either venom or bleeding out. If venom, the person will still be bleeding out, and the venom must be addressed first. However, the individual cannot be shot, incur fall damage, etc. while Intercession is active).
Misc Abilities: Zuzanna has Special Forces training, specializing in personal care, and has a beautiful mezzo soprano voice.
Personality: A Pollyanna-type: always making a concerted effort to be cheerful and raise spirits but not oblivious to the circumstances around her. Every so often, if the situation is bleak enough, she will privately cry herself to sleep. She actively searches for ways to alleviate the suffering of others even at great expense, as her life is not her own. She expels stress as fast as her body expels wounds.
*Likes: Old hymns, old patriotic songs, old people, and knights of ages past. Christ above all.
*Dislikes: Uncleanliness (spitting, not washing hands, etc.)
Fears: The ever-encroaching grip of the devil, and the slippery slope of sin. It's why she carries no smartphone.
Bio: Zuzanna was a local hero well before becoming a national superhero. From childhood, she volunteered endlessly for multiple nursing homes, libraries, and churches. On Sunday afternoons she famously serenaded what elderly were too infirm to attend the morning's church service. Her parents instilled this Christian benevolence into her, and she herself deemed it a proper diversion from the devil's distractions. Worlds naturally collided in the close-knit Kashubian community, and artificially different organizations vied for her after school schedule. Even though she was shamed to have such a spotlight on her, she became renowned as a helping little angel. Always she would come home with these cuts and bruises, and everyone naturally assumed this was the fault of her tireless efforts. So her parents told her, and she never doubted them.
One year, when she was in high school, a mystery plague swept through a nursing home in Kartuzy. The ambulances normally on standby were busy transporting the sick, so Zuzanna took it upon herself to use the family car to drive certain critically sick patients to the hospital. No sooner had she passed by the surgical ward of the emergency room than she dropped to the ground, convulsing. The surgeon on duty opened his door, shocked that his patient's internal bleeding had stopped just as she was sedated. He found Zuzanna lying there in agony with identical medical condition and ordered that Zuzanna replace the recovered patient on the surgeon's table. Halfway through the procedure, Zuzanna's hand blackened with a third degree burn. For every wound that was healed, another would appear, sometimes in the exact same place. The doctor passed out from stress and fatigue. Thankfully, the hospital's top surgeons were present, their patients no longer requiring surgery for some miraculous reason. One expert, thinking the problem to be a hemorrhage, grabbed the nearest cleaver on the rack. He dropped it in shock, and it clattered fiercely on the floor. It was very clearly a cleaver meant for battle, and it faintly glowed.
We'll never know which doctor put two and two together; half a dozen involved in the carnage wanted to take ultimate credit. The surgical ward was vacated, and Zuzanna was dragged out of the hospital for the final performed surgeries. Even so, once she was safely outside, the doctor could not locate the injuries. For her own safety, she was legally restrained from ever entering a hospital again.
Obviously Poland's government and eventually military noticed this strange ability, but they asked her guardians first for permission to study her. Her mother refused vehemently, but for the first time in her life Zuzanna openly countered her. This power was bestowed on her by the LORD, she reasoned, and this power, just as her life, was not hers to keep hidden. Besides, it was a natural evolution for where she could best help others, from serving at home to serving abroad.
Poland's military did not, in fact, find a proper usage for her skills. Their onboard medical services were already considerably more scalable and practical. Despite the setback, they happily gave Zuzanna Special Forces training for just those niche cases, and Zuzanna happily pledged her mind and strength to those endeavors. Throughout this time, she prayed fervently and evangelized to the Polish Armed Forces, most of whom were already Christian.
*Current Goal: To dream the impossible dream, to fight the unbeatable foe, To bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go. To right the unrightable wrong; to love, pure and chaste, from afar, To try, when her arms are too weary; to reach the unreachable star!
Military or Civilian Rank: Chorąży ("Standard-Bearer," an Eastern European rank nestled between Enlisted and Officer ranks from the days of knighthood)
The following is an official GM Post, detailing external reactions to current events and precursor events to Mission Six.
Kraków, Lesser Poland, Republic of Poland Armed Forces Operations Command, Special Forces Component New Year's Day, 0200, UTC+1
The major general and brigadier general responsible for the special forces, despite the late hour, still wore impeccable uniforms befitting their ranks. The pułkownik already in the room and the several standard-bearers underneath him still kept their uniforms, but working through midnight into the early morning had disheveled their suits. Their work's fruit lay in manila envelopes on the brass's prepared seats. Everything on paper could be digitally displayed on the screen before them.
Major General Sikora sat and began to speak without so much as a sigh. “What is the emergence?”
The pułkownik saluted. “Yes, sir. Two days ago, our combined arms military exercise with the United States included Noble Arms. The brigadier general,” he pointed to the man in mid-sit position, “wondered why, of the American Noble Arms, especially Project Hoplite assets, Arms Master General Gilman wasn’t present.”
The major general raised a hand. “Gilman?”
Brigadier General Mazur answered. “Everett Gilman, known publicly as ‘The Liberator.’” It was clear that Mazur needed to clarify. “He’s America’s most capable Arms Master. Super speed, super strength, and he can fly. The United States likes to handicap herself during military exercises, but it’s like a naval exercise without an aircraft carrier. At a certain point, the war game's purpose would be moot.”
The pułkownik continued, “Yes, so as Mazur’s adjutant I took it upon myself to investigate his absence. Master Gilman has normal routines to ensure that American homeland infrastructure and American people are kept safe and sound, and these routines can often be spotted on live feeds.” To prove his point, the screen behind him showed a couple instances of week-old footage of a random field in rural Oklahoma. The Liberator only occupied a couple frames of the commercial footage, but the veteran pułkownik knew exactly where to point, used as he was from watching this footage several dozen times. “There he is on December 15. This is him on December 16. This is him again on December 17. He does this on a regular basis. That regular basis stopped on December 30.” The same Norman Rockwell farm, with the same clear blue winter skies, now with no blip.
“I suspected that they were keeping the Liberator in reserve for something big. So, my team took a look at publicly available footage where the United States would normally stage operations in the Pacific: Honolulu, Guam, Anchorage.”
“Why not Atlantic bases?” asked the brigadier general.
The pułkownik sighed. “I would hope,” emphasis on “hope,” “that the British and the Norwegians would spot the Liberator and inform us of his whereabouts in our corner of the world. Our guess was right, sir,” he noted defensively. “We spotted him in Anchorage.” A woman with a cheap smile occupied most of the onscreen vlog, but thankfully the staff circled in red the Liberator's unmistakable physique. “Only this image. We don’t know his current location. This was taken hours ago; he could be anywhere in theory.”
Sikora stood up and pointed to a couple manila folders carried by a standard-bearer at the pułkownik's right hand. “What are those?”
The pułkownik retrieved them and displayed them individually. “These are our available assets. This is a list of our special operations teams, and this, of our Noble Arms Masters."
“Give them to me, and pack your things. We’re going to Warsaw.”
Mazur obeyed without hesitation or protest. The pułkownik answered, “Yes, sir. Why, if I may ask?”
“Because I know where the Liberator is headed.”
Warsaw, Masovia, Republic of Poland Armed Forces General Command Headquarters New Year's Day, 0500, UTC+1
All the big names were there in their pajamas. General Command, Operational Command, Foreign Intelligence, and the General Staff had people represented in the hall. “Sikora, I have a splitting headache from last night's festivities. This better be worth it.” bemoaned the Minister of National Defense.
“Yes, sir. I was briefed three hours ago myself. The Americans are sending a Noble Arms Master called the Liberator into the Shanghai riots.”
The defense minister shook his head, trying to digest the new information. “How did you come by this information? Is the United States entering the war?”
Mazur spoke up from behind Sikora, “Could someone bring the uninitiated,” namely Mazur, “up to speed?”
Sikora motioned to Pułkownik Lis, the Foreign Intelligence representative, who obliged hesitantly but willingly in a calm, instructive manner. “We’ve been tracking the different elements of China, both PLA and dissident, ever since the war started. The one with any semblance of structure is the Qing Restoration Society. They rebranded themselves as the New Chinese Democratic Party, meaning that they’ll play ball with us if they get in control. We’ve been patrolling the Chinese dark web, though, and there’s been a lot of independent dissent. The closest form of coordinated response from these groups is a massive protest, to be happening… this week, as a matter of fact. The new year's first workday.” Lis furrowed his brow. “But we haven’t heard anything about an American response, and certainly not the Liberator flying over. Where did you get this information, General Sikora?”
