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I am Marcel Payne. They call my Bronze Payne. They call me this because I wear a bronze helmet into battle, and because of the color of my skin. I am a warrior, and I am a goddamned man.

When we pillaged California's sunny coasts, I was the first off the boat. I remember roaring as I killed, and I remember seeing fear in their eyes as we drove them into the hills and looted their homes. I was there when we swarmed onto the beaches of Hawaii, where we plundered their old resorts and fueled our taste for the honest violence of the raid. When we struck Hakodate in far away Japan, in a time before we befriend the eastern world, our success was nearly immediate. The Pacific was ours. We owned it, riding on the backs of abandoned commercial liners and adapted fishing trawlers. We needed no navy. It did not take battleships to subdue the sea. It was ours.

We did not fear the land either. We brought the cattlemen of Montana into our new nation by force. I have seen the plains of Alberta, and I have taken what I could from their homeland. I even fought in Alaska. There was no glory there, but I must be honest about what I saw. In the burning tundra, in the sludge of the north, I gasped fire. I drank its ash and ate it in my food for months. And I saw it, the unholy fire. I saw it dancing in the air, and in the eyes of those children. They taught us who ruled the north. I see no shame in having been bested by them.

I have survived all of that, and I have stood amongst the leaders of Cascadia.

The smell of the fir, the spruce, and the pine filled the air around the capital. It was inescapable. This was the birthplace of Retched Bill, the greatest of their number and the man they called their leader. He was a man of few words, but when he did speak his meaning cut through a conversation like the axe he carrier strapped to his back at all times. He was a tall man, and his shoulders were as broad as a bull's. Other politicians dressed up, but Bill never did. He wore the same denim and flannel outdoorsman's clothes he had for most of his life. His hair had turned grey, as had the bushy mustache he wore on his lip, but age had not broken him.

They say that Retched Bill was most at home when he was clearing timber. There was no doubt about this. There they had gathered, the Governor-Presidents of the Cascadian nation, and the strange, delicate creature that was the ambassador to East Asia's mystical government. They had gathered in the wild outdoors, on a tarmac on the outskirts of town where a firefighting helicopter had once been stationed. Retched Bill was at work in the treeline just beyond the cement, and his axe was grinding at the wood. Chop. Chop. In the scent of an evergreen tree taking an axe, nature cleared your head. It was as refreshing as sleep. It reminded us why we went to battle wearing used air-fresheners around our necks. When a tree went down, he shouted 'timber!', and everyone watched the top of the tree do the shaking dance it did before it hit the ground. The creaking, the cracking... it was part of the potency that the evergreen symbol conveyed. It made a man proud to serve under the evergreen flag.

These politicians had not gathered to watch Retched Bill in his wilderness, though to see Bill bring down a tree was to finally understand what the emotions of the word 'Triumph' were supposed to be. They had came to watch a fight, and to discuss the political trade.

In the middle of cracked cement tarmac, where pine needles and dirt had been blown over a fading red H painted in the center, two men did the dance of the swing-saw. The Swing-Saw was a weapon of the true berserker - a thing dangerous not only to the wielder and his target, but to any who surrounded them. It was a simple weapon.. There was chain. At one end of it, two grips made from lacquered pinewood allowed the wielder to hold the weapon confidently. On the other end were two gas powered circular saws. They buzzed alive, and when they were swung the sound they left behind sounded like a monstrous bee buzzing through the air. When you heard it coming toward you, you bent back to dodge. It was part of the dance. When two men came together to show off their skills with the swing-saw, those that watched them were a part of the fight. Spectators did not stand idly. They watched the saw blades, and when it looked like the blades might cut in their direction, they made sure to get out of the way.

The warriors little protection. They had a metal guard attached to the front of their neck by a leather strap, and below that was a cotton padded guard that protected the front of their torso. Patches of fluff leaked from the guard where cuts had been made. Their heads were not protected, and neither were their faces. These were men of the woods, and they would have you see them when they fought. Even my helmet was open at its front so my face was never hidden.

One man was a man of the First Nations - a Carrier by birth, his hair was long and braided, and it whipped behind him as he did the warrior's dance. His opponent was a white man, and he wore a bushy red mustache that partially covered the heavy scar on his lip.

Dylan DeComte, the Governor-President of Oregon, hovered over the small Chinese Ambassador, Yu Pandi, like a wood louse to the bottom of a rock. He had the same soft, cowardly ways of the louse. The Portlanders hid in their city while the men of the nation went warring across the Pacific. Dylan was a small man, so thin that it was apparent that he didn't even lift. His skin was pampered, his eyes were shielded by a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and he wore a fluffy scarf around his neck so thick and long that reached his hip and formed a cashmere toga.