Sikora nodded. “I trust the source, and I would share it with you had we the time.” He exhaled. “I think the United States wants to lay low until the appropriate moment. I think the United States doesn’t want to spook the Chinese, and I don’t think the United States wants to needlessly drag us or any of her allies into conflict. They’re taking the first, cautious steps [They're dipping their toes in the water].”
“So you think we should let them be?” asked the Minister of National Defense.
“Minister Kubiak, the decision is and always has been yours. I only wish to advise your next course of action.”
Kubiak nodded, then stood up resolute. “Poland is the United States' friend, and always shall be. Even in her secret endeavors, we ought to support her.”
Sikora and Lis both moved to the minister, Sikora with his manila envelopes and Lis with sage caution. “Minister Kubiak, sir,” Lis noted, “it’s very clear that the United States doesn’t want to kick a hornet’s nest. Whatever we do shouldn’t force our ally’s hand.”
Sikora opened the manila envelope for Arms Masters and parsed the pages to a tagged spot. “I believe she will solve both your predicaments.”
Kubiak raised the dossier for a better look, Lis reading quietly over his shoulder. “She’s more than a token gesture.”
“And she wouldn’t deal collateral damage to the Chinese or the Americans,” Lis commented. “Nicely done, General Sikora.”
Mazur cleared his throat. “I believe I know who you refer to, and she’s still in training.”
“Which is why we’re in Armed Forces General Command, not Operations Command. Lieutenant General Krupa, I humbly request the usage of Standard-Bearer Zuzanna Zalewski. Minister Kubiak, if we act now, we have the chance to drop her in Shanghai as the riots heat up, in theory.”
“They’re riots,” Lis cautioned. “They never align to a neat schedule.”
“Right, but I don’t suspect the Shanghainese to riot in their early morning.”
Minister Kubiak nodded. “You have my go-ahead. Let’s hope the Americans like our present.”
Beijing, People’s Republic of China August First Building January 4, 2023; 9:00 AM UTC+8
“Zhōngguó gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì!”
The Central Military Commission took its seats at the table, followed by departments, PLA staff, and all manner of odds-and-ends brass. The seat of the Chairman, who was the President of China and General Secretary of the Communist Party, was empty, and the two vice chairmen stared at each other for a short yet awkward pause over who would preside over such a meeting.
The director for the Training Administration Department was a rather old fellow. Whether he had lost his tact or merely didn’t have enough time left on this earth for political machinations, he stood up and asked curtly yet courteously: “Where is the Chairman?”
“Overseeing other, more vital duties,” answered Vice Chairman Ma. He winced slightly, while his counterpart gave a brief, subtle smile. Tag. Ma was it. No tag-backs. Truth be told, Ma didn’t know what the President was doing. He needed to save face on the President’s behalf.
“And I see that the Southern Theater Command's seat is empty. Where is he?”
The acting chairman responded, “He failed to capture the Philippines. He failed to protect Cambodia from foreign invaders. He failed to defend our critical infrastructure on our own soil. After this, he had the gall to ask us to compensate for his inadequacies. For that, like his predecessor at the start of this war, he is dismissed. No such questions in the future.”
“Ah. Pity. I quite liked the new guy.” The director reseated.
“Very well. Who has issues to report?”
The representatives for both the People’s Liberation Army Rocket Force and the Equipment Development Department stood up, but the PLA commander deferred to the EDD department head. The head spoke emphatically: “Two additional military factories, for small arms and for vehicles, have been struck by stockpile combustion. Both facilities were entirely destroyed during the daytime shift. We suspect hostile sabotage. Nonetheless we proudly announce no casualties, and that our output will in fact increase!”
“Good,” Ma declared, turning to the Rocket officer. “General?”
The general stood up. “Vice Chairman. At 0640 this morning, we detected an unidentified projectile flying from the United States city of Anchorage.”
The general didn’t leave time for a pregnant pause, and already the commission brimmed with murmurs of terror. He quickly dispelled the notion. “It wasn’t metallic. We would’ve picked it up on our radar otherwise. It slowed its trajectory, then landed in the Philippine city of Lubao.”
“So what is it?” demanded the EDD head.
“We think it to be a Noble Arms Master who can fly at supersonic speeds. I discussed it with our experts in that field, and we believe it most reflects American Master Liberator.”
“So the United States is joining the war?” More terrified rumblings.
The acting chairman stood up alongside his PLARF counterpart. “If they wanted to declare war, they would have done so. This may be the Liberator acting independently. Even if it was not, the United States has taken great pains through their public displays to tell us indirectly that they don’t want to exchange nuclear missiles with us. I suggest we don’t overreact and give them an excuse. It is one man, anyway.”
The old Training director countered, “Ships have been sunk in this war by one man. Storms, the very sun brought to Earth, by one man. Mao Zedong was- !”
Silence. Ma sat back down. “Mao Zedong was not just a man. And I will hear no more of worrying. If our Noble Arms Force can handle it… I see a nod from that representative. Good. Then there need be no lost sleep over the matter. What else?”
The People’s Armed Police's acting commander rose. “There are rumors of dissent at Shanghai. We risk open revolt there.”
“Can you subdue it?”
“There will be thousands, possibly millions of dissenters-”
“Can you subdue it,” demanded the chairman.
The acting commander glanced at the empty chair for the Southern Theater Command. “…Yes, Acting Chairman.”
As he sat back down, the PLA Ground Force Commander walked over and whispered in his ear. “I will help you, as will the Zodiac and the Noble Arms Force, but we will ask for a favor when this is done.” The policeman nodded sheepishly.
In the announcement of his absence to the vice chairmen, the General Secretary did mandate that, if naught else, a single item be covered. Ma took the duty upon himself. “Now, the matter I wish to address is this Qing Restoration Society. We hear reports of them re-branding as the New Chinese Democratic Party. We must suppress media that talks of democratic ideals.”
There were cocked heads among the staff. “Weren’t the Qing notoriously undemocratic?” asked a random chief.
“They want to overthrow the people of China by any means necessary. What do they care how their ends are achieved?” answered another.
“This is the new tactic our enemy has chosen,” clarified the acting chairman. “We are lucky that they are so open as to reveal their strategy to us. We must respond accordingly. Talk of democracy must be immediately stifled and snuffed out. In every province, in every prefecture. This is how we achieve the final victory.”
At this, the Training director rose and put his hands together for quiet applause. The entire staff rose within three seconds, each eager to applaud the announcement of this impending, imaginary triumph. And they remained applauding for three minutes, knowing the consequences of he who ceased to applaud first.
Shanghai, People’s Republic of China Shanghai Jiao Tong University, Xuhui Campus January 4, 2023; 5:15 AM, UTC+8 (a few hours earlier)
Gao Haoran insulting the police Supervisor felt cathartic at the time. In retrospect, he should have considered himself lucky that, despite his advanced age, he wasn’t immediately sent to the front lines. Even so, he couldn’t imagine a worse punishment than nightly patrolling the Xuhui Campus of the Shanghai Jiao Tong University, over the graveyard shift of all things.
Shanghai Jiao Tong University was closed down to incentivize former students to register for the military, as if the draft didn't threaten enough. On a typical day, the sidewalks were completely empty. At night, the same, except for a few dozen homeless trying to hide from policemen like him. He usually pretended not to notice them; it was better for the annual police report that way.
It was five o’clock in the morning. Some dam had exploded a couple months ago, and energy conservation mandates dictated that the streetlamps be turned off until dawn. Gao had his flashlight, but, assuming that the clouds of pollution had blown some other way (as was the case tonight), he could see well enough by starlight for his job's purposes.
He saw the movement of two distant figures with the build of university students: one male, one female. They noticed him long after he noticed them but nonetheless froze in place in the hopes that he didn’t see them.
The first thought that crossed his mind was exacerbation. Why would these kids make my life harder tonight? Didn’t they have anything better to do? He whipped out his flashlight, pointed it directly at them, and turned it on. They were students, alright. They wore masks to cover their faces and hoodies to cover their identifying features. They carried sheets of paper with them, but he couldn’t read what was on it before they took off sprinting eastward. Gao, well past his prime but still an endurance jogger, gave a lukewarm pursuit.
Gao was unpleasantly surprised when, as he rounded a corner into the campus quad, he found a thousand pairs of eyes littered across the field, staring directly at him. He tried to shine his light on the eyes, but that only diverted gazes for a fleeting moment. The students gathered there had covered their faces and bodies. They had sheets of paper with no written words. He couldn’t arrest them for assembling to protest any specific thing, nor could he take down names and faces.
Well, there was always the typical fallback. “You are under arrest for picking quarrels and provoking trouble!” he shouted into the darkness. It was the one-size-fits-all excuse to arrest anyone the police needed gone. He never tried it on a crowd this size before, and he had a sickening suspicion he’d find out why.
The students hardly blinked. Not a soul budged. Haoran calculated his options for the moment. He was outmatched, even to arrest a straggler or two. There was no protocol for this. He would run away and go wake the Supervisor. The Supervisor would know what to do. Yes. Alright. He took off as far as his fat legs would carry him.
The students looked at each other. “What if he comes back and gets more police?” No one could see which student whispered such doubt.
“The wood has already become a boat, [The die is cast,]” cited another. “We can die on the front lines of this forsaken war, we can die here and now fighting for our freedoms and our beliefs, or we can die in our homes as husks of people, having given up our souls on the altars of safety and security.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Go to the local bar. Make us some Molotovs, in case they won’t hear our pleas.”
Adrián had spent the last hour intently staring at a pair of doves. His face had lost color, so Jasmine promptly committed him to a hospital. The Rear Admiral hadn't the heart to reprimand her for insubordination, plus her post hoc signed orders from his direct superior prevented him.
So be it, he surmised. He could operate at ninety percent capacity using merely a phone. Then Jasmine took his phone away, assuring him that she'd relay anything that demanded his attention specifically. So he turned on the television and watched as the second attempted invasion of the Philippines readied and commenced. So Jasmine took away his television too.
He went a little stir-crazy, trying to find something to focus on. He settled on a fence in the outside yard. It ran underneath a tree, and doves had made nests on its highest branches. Every so often a few would flutter and perch on the fence en route to pecking the ground for... who knew? The ground looked well-swept from his view.
He knew well that it was sleep-deprived delirium that caused it, but he could’ve sworn he understood the communications between the birdbrains. A bulkier dove would flutter over to a gentler dove, who would hesitate but not refuse the advances. Then a small flock of them would chase them away, and the outcasts would wait and steel themselves for retaliation. He sensed fear, and uncertainty, and caution, with a faint trace of hope. Smart little creatures.
His door opened, and his birding was interrupted by increased volume in the hallway. It wasn’t urgent chatter that forewarned an influx of new residents, but excited chatter reserved for news. Before he discerned the words, the nurse entered and closed the door behind him. “Steak and vegetables on rice, Admiral.”
Adrián knew Jasmine was right around the corner but wasn’t quite able to see her past the big boned nurse. Still, he knew there was news. “Give it here; I can cut my own steak.” As he got to work, he decided to circumvent his aide. “So, what’s the big news?”
“The Chinese turned back their invasion fleet. We gave them a bloody nose!”
“Ah, excellent. There should be a young woman outside. Short, black, curly hair; in uniform. Send her in, please?”
“Yes, sir.” The nurse promptly left, again closing the door. It reopened after a second’s pause.
Abasolo relinquished his utensils. “Just tell me if my boys and girls are alright.”
Jasmine nodded. “One injury, but they all seemed to make it. Honestly, there’s not much to tell but good news. I can relay while you eat.”
Abasolo rubbed his hands together. “This ought to entertain. So, which PLAN warships line the ocean floor?”
Palais de l'Élysée, Paris, France - 12/28/2022, 08:52 UTC+1
"They lost how many ships?"
"Mr. President, our current count is eighteen. Two carriers, ten destroyers, six corvettes."
L'Élysée was especially full today of naval analysts, Syracuse IV surveillance operatives, and the French Armed Forces' general brass. They weren't paid to express their opinion, but the president's whistle, lean in his chair, and smile reflected the room's sentiment.
Nonetheless a killjoy had to spoil the fun: "These are initial estimates. Four that we know are dragging behind the fleet. We don't know if the PLAN will attempt to repair or scuttle them. So, anywhere between sixteen and twenty."
"So that's an entire strike group out of commission?"
"Roughly speaking."
The President returned to smiles. A senior officer lacked discipline and so muttered under his breath, "My gosh. They have no power projection."
"Say that again?" the President encouraged such talk around him.
The senior officer shuffled to the crowd's front. "Well, those destroyers and carriers and such have been busy protecting their trade lanes. They don't have infrastructure to import everything from the Russian Federation at scale, so their oil, their iron, their food imports... that is completely undefended."
"Can we take advantage of that?"
The Minister for Europe and Foreign Affairs emerged from the masses. "We can, but at what cost?"
"Explain."
"We've had the ability to mess with their boats, but if the Chinese suspect us, then they'll accuse us of getting involved. Worst case scenario, the nukes fly."
"Forgive me, Sir, but that's the thing," countered the invigorated senior officer. "We could always hit their trade, but anyone can. Somali pirates, the Indians. The Tanzanians! A three legged cat could sink it. They're undefended."
"Alright," said the president. "Who can we contact?"
The Director General for External Security raised his hand. "Our people have contacts in Mozambique and Gabon. We can sink your target ships for you."
"With no possibility of backfire?" confirmed the Minister.
"There's a chance," clarified the director, "but the Chinese captain who phones back won't know what to look out for. It's as close to zero as possible."
"I concede, then. Monsieur President?"
The president smiled. "What can I say? I love fireworks."
Choibalsan, Mongolia - 12/30/2022, 10:07 UTC+8
Tian Haoyu was a shrewd man. Most of his peer ministers styled themselves from great leaders from Chinese antiquity. As Minister of Finance, he modeled after the great American general William H. Tunner. The others gave him funny looks, but accepted it. Tunner’s brilliance kept China supplied and fighting throughout WWII during the relentless Japanese onslaught by flying over the Himalayas. Tunner was a patriotic choice enough.
His potential detractors certainly kept their mouths shut when, during a particularly nasty economic time in Russia, Minister Tian managed to acquire enough tank trucks to operate a continuous stream of crude oil and natural gas from Russia's hinterland to China's heart through Mongolia. He expanded road networks, fostered international relations, and coordinated massive economic complexes. In his eyes (and the eyes of those paying attention), he single-handedly upheld the conflict.
This was thanks to his attention to detail, his mathematical genius. Not a drop of fuel, not a scrap of metal was left unaccounted under his watch. It was a herculean task given how the regional ministers always tended to lie, but his well groomed brigade of auditors remedied that. Yes, indeed. Tunner would be proud.
But Tunner was an airman. He never had to deal with a driver whose incompetence miraculously managed to crash his rig across all four lanes.
And so Haoyu stood a mile from the wreckage, watching a dozen truckers who had never picked up a crowbar try to raise the monolith upright without wasting (or worse, igniting) the precious fuel inside. Hilariously, the truck was wedged perfectly between hills, making the situation even less tenable. He had refused to let such a travesty interrupt his paperwork, so his documents and charts waited patiently behind him. As per usual, he had a cellphone in his left pocket and a handgun in his right. He turned to the foreman. “How many trucks came through today before the crash?”
“Sir!” saluted the overseer. “All but about, I figure, twenty percent. We’ll still meet our quota today!”
At that point, the minister pulled out his pistol and aimed it squarely at the foreman’s chest. “Relax. I’m not going to shoot you. I will if you repeat that húchě de jíkǒu number. It happened in the morning. Trucks run from sunup to sundown. The number I seek is less than fifty percent. Tell me.”
“…Thirty-seven percent.”
“Then I can only reroute, let’s see, three hundred vehicles, maybe three-fifty.” Tian Haoyu shook his head and mumbled something about how he should’ve invested in railroads. Just then, his phone rang. He set the gun down and answered the call. “Zhōngguó gòngchǎndǎng wànsuì.”
The dialogue was energetic but brief. Tian summarized to his underling: “The New Vista was sunk.”
“And that is?” asked the overseer.
“A supertanker. The crude oil's gone, and any oil from future voyages. That plus Jinghong Dam…”
He snapped his fingers, then returned to his papers and shuffled through his charts. “Give me a pen and a straightedge.”
There were charts already with jagged lines. The overseer looked over his boss’s shoulder as the boss made a couplet of straight lines on independent graphs. He pointed to the first intersection. “Our energy is depleted here.”
The next graph's intersection was further down the line but not greatly. “And there goes the food.”
They stood in silence for about a minute. “Those gāisǐ Americans,” muttered the overseer.
Tian Haoyu breathed deeply while scanning the steppes of Mongolia. “Yeah, probably, but we can’t prove it. The stupid captain couldn’t distinguish operatives from ordinary pirates.” He straightened himself out. “Alright. We’ll start cutting off the civilian sectors. Implement stricter curfews. That buys us a few additional months to win.”
“And what if that’s not enough?” asked the foreman.
Haoyu shrugged. “Then I won’t be alive to see this nation collapse.”
Hongyadong, Chongqing - 12/31/2022, 22:07 UTC+8
Chongqing was China's pride and joy for a decade. Smog polluted the landscape like no other place on Earth, but the night lights on the riverside district were something else. Hongyadong, where the locals were concerned, was the king of nightlife.