Yu Pandi was a small flower of a woman. Her old-world business suit looked too big for her, her skirt brushing against her feet. She watched the battle of men cautiously. Bronze Payne wondered what was going through her mind. Was she intimidated? Scared of the danger that this battle included for all those around it? Or was something awakening inside of her, some womanly urge to know the warrior's as sexual beings? It was hard to tell. From her eyes, she just looked timid.

The other Governor-Presidents watched as well. There was Leon Scusswede of Vancouver, a decadent old man with no taste for the outdoors. His oversized flannel coat and longer-eared trapper hat made him look more like a boy who was dressed for the cold by his mother rather than a man in his right habitat. He stood next to Carl Elkhart, the GP of Washington state. He had been a local sheriff before everything had went crazy with the world. Even now, he still wore the stained brown uniform and stiff brimmed hat of his office. He was a good man. Bronze Payne had fought alongside him in Hakodate, and again on the Dalton Highway during that dark war. He was not a big man, but he was a good warrior.

Standing on her own was Janet Husks, the GP of Alaska. She was the only woman GP, but she was just as formidable as any man. She weighed two hundred pounds, and her eyes had went beady behind her puffy discolored flesh. You could accuse her of being well fed, but never of being lazy. In her time, she had raised five kids. It was a known secret that there had been a sixth. Nobody said what had happened to it, but everyone knew. It was alleged that she still had contact with the child, that the abduction was part of a deal made with those revenants of the artic circle. There was some sense there. How else had the Alaskans managed to feed the Cascadian nation so much oil?

Stands-With-Gun was the GP of Montana. He was the tallest of them all, nearing seven foot and as broad as a tank. He had fought them when they invaded his lands, and he had joined them when he saw what they could do. He was a member of the Blackfoot, and he had supporters in Alberta. How long would it be before their neighbor was brought into the fold?

Nearby brooded Miles Juarez, the GP of Idaho. The Juarez Clan ruled Idaho with a heavy fist. They had been ranchers at first, and they had all learned how to shoot from the back of a galloping horse. It was a skill they had learned before the world went crazy, when they used it to fight off rustlers and poachers. After the collapse, the Juarez's used their money and competence to build a small state of their own, only joining Cascadia for the protection. Even now, they were largely independent. They were known to launch raids on the east, coming on horseback and disappearing just as quickly. Miles was dressed as a cattle man. He was a hispanic man, with a thick mustache above his lip and greasy hair poking from under his hat.

And finally there was Jack Burns, the GP of the Yukon. He was truly a man of the north. He had a wind-burnt face and burnside whiskers. In truth, there was little known about the man. Yukon was a quiet province, and Jack Burns a quiet man.

The warriors danced, their saws whining as they ducked and dodged away from each other. In the rhythm of their fight, watching the choreographic beauty of the thing, with the promise of violence so close to the surface, Bronze Payne felt the heat of life pulsing through his flesh. It reminded him of the thrill of combat. He thought about the rush he felt when his axe cleaved the body of his enemy after a hard fight in the uncertain smoke of battle. He remembered the weighty bass sound of sharpened heat-treated logs impaling a church steeple in Hakodate, and the asymmetrical sound the church-bell made in response.

"Timber!" Retched Bill called out, and they all paused to watch as another tree struck the ground. The warriors, too, had stopped their dance. Pine needles, caught by the wind, fell on them like rough rain. The tree snapped and heaved, then it fell down with a roar.

Dylan DeComte clapped like a nancy.

The warriors looked to Bill to bid them continue, but he did not. He slung his axe over his shoulder and came trudging down the hill. His eyes were on Yu Pandi. There was uncertainty in her eyes. Bill scared her. He did give her reason, with serious eyes and a tried axe in hand. He was approaching her, almost at a charge. When he came to her, it looked like she was going to run. Bill thrust out his arm. For a second, she was uncertain what to do, than it slowly came to her. She still looked confused as she shook his hand.

"I am mighty fine pleased to be friends with your people." he boomed. She smiled and nodded. "We are happy to the heavens." she answered timidly.

He waved for the warriors to take their leave. They nodded and trudged off. Now it was only the politicians. Bronze Payne felt annoyed. He hated talk; he was a man of action.

"We are thinking about taking Vladivostok." Bill said. Bronze Payne smiled. The Russians - that would be a battle.

"Taking..." Pandi processed. "A raid on Vladivostok would would not be worth much." she warned. "They poor people. Very poor people."

"Not raiding, taking." Bill replied. He spat to his left. "We should do more than raiding. I want to see a colony. I think Vladivostok would be a good location."