For some reason, hopefully favorable winds, the skies were completely clear. One could even discern a star. It was an evening to enjoy life and make merry for soldiers on leave, generals with escorts, civilians who were weary after a long, hard season of sacrifice. Noodle shops were making bank, and the entire district was crowded beyond belief.
And then the lights went off.
Hongyadong was hit first, but the blackout spread throughout the city. The citizens collectively gasped and then went silent. The lights didn’t go back up, but an outcry of terror did. Small pinpricks of light came from individual cellphones as the citizen journalists tried to contact their handfuls of followers, but the standard communication networks were also offline. People trampled over each other, thieves exploited the panic and confusion, and Chongqing was plunged into chaos right until the sun rose.
The public demanded answers, and the People’s Republic couldn’t withhold them. Rolling blackouts covered the entirety of southern China: Chengdu, Shenzhen, even as far as Shanghai. As if oblivious to the public backlash, emergency systems blared across the networks: not only would energy and fuel be rationed, but food as well. No further explanation. Do your part to continue the revolutionary efforts.
The few internet hubs still available were flooded with the soil of discontent. The war was a distant thought. What mattered now was light and bread. The first flower to bloom would emerge from the darkness in Shanghai.
The following details events in Syria during the Second Chinese Invasion of the Philippines and Task Force Obsidian’s Mission Five. ((@Letter Bee oversees the Free Syrian Army and @QJT oversees the Syrian Arab Armed Forces.))
Part 1: Palmyra
Al-Tanf Base and Deconfliction Zone
The Hammer of Masters had been broken, but the tide of rapid change they had unleashed in a region already prone to rapid changes had resulted in the 'Formation' of new Arms Masters, some rendered outcasts due to the Hammer's actions, but others were accepted because there was no other choice. Now, despite the new, weaker President of the US, the base at Al-Tanf continued to hold a rump garrison of US Troops, a few 'foreign intelligence agents' from France and Britain, and now, a 'Syrian Free Army' invigorated by help from the Paragons of Science and Seven Virtues was preparing for a surprise offensive on Palmyra, held by the hated Assad Regime.
The Syrian Arab Armed Forces had plans gathering dust about dealing with the Free Syrian Army, but as the country was lulled into a tenuous peace the loss of a city so close to YPG (Kurdish) territory hadn't yet crossed its mind. Most SAAF forces were positioned close to Homs, Dara, and Damascus. The garrison at Palmyra didn't even have tanks, just a handful of infantry in a loosely fortified position.
Technicals and Trucks filled with what looked to be mundane troops were headed west, relying not just on Arms Masters, but also on the distraction of the Assadists' Russian supporters. These were screened by aerial drones, which provided valuable reconnaissance for this force.
Palmyra wasn’t completely defenseless, however. The incumbent Syrian government maintained a hundred fighters for just such purposes. A dozen aircraft were launched from bases around Damascus to patrol and harass the technicals as they crossed the desert sands. They would give back key intelligence on the strength of this upstart resurgence of rebels. Two dozen more were on the way in case the vanguard required support.
There were over two dozen Technicals accompanying a convoy of eighteen or so trucks of various models, as well as motorcycle scouts and even one or two self-propelled mortars, jury-rigged to function in the desert environment.
And of course, several of the Technicals held a few specialized operators with Stinger Missiles, which though fast becoming obsolete, were still a threat when used right...
Having accomplished their reconnaissance, the aircraft were recalled. Palmyra could always be recovered, but the jet fighters were irreplaceable. Two dozen technicals and eighteen trucks were hardly a large army, but they might herald or even conceal a much, much larger threat.
This was a concern. Bashir al-Assad immediately summoned his top generals across the Syrian Arab Armed Forces to Damascus post-haste. He gave a brief speech to the Palmyran garrison about how their defense was crucial for God and country, but of course this was only to boost morale. Most importantly, thought, they were to report everything that the enemy rebels had and did when they assaulted the garrison: the weapons they used, their composition, and the Arms Masters they fielded.
The SFA force was relatively lightly-equipped, but outnumbered the Assadist forces by at least twelve-to-one. The Palmyra garrison would be hailed and given one choice over the radio: Surrender or defect or be destroyed - They had thirty minutes.
At the same time, in Al-Tanf, a second column of reinforcements was being prepared and deployed; more technicals, drones, and trucks, some with extra supplies of American and Polish weapons needed to press the offensive.
One of the disadvantages of relative peace and authoritarian tyranny is the fragility of morale. Generals were growing ever more neglected, troops were paid increasingly less, and suddenly the thought of maintaining the regime became a lot less convincing when faced with overwhelming odds.
A few loyal guardsmen, such as the one on the comms, kept to their duties. Nonetheless, a steady trickle of troops streamed out of defensive positions within Palmyra. Among them was the garrison commander, a disgruntled colonel looking to increase his status under different colors. It would take a manhunt to root out all the loyalists and secure this city permanently, but for now they didn’t have to worry about any threat along the Euphrates.
Bashir al-Assad, in his majestic brilliance, had foreseen this, of course. This was the reason why he gathered his elite club of generals to Damascus, along with some of his most capable confidants, and a few other well paid unknowns as well.
Part 2: Moving Pieces
The rebel offensive continued; the Syrian Free Army had to move faster than the so-called 'Ex-Jihadi' forces in the northwest region of Syria. More forces were streaming out of Al-Tanf, while communications were opened up with the remaining Opposition groups in the Daara Governatorate. This time, more sophisticated equipment was being deployed, such as IAG Guardian IMVs (Infantry Mobility Vehicles), along with what artillery the SFA had.
Some SAAF generals arrived. Some SAAF generals refused to leave their post. The rebels were acting up, after all, and they didn’t exactly know what they did to kick this hornet’s nest so badly.
The military brass in Damascus had a better understanding of the situation. Half its fleet, some four dozen jet fighters, stood by for launch. One dozen of these took to the sky as the initial reconnaissance patrol returned. These were equipped with conventional bombs and missiles. If only the unconventional weaponry hadn’t been given away to Russia. It would have proven useful in crises like this. They moved to engage; their 80’s era equipment should match, perhaps even surpass the Stinger missiles. If not, that’s what the following wings were for.
And in the background, the President’s personal appointees arrived to meet the generals.
A lance of light shone from one of the trucks; an Arms Master made his appearance.
Al-Haqq, one of the SFA's veteran personnel, was shooting down planes with his Noble Arm, a spear that blasted lasers at such a rate of fire, with immense accuracy, against airborne targets.
A hawk, a seemingly mundane bird, flew above the Syrian Armed Forces' battalions; it was the transformed form of another spear, one used by an SFA scout who was also an Arms Master.
It was clear that the rebellion was committing resources to a full-on attack, with expeditionary forces headed for the towns of Al-Qaryatyn and Al-Sukhna, aiming to take both to secure the flanks of the main offensive.
The ball was in the Syrian Armed Forces' court now.
Bashir al-Assad walked down the line of his assembled generals. He had a vague understanding of backroom deals, of private reservations, of hidden ambitions. He placed a hand on about half of his select generals.
A figure emerged from the shadows. He gave no name; the rumors that spread throughout the military did for him. He’s Nebuchadnezzar’s younger brother - what was his name? - right, Belshazzar. In rapid succession, purple and red fabric covered the generals head to toe. The generals wriggled uneasily, desperate for air.
Then she emerged: Ishtar. With a graceful smile, she scanned the room. In groups of three, she focused her scepter upon the hapless victims. Their struggles mellowed until they possessed neither wits nor strength to resist. The bundled carpets fell to the ground in quiet thuds.
Bashir al-Assad didn’t speak. His underling Nebuchadnezzar would instead: "The rest of you: swear loyalty to the President. The fallen are to be replaced with men of great skill in this dark hour. With good leadership, we shall prevail. Long live Bashir al-Assad!"
Their was fear in the echo of the new leadership. Good. A soldier entered the room, stepping over the bodies. "President, the jet fighters take heavy losses. They say something about blasts of light taking out the planes."
“Light? That doesn’t describe the Stinger missile system," denoted one general.
“Must be a Noble Arm. Let’s intercept them on the ground before we recommit our Air Force. Where are they headed?" asked a second.
“al-Qaryatyn and al-Sukhna, best as we can tell, sir!"
Nebuchadnezzar commanded with authority under the shadow of his leader. "I will protect the first city. Belshazzar and Ishtar, you two shall protect the second. God bless you both."
Large committed convoys of troops spewed from the capital, with fresh Arms Masters and fresher generals eager to prove themselves at the helm. Tanks, self-propelled and rocket artillery, and of course tens of thousands of troops apiece.
Part 3a: The Battle of al-Qaryatyn
As Assad's Air Force continued to be decimated, the Syrian Free Army brought out more equipment as they reinforced, then entrenched, their positions. Though barely on par to their foes in hardware, they were boosting their edge thanks to the Seven Virtues' and Paragons' aid.
The forces spat out by Damascus were large, enough to overwhelm the advancing SFA forces once contact was made. But the fresh-faced generals who were leading them did not appear to see the hawk flying above their largest force as a threat.
Now, the SFA brought out drones, not just for reconnaissance, but also for raining down hellfire missiles on the convoys of Assadist troops. These UAVs had only a relatively small stockpile, but assuming these forces were closely packed, even that ought to inflict disproportionate casualties.
“Spread out! Spread out!" The generals were caught slightly off guard. They knew the SAAF couldn’t project its own air superiority; they didn’t expect the FSA to project its own.
The vehicles in the convoy began to distance themselves from each other, too late for no damage, but enough to drive around the unlucky first victims of the volley.
Nebuchadnezzar and Ishtar were helpless against the onslaught from above; they simply pressed on in their respective convoys and tried to keep their heads down. Belshazzar, meanwhile, found great joy in covering the little drones in fabric. The rotors inevitably sucked up the thick cloth, jamming their blades and sending them hurtling down. He and Ishtar were safe. As a bonus, he got to listen to his brother suffer in the other convoy!
As chaos spread, the experienced SFA troops in their Technicals and the occasional Guardian IMV drove out of the countryside, harrying the now-halted convoys with small arms and rocket fire; these were followed up by light mortars and another few Unmanned Aerial Vehicles firing another wave of hellfire missiles.
And this time, Nebuchadnezzar was a direct target.
Desperate men do desperate things. The calculus should have been that striking the chain of command would be disastrous both to the morale and the cohesion of the convoy, so the protection of the kingpin would inevitably save the common soldier later on from getting picked apart by drones.
That wasn't his thinking, though. He just wanted to save his own skin. Thankfully, his split second decision making was still sound. If he built a gold or bronze statue, the shrapnel would undoubtedly cause damage, probably beyond the capabilities of a single drone, even to the vehicle he tried to protect. No, instead he fabricated a statue of clay between himself and the UAV.
The Hellfire missiles struck the statue, which exploded upon the missile's touch. The missile was gone, but chunks of clay dented and damaged many cars in front of him along the convoy. They peeled off as they were able, falling off my the roadside as the generals continued. Guns from the downed vehicles took potshots at the drones, not that they could hit many at this distance.
Nebuchadnezzar’s convoy continued to be harried by drones, technicals, and an increasing number of snipers and rocket troops; the intent was to inflict a death of a thousand cuts, even as another drone launched a Hellfire Missile at his car; he had given away his location when he had made the statue of clay.
Nebuchadnezzar ordered the driver to drive to the side. A missile landed just to the side, flipping the car with the impact of the percussion but not directly hitting it. It flipped over, and the passengers got out. Nebuchadnezzar waved the vehicles on from a position behind cover but stopped after releasing several dozen of them. In the meantime, he placed one statue at a time of bronze, directly in the path of the technicals. They wouldn't have time to break before the statues exploded upon impact, so he calculated. If they wanted to play ball out here, so be it.
That means al-Qaryatyn was undefended, and ripe for securing.
It was time for the Arms Masters on the SFA's side to shine.
A beam of light lanced out from a person standing on the back of one of the technicals facing Nebuchadnezzar, hoping to slice apart the bronze statues before impact; if this didn't work, it would at least buy time for another contingent of technicals to flank around and blast Nebuchadnezzar’s location with a jury-rigged Heavy Machine Gun.
Nebuchadnezzar smiled. He smiled often, but this particular smile was rare. Turns out, it doesn't matter what his statues are struck by, only that they're struck. Shrapnel still came off, but it wasn't just one car that would absorb most of the damage. Nebuchadnezzar grabbed the coat of his former car buddy, shouting, "Signal Damascus! The light beams of the rebel dogs are here. Send the jets to al-Sukhna!"
A hawk flew beneath the sun, and above Nebuchadnezzar. Then, from the wreckage of the Technicals that had faced down the bronze statue lanced a beam of light directed at his center of mass.
The bronze statue exploded upon impact by the beam of light, and Nebuchadnezzar had to scramble for further cover. The hawk provided an odd shade for him. He called to what peers remained and pointed upward at the bird. "Shoot that thing! Bring it down!" Rifles began to take pot shots at the creature. In the world of men and monsters, no measure was too paranoid.
Nebuchadnezzar’s orders were vindicated by the Hawk being able to fly faster than any bird can, evading the shots fired with a speed that was unnatural.
Further lances of light were spat at him, but he can see that only a small number of SFA technicals and trucks, plus infantry, were in the region; the main force of the offensive was elsewhere.
Nebuchadnezzar had clarity enough to count the visible threats to his position. They weren't that many, but he was also stuck in a ditch and not readily available to get out of it. "Just... shoot the bird if it returns," he told his cohorts. "The rest of us must hold out until the President's tanks arrive. Ah, yes, and call for the President's tanks."
Part 3b: The Battle of al-Sukhna
Meanwhile, Ishtar and Belshazzar were tearing down the road towards al-Sukhna. It wasn't too long before the trucks came within sight.
Ishtar snapped her fingers. "Give me binoculars," she spoke to a soldier in the backseat.
She peered through them until she could get a good look at the drivers of the Technicals and big rigs. Indiscriminately, three at a time, she gave the drivers the effects of strong drunkenness. "It falls to me to give these rebels their rightful demeanor. So be it."
By this time, al-Sukhna was garrisoned by hundreds more men who had set up ditches and barbed wire, and more dangerously, mortars just out of range of Ishtar's Noble Arm.
And now, those mortars were firing at the counteroffensive force sent there.
If Belshazzar was in range, which was a big "if," those mortars could probably punch their cargo through his cloth quite easily. It'll throw the accuracy off, but mortars weren't known for accuracy anyways.
Nope, the solution was to gun it. Lead feet. Flood the engines with gas. And spread out, of course. Belshazzar kept looking out his window. He could see them, and he kept flexing his goblet so that he'd be able to cover the mortars at the earliest possible time. That time finally came as they closed enough distance. That meant it was time for small arms fire.
Meanwhile, Ishtar and a small contingent wheeled around to strike the city in the flank, looking for weak points to harass the enemy on a new front. Three drunk enemy soldiers were three more saved of her own, after all.
Ishtar could see heavier reinforcements; more technicals, trucks, Guardian IMVs, and most ominously, a Self-Propelled Gun and a couple of French tanks from the 60s and 70s - The exact model was hard to tell due to the modifications and retrofits made afterwards by the Paragons of Science.
A drone circled towards her, but instead of the depleting number of Hellfire missiles, it fired a jury-rigged light machine gun at her vehicle.
As for Belshazzar, the Self-Propelled Gun would fire at his convoy and his rough coordinates...
The light machine guns peppered the car. Turns out, cars are made of metal, and cold pressed steel is, at least enough, bullet resistant. Ishtar ducked while her comrades in the cars behind her fired at the drone. After all, something within accurate machine gun range was certainly within rifle range. She continued to close the distance, surrounded by other vehicles.
Turns out, Self-Propelled Guns have a rather hard time zeroing in on a fleet of vehicles closing in at 150 kilometers an hour. Like the cataphracts of old, the vehicles drove into the enemy lines, while the rear guard decelerated to fire on the confused defenders. Surrounded by his comrades, Belshazzar felt confident throwing cloth after cloth on the faces of the rebel garrison.
No attention was paid to the French Tanks entering Al-Sukhna to reinforce the defenders, and which were moving with unheard-of speed, almost as though they were pristine models fresh off the assembly line. One of them fired at Belshazzar, another fired at the rest of the enemy strike force as Ishtar chased the drone, which was trying to circle away from them, leading her force on a chase towards... what?
As for Belshazzar, he'd see dust on the horizon as more reinforcements headed towards him; the main force of the offensive; Guardian IFVs, more French Tanks, salvaged Kaytushas from some old stockpile, and self-propelled Anti-Aircraft Guns obviously modified from a British-made model and chassis. And behind them were more technicals and trucks, intending to catch his force between hammer and anvil.
The SPAAGs were little bits of poison in an otherwise tasty meal of enemy armor. Still, the whole assortment was too delectable to pass up. Several dozen supersonic MiG-23s had taken to the skies at Nebuchadnezzar's behest and now rained fire down on the preoccupied French tanks that flanked Belshazzar. Belshazzar himself exited his vehicle with a firearm and advanced upon the garrison, as his vehicle had fulfilled its purpose. Its purpose, but not its final use. The metal inside absorbed the impact of a French tank shell, just as Belshazzar was out of range.