Bronze Payne did not know where this was, besides that it was in Russia. That was far away, but there would be opportunity there. There was plenty of land for the taking.

"I do not understand." Pandi said. "Wouldn't such a thing be expensive?"

"Yes." Bill said. "But who gives a shit? If we can't do it, we don't have any right to call ourselves men."

Bronze Payne felt his heart fistbump itself.

It is said by the old poems in heaven, then upon when the One True Voice is silenced, so will everything be heard. That in its muting the clarity and symmetry of nature will reveal itself. The voices felled silent, like a dear pounced by the tiger. Or the choking dawning of night upon day. Its light extinguished, and the ultimate clarity of the heavens revealed for all of man to see. To reveal the purpose and the function of the Dao.

So was the tiger who sat upon his guilded throne. Reclaimed from nearly a century of empty display in the front room of some museum. Reclaimed from its humiliating seat. No longer dishonored by being empty, or sat upon by the men who were not ordained by heaven to rule. Dressed in the deep red and orange robes the tiger was a king. A dragon. Held tight in his hands the heavy blade of his rule.

Such a blade was wrought of yesteryear's sins. Jewelled and scarred knuckled flexed across its lacquered handle as he brooded down the long hall in cold Xanadu. The guards and courtiers who so recognized is heavenly rule stood at attention as down the fiery carpet uniformed sergeants dragged by the shoulders a mottled and disheveled man. In the light of the great stone hall shone purple patches of bruises the size of dinner-plates. Swollen sores around his squinted eyes. He wore torn rags. Loose denim and polyester. Weakly the man babbled in weak Japanese, hopping to Mandarrin. Hoping to plead for mercy.

Yet the tiger on his throne did not pay him the heed. He was another voice that disturbed his silence. Disturbed the global silence. And by the righteousness bestowed upon him by Tian he was to vanquish the voices. There would be peace and balance again. A restoration of nature's symmetry. And he had been bestowed to rule this world with dragon's fire. The ram's wisdom. The snake's cunning.

He furrowed his brow. There was a burning fire deep in his evergreen eyes. He bit his lip, chewing it. He anticipated the moment as he leaned forward on the throne, clutching that sword in his hands as it dug into the deep colored wood of his plinth. His stage.

The two soldiers stopped abruptly, clapping their boots together as they stood at attention. Their eyes fixated forward as they wore the tired, stressed masks of their position. They were intent and loyal. As they should. Every man to the one above them. That was as it was since their father's age, and their father's age, and the age before that. That was China. That was the will of China. And there was nothing higher than Heaven.

“Present!” the tiger bid loudly, his voice boomed like the sound of thunder in the cavernous throne room. Even the fluorescent lights and the crackling torches seemed to flicker and bend to the sound of his voice.

The man was thrown to the floor with a grunt. He landed face-first on the thick red carpet. The soldiers stepped back.

“Your name.” the tiger demanded sternly, leaning forward on his fore-arm. His wide face was tortured by the grains of war, the harshness of the time. If he was a youthful man it had disappeared over the years.

The man babbled weakly, groveling on the carpet. His pathetic sobs rising and falling as his back retched and quivered.

“I asked for your name!” the Tiger boomed, “If your name is Shit than keep groveling. I wonder, Shit: do you speak the Word of Man?”

The man rose on his knees, “H-Hitor-r, Hitori.” he pleaded, “Hitori Samasuka.”

“Hitori Samasuka!” the tiger declared loudly, standing up from his throne, “Yes! I know that name!” he declared, “I have it heard that you represent- no, lead certain Japanese factions?

“Was it just recently you were sentenced by the courts for your crimes against nature. In ordering the bombings of our Harmonious Army of Banners in Kyoto? One who is responsible for the deaths of not just Chinese soldiers, but Japanese civilians.”

The staggered and bedraggled Japanese man could only shake and stutter as he looked up at the imposing man before him. In his air, he had not stepped forward, but gone back. He was a royal in all dress. Returning to the gilded robes and wide hats, giving him the appearance of a wide halo. Long serpentine dragons, and slender eloquent herons danced and twined across his bell-shaped robes. A true representation to the dichotomy of nature that he so represented. The peaceful and wise movements, the harsh unforgiving and brutal violence. His sword was emblazoned with the silhouettes of lunging tigers, embossed across the metal blade. It was a sharp and large sword, a truly vicious scimitar. Not a weapon, but an executioner's tool.

“I will not spare you the knowledge of the crimes that you have been proven guilty too, and sentenced to by jury. You have without doubt been known to this on your own sentencing.” the emperor proclaimed, “No, what I suspect you think is not that I will. But that you look up at me now and wonder just how you have entered upon my throne room. You could have spent the last year, two perhaps, waiting to be hanged.