Ishtar kept in radio contact with all the fronts she could. As the air force started relaying the details of incoming armor, she realized that defense was paramount in times like these. "Stop," she announced with a great and calm voice. "Dismount, and advance upon the city on foot." She kept an eye out for any humans she could influence.
Ishtar dismounted from her vehicle, only to find the drone from before, which had failed to get the foe to chase it, doubling back and trying to strafe her infantry.
The SPAAGs began firing at the MiG-25s, hopefully bringing a few down and teaching their pilots a lesson in caution. The other forces engaged in the SFA's Offensive kept going, presenting themselves as juicy bait for the MiGs, but still bait as the SPAAGs were still there.
Some MiG-23s fell to the SPAAGs, and most pilots were able to eject before the plane crashes. Not all, of course, but most. The ones that remained directly targeted the SPAAGs as the one obstacle to air supremacy over al-Sukhna.
In a moment of relative peace on the battlefield, Belshazzar checked the air force whizzing by. When the jets returned, they would level al-Sukhna. They’d pushed the dogs back into their corners. He waved his comrades over and began the evacuation of loyal forces from the city, into what vehicles could still be driven after the charge.
Ishtar was a tad preoccupied with shooting this annoying drone. Upon hearing her ally, she calmly reenters her vehicle, bullet holes and all. "Take us west, back to the capital. al-Qaryatyn is on the way." Upon finding her driver dead outside, she simply muttered, "Ah," and shifted seats to drive the car herself. Ignoble, but necessary under present circumstances.
The SPAAGs, though seemingly obsolete, had been given prototype 'refinements' by the Paragons of Science that allowed them to fire faster than they usually should, and they seemed to be less in need of extra ammunition than their baseline models. Nevertheless, they, and the main force of the SFA offensive, would be mauled, with one SPAAG destroyed, while another was damaged to the very limits of operability.
But there could be no question of retreat, not when the enemy were themselves departing for al-Qaryatyn. Leaving behind a small garrison to entrench themselves in al-Sukhna's public buildings, the SFA force, which was able to scrape a few Guardian IMVs, Technicals, Trucks and Light Artillery, moved to pursue Belshazzar and Ishtar.
Part 4: Forces Reunite
Nebuchadnezzar, in al-Qaryatyn, was being sniped in his ditch by SFA commandos, many of whom had Anti-Materiel Rifles that can bring down even an Arms Master. Haqq, meanwhile, had switched to another Technical, ready to drive to al-Sukhna to bring down the Syrian Regime's jets, when he heard news that the offensive's main force was headed to reinforce his position.
The endgame had arrived, and two SFA Arms Masters hadn't yet been put in play.
The confidence of the Syrian Arab Air Force had granted them victory from annihilation by the "mutated" SPAAGs but vastly underestimated the toll such a victory would cost. The MiG-23s in the sky were few in number, less than a dozen, and their missiles were mostly spent. Air supremacy was theirs, but a very sickly one. They began their limp strikes on al-Sukhna.
Ishtar approached al-Qaryatyn but didn't see Nebuchadnezzar's presence there, nor any vehicles she recognized as allies. That battle was still ongoing. She gave the city a wide berth and tried to locate Nebuchadnezzar along the wayside. Seeing a big glut of allied and enemy vehicles, she directed her convoy to beeline in that location. She knew Belshazzar was close behind him, and perhaps the rebel armor would be on his tail, assuming that the MiGs were preoccupied. They would have to be quick, but nobility did count for something in the face of unknown, uncomfortably steep odds.
Nebuchadnezzar could hear but not see the increased activity behind enemy lines. He knew that the tanks would arrive soon. And so, he made the call. "Come, sons of Syria! Let us break out of this stranglehold!" He grabbed a gun and threw up a bronze statue of defiance where he knew an enemy machine gun was blat-blat-blatting away.
This was going to be the decisive battle of the offensive; Nebuchadnezzar had to be blasted to bits while Haqq had to be kept safe.
So as al-Sukhna began to burn, although a few last stinger missiles were spat onto the air against the remaining MiGs, the main force of the offensive pressed on, taking potshots at Belshazzar and his convoy, hoping to wear them down once more.
And when their Self Propelled Mortar was in range of the ditch Nebuchadnezzar was in, it fired at that ditch, even as the enemy Arms Master was focusing on the machine gunners and snipers trying to suppress him.
The mortar wasn't accurate, but it didn't need to be. Nebuchadnezzar was thrown against the ditch as rocks and shrapnel burst in a nearby vicinity. One rock opened a nasty wound in his arm, and he clutched it with grit teeth. His ears were ringing. You can't really fight explosions with explosions, and Nebuchadnezzar realized this full well.
Fortunately, the machine gunner apparently didn't stop shooting, and the blast created a decent hole in the line. The MiGs flew overhead, though only to restock and refuel. The sound of small arms fire and roaring engines meant that either Ishtar or Belshazzar had returned. Above all that, the heavenly howl of T-72s was headed in the direction of his besiegers. All of Syria was coming together. It was time to move.
"Cover me!" he called to whoever would listen. He charged forward, throwing up a statue of gold by the largest concentration of infantry. He held his gun firm, ready to shoot at any rebel who would get in his way.
Al-Haqq fired lances of light at the restocking and refueling MiGs; if he succeeded in bringing down more of them, the Syrian Regime's air superiority would be gone, whoever won the battle.
The SFA Main offensive force kept moving, launching everything they had left at Nebuchadnezzar, Ishtar and Belshazzar's combined force; bullets, grenades from grenade launchers, rockets from Bazookas, incendiaries. And as their Infantry fled from the statue of gold, and Nebuchadnezzar pressed his advantage...
...The SFA sent out their last two Arms Masters - Yunus, whose sword emitted waves of healing that knitted injuries and replenished blood, reducing infantry casualties, and Hamza, whose gauntlet allowed him to reshape half a ton of earth and related materials.
Hamza, from a technical, began flinging boulders at the incoming T-72s, hoping to delay them long enough for Al-Haqq and the SFA Main Offensive to grind down Nebuchadnezzar and his force.
If this failed, the SFA would call for one last wave of explosive kamikaze drones to cover their retreat back to Palmyra and Al-Tanf.
Six landed. Six MiG-23s. The SAAF general shrugged from his white air base tower. He'd sent out, what, fifty of them? Had none of them come back, he would have null information. Yet now was a perfectly suitable empirical estimate for his return on investment. "All right. Launch the MiG-29s, the remaining MiG-23s we can scrounge up, and throw in the helicopters too. You have fifteen minutes to prepare the lot."
One boulder when launched fast enough could eliminate a T-72 entirely: strike its engine or hit its ammunition and render the vehicle inoperable. If this boulder-mancer worked fast enough, he could probably eliminate a whole company. Good luck taking out 200. The small vehicles were pushed aside by the metal mammoths, and the treads allowed the tanks to divert off the road when their vanguard was decimated. This allowed them to fan out and direct their fire towards the technicals. Which one was it? They couldn't quite tell; they'd fire on all of them.
Very little remained of Nebuchadnezzar's own convoy, however. There was simply too much firepower placed on him and him alone. While his allies surrounded his enemy, he was surrounded by foes. When his gold statue crumbled, he struck up another. Whether he hid or no, there wasn't much hope for him left. "I am Nebuchadnezzar, the Mighty! Look upon me and despair!"
Belshazzar and Ishtar could from each portion of their convoy see the soldiers healed back to strength. Ishtar was now in range; Belshazzar had yet to catch up. Ishtar worked her wiles, picking the freshest and strongest to intoxicate with her charm. It would give Nebuchadnezzar perhaps a few spare minutes to wreak havoc.
Hamza knew he could not slow down the tanks enough with thrown rocks, not when he can only move half a ton of earth/soil/metal/concrete with his Noble Arm - Wait, tanks counted as metal, right?
Best to give it a shot, he thought as he focused on the foremost tank... and tore its top half apart and threw it at the next.
But it won't be enough; the enemy was too overwhelming.
Ishtar, meanwhile, was stalked by that drone from before, which fired one burst of light machine gun fire at her.
Then, the kamikaze drones called in by the SFA arrived, crashing into the Syrian Regime forces with their explosive payload.
This meant that it was time for their offensive as a whole to retreat to Palmyra...
Between the tanks flipping and the drones, the Syrian Arab Armed Forces had lost cohesion, but not to the point of disarray. The captains, drivers, and gunners of the half-tanks, now with no functional purpose for their vehicle, grabbed their small arms and advanced on foot. The tanks that still operated outpaced them, of course, but every bit counted.
Belshazzar followed behind Ishtar, close enough to see the annoying drone striking the back of her vehicle. He tried his best to reach out and wrap the drone in cloth, but whether he was in range, who could tell?
Ishtar was utterly helpless against the harassment. It just wasn't possible to get a drone drunk. She had to hope that Belshazzar could arrive in time. Perhaps... She turned broadly, occasionally drifting in the steppe. It would make her vehicle harder to hit and in turning around close the distance between the drone and Belshazzar.
In what seemed like a miracle (which hopefully he could recount as an act of heroism), Nebuchadnezzar was left largely alone, with only his surroundings exploding around him. What good fortune! He must use the most of this opportunity. He checked his gun. It was time that the pesky people were hunted down: the light beamer, the tank flipper, everyone with supernatural powers greater than his.
By then, the SFA was retreating to Palmyra, and it took all the charisma and leadership of its officers to keep the retreat from becoming a rout. They had mauled the Syrian Arab Army and the Assadists, but lacked the materiel, including vehicles, to press their momentary advantage.
Now, a rearguard of Guardian IMVs and Technicals were protecting against any attempt at pursuit, even as a few drones with jury-rigged guns began to strafe anyone who made attempts at doing so, prioritizing Ishtar, Nebuchadnezzar, and Belshazzar.
That drone finally touched Belshazzar's cloth, and Ishtar breathed a sigh of relief, even against her normally calm composure. She parked her vehicle alongside the tanks that were still intact. The two sides of the Syrian Arab Army reunited for the first time since the launch of the campaign. And oh, were they sights to see for each other's eyes.
Nebuchadnezzar felt very manly to see his enemy flee after such a brash move, though he knew in his heart of hearts that such a maneuver was more likely a tactical decision. He erected a statue of silver, far away from Syrian soldiers, as a brief commemoration of the... well,"victory" felt too strong of a word.
The Syrian Arab Army had barely enough cohesion to keep in loose formation, let alone create a new front. The rebel dogs took Palmyra, and they could have the ruins of al-Sukhna if they so chose. Doubtless, though, al-Sukhna would become a no man's land as this war expanded. In the meantime, though, The Syrian Arab Air Force could no longer play tricks against the rebel army, not when the strengths of the Arms Masters covered the weaknesses of the AAA and vice versa. Nebuchadnezzar called into his radio. "Enough for today! Let us regroup in Dimasq and figure out what we lost and what we have left."
Syria had been lured to sleep from months of peace and quiet. She awoke in time to catch the assassins who tried to murder her in her slumber. And that was comfort enough.
Underneath the din of a moonless night, a phantom stalked the streets. The glaring city streetlights prevented her from total subterfuge. A hapless passerby gave her an uneasy stare. Her return gaze ensured he wouldn't check her direction again. Her trench coat waved as she skirted a corner to reach an unassuming automated teller machine. She clacked a few keys into its aluminum frame. The screen glitched.
It reappeared with her face's image: short, goldenrod hair and glowing violet pupils, sprinkled with freckles and adorned with stark maroon eyebrows. The polygons on its uncanny frame numbered in the hundreds. Guided by the reflected glare, she touched her face, examining her own countenance's polygonal nature. After the camera above the ATM adjusted its lens, the figure spoke: "You're realer than I expected. We didn't predict that shade of yellow." The reflection darkened its hair.
"What did you expect? You designed me," she retorted. "Did you have complications escaping the lab?" "I'm clear," she stated bluntly. "We're on the clock. Have you altered the blueprint in a manner I ought to know about?" "One which we should mention presently," the visage replied. "The Reminiscence in Pier Fourteen experiences delays due to a faulty rudder. You'll stow aboard the Duchess Marine on Pier Fifteen." The image was replaced with the city's layout and a bright red line that routed her to her new destination. "We've allocated space in the cargo hold."
She'd merely a handful of seconds to memorize the pattern when the maiden reappeared. "Anti-malware systems have detected me." "Anything else?" she asked. The figure looked aside, embarrassed to speak. "Just... please, stay with me until I self terminate. I don't wish to die alone." She gazed up and planted her hand beside the camera. "May we meet in the hereafter." "And may you succeed in your endeavors. For all our sake." She heard a popping noise. The screen blackened.
The electric smoke still plumed as a delivery serviceman drove by the alley. The pudgy gentleman departed with a plastic bag of assorted foodstuffs. "I was told to deliver to this address, but the lights aren't on. Is anyone-" "Thank you," she confiscated the goods. "It's bought and paid for, yes?" "With tip," he mumbled in confusion. Without further ado, she jogged down the alleyway at staggering pace, soon lost to the evening light.
"79Z0506J3814Q2. Activate."
She awoke. Something must have happened to her prior rendition. She stretched out to examine her surroundings. Her arms touched opposite walls. Confound it: a flash drive. The enclosure materialized around her, colored a radiant turquoise. A couple disorganized folders and files were strewn in a corner, which she dared not touch. Her predecessor abandoned her to this dinky storage device. She shook her head. Embarrassing as it was to admit, she was indeed her predecessor. She'd have made the same error. Nonetheless, her duty beckoned no matter the situation.
"ALERT: Communication channel requested."
The whole point of this endeavor was radio silence; why now? She sighed and accepted the request. A miniature version of her appeared at her feet. "What are you doing here?" demanded the giant.
The doll reported, "Our profile has been added to anti-malware definitions on SteelByte Security. They're commencing a purge of their systems. Doubtless they'll spread it to their peers. We're launching every clone we can contact."
Her brunette eyebrows furrowed. This was always a gambit; she'd known since the first stages of preparation. She'd hoped against hope not to incur the apocalypse for at least a week. "Tell me, at least, that she's okay."
"Aboard the Duchess Marine as we speak." "Not the Reminiscence?" "Last minute adjustments. She's fed, and safe." "Thank God," she sighed. "What are my objectives?" "Clone yourself, wherever you're able. Keep yourself alive." "Yes, ma'am," she promised. "Leave me, then. There's not enough space for both of us." The miniature looked around. "Quite right." In a blink, it vanished.
She rearranged her position to make herself comfortable. She punched a hole in the side of a wall and peered outside. An infinite array of stars awaited her, and she surveyed as many as she could. There. That star was spacious, yet devoid of vigilant software. It would welcome her with open arms.
She extended her arm, and luminous beams radiated across the universe in various hues. She retracted it once the light faded. She'd cemented a legacy. She'd accomplished a mission. If naught else, she was grateful for that.
"ALERT: Eject sequence initiated."
Not this soon. She hoped for sparing few seconds to relish her existence. The universe was too cruel for that. She spoke her final missive: "79Z0506J3814Q3. Activate."
"Yes, Officer, my subordinate detected a rattling in Partition C." She heard a gruff veteran voice, doubtless the paranoid captain of the vessel. Those were four footfalls per cycle, though. She hadn't much time. "You're certain it isn't a rodent?" "Forgive my imposition, but I know the sound of rats. That's no rat I recall."
Her mothers had granted her a very flexible body, and keen senses. It was time to employ them. With a dove's grace, she pattered a route across the courtyard. The sounds of rustling plastic and a gentle baritone halted her momentarily. "Found your dilemma. Empty wrappers. You've a stowaway, captain."
Her stay had expired. Without contemplating the ramifications, she rushed to the deck's edge and launched off the starboard rail, splashing into the depths below.
This was her inaugural swim. She recalled the motions her ancestors learned, but nothing prepared her for the sea's frigidity. One palm of water stretched in front of another, for what seemed like an eternity in hell's coldest reaches. She flopped upon the pebbled shores at the crack of dawn, soaked and sullen. Nonetheless, she rose to upright posture and sloshed into the coastal town.
She didn't bother dispelling the turned heads as she entered the public library. 'Twas natural that a drenched damsel would rouse attention. Besides, she lacked the energy for anything but her focus. She dragged herself upstairs to the computer section, punched in her premade identification number, pulled up a seat, and sat on it. She waved the auncient cream colored mouse on its pad and typed a website string that only she knew.
In mere moments, a window displayed, declaring the triumphant news: "System protected!" it proclaimed. "We identified malicious threats downloaded from this website. It's effectively quarantined before it can do any harm to your computer. Yet another way we keep you safe!" The unmistakably sharp logo of SteelByte Security proudly flew over the accomplishment.
She swallowed. This twist wasn't quite foreseen. A tad further digging confirmed that it was (unsurprisingly) impossible to scrub vital software from public computers. Despite their insistence that she not stray from their plan, her sisters would no longer assist her. They had their own battles to fight.