“But I am merciful.” the emperor said, walking around the side of the man. The great blade dragging along the carpet. The reflection of the lights shone off the metal as it was lifted and spun in his hands. Lifting up to raise above the executioner's head.

“And that some deaths are best dealt by heaven.” he added, “We shall no doubt meet in Diyu. But the last question I will ask is: are you ready to accept your punishment in the here-after?”

The man couldn't answer. Too terrified, and too shocked he whimpered on the floor. His scabbed fingers ringing the carpet in search of escape. He tried to speak, but his tongue felt too swollen. Like an overstuffed rat in the jaws of a snake. And how he had bit too hastily on that rat.

“Then send my regards to the Yama Kings, for I fill their court.” he said plainly, hoisting up the blade higher for one down-stroke.

With the hiss of metal, and the wet clash against wood the head of the prisoner peeled off and fell to the ground. There was no ceremony. The head rolled off from the shoulders as the sword cut it free in one swift stroke. The body peeled back spraying out a ribbon of warm blood, falling to its side like a sacrificial ox. The last spurt of the dying body glazed the robe of the emperor in the spirited red of the Japanese corpse. The bruised head rolling to a stop to stare skyward, its tongue held open as its mouth hung agape in sudden awe.

“He will meet with the ferryman soon enough.” the Emperor said with confidence. Unphased by the execution of his own hand. Gently he handed the sword to the side, passing it between jeweled fingers. The guards who had brought the prisoner in accepted it readily.

“So to his corpse is cleaned and dressed. Sew his head back on, and burn the body.” he ordered, “Return the ashes home, as all the others.”

“Yes, my honor.” the guard nearest bowed. His partner knelled over to gather the headless corpse from the rug.

“And summon the steam cleaners. Remove this mess.” the Emperor insisted, flailing his arms to the side to brush away any loose droplets of blood that clung to his scarred fingers. They told many stories, but which instances of former torture the Emperor had endured was lost in the mess that dressed his hands and fingers. Which break had healed or burn inflicted years ago was indecipherable from another. It was a miracle he could hold a sword.

Turning to the throne the Emperor shouted to the court, “And what issue does this man here illustrate to us?” he roared, slowly and purposefully walking up to the throne.

“That the freedom fighter movements are still active and well, my lord.” a man in the corner shadows spoke. He stepped forward to meet his Emperor alongside the throne.

“Exactly, Xin Wu.” the emperor said, taking back his seat, “It's been under a year since we annexed Japan. Their nationalist elements our proud, that much I can admire.”

“I understand.” the commander bowed. He was a tall man, even for a Chinese national. He looked as stretched as well. A hawkish face met the world with the eyes of a inquisitive rat.

He wore the uniform typical of his position. Since the over throw of the communist regime the officers dressed in a limbotic state between PLA and the dynasties before. Rough olive green drab. Contrasting yellow or orange lines cutting down the length of their sleeves to folded back collars, pinned with the serpentine dragon; the long. Likewise on their pants, where there was not a long whipped tail trailing behind them, and the tufted red hilt of a seethed jian. Had he been wearing a helmet, it would have been pointed and crowned with strands of horse hair.

“It may come to it. But if these movements persist we may need to set aside additional land to contain the malcontents until they can be reformed, or simply expire.” the Emperor said, “How goes the current state of the former Fukushima province?”

“It's still considerably irradiated, at least the soil.” Wu said, “I read the details of the last Imperial Engineer Corps travels in the region and the current radiation levels are not promising. Despite the Japanese attempts to stifle the leak of radiation, the wars of the last six years have done little to actually do anything.”

“Then there's little chance we can realize better.” the Emperor grumbled, his voice took a dark tone, “what have they been doing so far to date, since we liquidated their government?”

“Namely using migrant workers to try and contain it. But I can't find any evidence they slowed the leaking from the reactors of the Fukushima plant.”

“Then to save us all we'll need to send to work their own blood to fix the neglect they let run rampant for so long. I will issue an official order later this day, but consider it official now: I'll allocating the resources and giving the resources the Engineer Corp needs to further isolate the Fukushima plant and to move in their new residents. Chain off the entire prefecture if need be. But I want that nuclear wasteland contained and repaired.”

“Certainly, your holiness.” bowed the commander, “I'll convey the order to the rest of the general staff. We'll have the surveys under way when you send the order.”

“That is good.” the Emperor said, dismissing the man. As he left he held him back, “And commander Wu, if it would be possible I want the worst terrorist offenders in the middle of that plant working. Normal subversives on the outer more containment jobs. Their sins will absolve the lot of them in this world, if they survive their sentences.”

“I understand.”