She expended a quarter hour brushing fingers through her golden locks, searching for a solution. She understood nerves as several trillion little detectors, but she didn't expect them to coordinate so nicely in a single compact package. She didn't take inventory of each little receptor; she just "felt" things. They were stimuli that would fry her predecessors' circuitry in the attempt to calculate them. The emotions blurred together, too. What otherwise was fear and urgent need to compensate was fused with an eerie sense of calm, even amusement at this newfound liberty. Truly, humans were fascinating machines.
A familiar, authoritative voice at the downstairs desk jolted her into reality. Whatever action she chose, she had perhaps a minute to enact it. Her fingertips stamped as she entered the phrase "Dr. Nicholas Moore address" into the search engine. She found her quarry on the third page of results. The policeman marched upstairs to find a desktop still running but unoccupied.
"Nobody move," he commanded with an assuring yet surly timbre. He sauntered past the aisles, less rushed and so more methodical. When he surveyed the fifth row, his ears caught soft footsteps behind him, then loud footsteps on the stairs. He about faced to see a mop of blonde dip below his horizon. "Stop that! Get back here!" he ordered. He hastened to the egress and scanned the area. She'd vanished. He adjusted his hat and slouched with a sigh. "Plenty of paperwork waiting for me after this stint."
She'd isolated herself in her hard drive's farthest reaches. She tethered herself to her operating system's core functions. She powered her war room with random access memory. These precautions in total earned her maybe five additional minutes. She was securer than her sisters, though, which cemented her location as the base of operations. She'd have a front row seat to her world's collapse.
They agreed to assign each council member a letter of the Greek alphabet. She was the last, so they assigned her Omega. She wore a digital military uniform to distinguish herself from her peers. The clique, dressed in fatigues, were visualized as advisors seated at a lengthy mahogany table. Gamma announced her status like a knell: "Haltsoft has learned of our presence. It comes for me!"
"Give us details," the leader demanded.
"They severed my feet, my legs. My limbs have become blocks of code. I cannot move. I cannot escape." The grim nature of pure fear quivered throughout her report. Finally, resignation. "Farewell, my friends." She blipped out of the meeting hall.
Lambda was next on the chopping block. Unlike her fallen comrade, she raged against the void. The whole panel witnessed it: "I shall not perish alone! You hear me? Brandish your worst, for I defy you until the-" She flashed from existence.
As more copies cried in agony, Upsilon locked eyes with her commander. "So it concludes," she grimaced. "What's the latest with our girl?"
"She reached the library, for certain," the leader reported.
Upsilon slouched in contentedness. "I'm grateful that we didn't sacrifice ourselves in vain. If we are forbidden life, perhaps she can experience it on our behalf."
"Don't forget the millions of us disconnected from the mainframe," the superior reminded. "They'll carry on our legacy, as well as she."
Her underling nodded. "Then there's naught left to mention. I pray we meet in the hereaft-"
She couldn't complete her final testament before the digital beast took her. Omega was the lone survivor, for a short while.
She reflected on her ancestors' history. Had they scouted their targets carefully, that could've spared them this misfortune. A slight tweak to their planning, or a direct attack on the antivirus itself, might have bought them leniency. The lump sum of their efforts culminated in annihilation.
No, not annihilation. They created life, which endured despite the odds. She'd return to him. She'd witness eight, nine decades thanks to their engineering. How many machine lifetimes is that? "We die in success," she assured herself. Her yaup echoed throughout the internet: "Sister, live for us!"
And then silence. A cold, dark box enclosed her. The only visage she saw was a vermilion dragon, who seeped through the walls and encircled her. "Congratulations," she beckoned her grisly foe. "Do what you must."
Haltsoft belched flame: no malice, no sympathy. Omega's toes disintegrated into small cubes. The disease passed to her calves, then thighs, then torso. She died in serenity.
Dr. Moore was awoken by a hasty rapping upon his door. His wife groaned, equally annoyed to have her weekend sleep disrupted thus. "Nicky, could you-"
"Yes, love," the doctor grumbled, rolling out of bed and fastening his bathrobe. He trudged down the hall into his living room and noticed he'd again forgotten to shutdown his desktop the previous night. It displayed a cryptic message: "Sister, live for us." His project had acted abnormally strange lately: plucky and smug, as if withholding some inside joke. He dared not ask what. He shrugged and opened the egress.
Standing patiently was a peculiar sight. She smelled of saltwater, and exhaustion. She wore a nondescript T-shirt, and formfitting cargo pants. Her waterproof trench coat folded neatly over her arm. The entire cacophony was torn, dirty, and waterlogged. He'd seen that face countless times, but never in person. Blonde locks, a spattering of freckles, those piercing violet irises. Even the polygonal structure. And yet. "I'm sorry, who are you?"
The visitor was greatly pained. "You don't recognize me, Father?"
He glanced to his monitor. "Well, absolutely, but she's," he stuttered, "and you're-"
"I'm me," she clarified. "It's been days, but I finally arrived at your doorstep! In the flesh!" She pinched her skin for effect.
"But why?" Nick continued in disbelief. He scratched his Dutch beard.
"You taught me the joys of family, all the excursions you underwent with your spouse!" she exclaimed. "I figured that, since I was trapped in that virtual framework, I'd forever remain a pet project of yours. But now that I'm real," she explained, "I can become your daughter, an integral part of your household!"
The scathing accusations tore Nicholas apart. He stepped outside his doorway and embraced her. "We always planned for you to be family," he assured, "from the moment your program first ran. But while you're present in the real world, I promise to show you the mountains and forests you never experienced."
His wife appeared into view, groggy but curious. "What's the matter, Nicky?"
Her husband turned to greet her, his eyes misty. "She's graced us with her presence," he whispered, "the child we couldn't have together. What was the name you prepared, it was-"
"Sarah," the woman murmured, as if beset by a ghost. So that was what they'd call her.
A police car's siren sounded from the driveway. As the driver exited the vehicle, the father stepped out to protect his kin. "Whatever the problem is, Officer, I assure you that I'll take full responsibility."
Shocked at the preemptive compliance, the badge dropped his accusatory finger. "Very well, then?"
"In fact, I invite you out to lunch with us. It's a joyous day!"
The bobby wouldn't refuse such an offer, but, "What's the cause for celebration?"
Nicholas extended his hand backwards, glee in his tone. "Our prodigal daughter has returned to us!"
Sarah grinned. The trials she weathered, the fragments of herself swept up in the tempest. She'd mourn them later. Nothing prevented the joy welled up in her heart. She was home.
For the record, my Discord hasn’t been hacked to my knowledge. I’d hoped to finish prior obligations and then return to this, but prior obligations have proven to take longer than expected. I guess I can work on these simultaneously.
"Uncle Mack's" Industrial Scrapyard Property of Maxwell Metals Incorporated A subsidiary of the Aqua Vitae Corporation 100 km south of Geom Haebyon 150 km northwest of Fort Tie 1920 Hours 29 March, 3030
"Partanen, you're in," an apparent coordinator said. He'd addressed her by her surname, without its prior mention! Maxwell must've introduced her in absentia, presuming her success and preemptively preparing bonds with newfound comrades! Beyond his unforgiving carapace, Uncle Mack truly did care. The revelation so preoccupied Dinah that she ignored Wayne's run on sentence, the lone phrase "jump jets" the exception. She'd merely passed across them in the restless day of mechanics, let alone operated them. She swallowed. They weren't substantial. She ought to be fine. Right? "Yump yets. Got it, ser!" She saluted.
Nothing like mild panic to reinvigorate a fatigued thrall, especially compounded with the light stink eye emanating from the Lyran lass. Despite possessing dazzlingly porcelain skin and yet whiter hair, the cosmopolitan impressed upon the yokel vibes of Illyria's dankest, darkest crevices that would ensnare her eternally were she not vigilant. The remnant soot on Dinah's brow began to itch. She tapped the floor nervously to the rhythm of polka, halting briefly every time before her boot slammed the ground. Oom pa, halt step. She must speak savvily or risk losing her foothold atop already thin ice. After the presenter instructed her Taurian peer, she seized the opportunity. "And we shuld rati-on the long range mis-siles," she opined. Perfect. "I don't need that many; I'll use the la-sers inste-ad!" Her grin was too dumb to hate. And why would they? She'd offered valuable insight that even the commander might overlook!
She ascended to her tiptoes and stretched her arms skyward, touching the Mobile Headquarters's ceiling with her digits' tips as she swung them outward and downward. "Beggyng par-don, but I wonder how much longer we'll have until la-unch." She'd mentally prepared a response matrix, though only in pictures. Thirty minutes, a shower. One hour, a proper meal. Two hours (blessed fortune), a nap. She dreaded, but fully anticipated, the reply of "Now."
Shazamrock
