[IC] The American Spring: An Alternate Present RP

[ClocktowerEchos]

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There was a time when Travis O'Hare looked at the sky and wondered what would happen to him, what did God have in store for him assuming he wasn't just abandoned by God. Failing school, falling into a bad crowd, rejected by every place he tried to work at and with no marketable talents or skills, he was set on a dead end trail to failure. Kicked out of his house twice, arrested for various petty crimes, the only life he could have had was one of crime. Even though he remembered he once promised his mama that he would never go into that dark underbelly of crime, there he was looking at gangs to join.

And then the Washington Massacre happened. Everything just went by so fast after that, like a blur on fast forward. Social media blew up, news was back to back coverage on the "end of America" from both the right and the left. Rumors had it that the army had massacre more people in more cities than Travis care to remember. So much fear and uncertainty; Travis found himself forced back into his family after they lost their home and a massive chunk of their savings. And after his dad was shot dead after trying to loot a 7-11 for food to feed his starving family, Travis found himself maturing at a rate he never though possible, tempered by the hardship and poverty in the crucible of chaos. He became the family's head, scavenging for medicine for his sick mother and defending his younger sisters from the less scrupulous individuals that now prowled the streets. Despite it, Travis was sure that he and his family was going to die on the streets with no hope of any other fate.

All of it changed when he came though, Justin Adkins, the Homeless King. With his legion of those America had abandoned from even before the fall, Travis found himself swept up in a cause that resonated with him at a very spiritual level. Where there was despair, there was now hope. Where there was uncertainty, there was now purpose. Where there was nothing left in his life, there was now a future. Offering his family a safe haven and a chance to get what was rightfully their, Travis and his family joined without hesitation. Now, Travis shone, the Legion revealing to him his latent oratory skills and honing his new found maturity into leadership as he participated in battles and raids.

Now, where once he was a gangster-to-be, he was now Lieutenant Travis O'Hare. Clad in his shining crude metal body armor and armed with an proud battered police pump-action shotgun, he lead his own platoon of men and women whose situations had been no different then his own. They were murders and thieves, beggars and squatters, criminals and dishonored ex-police officers, in a past life they would no doubt be at each other's throats but now, they were as close as brothers. Many of these people had been with Travis since his first battle which he recalled vividly. The chaos, the excitement and the noise, it was honestly exhilarating. But the most damning thing was the first time he killed a man, a prison guard who was about to get the jump on one of his comrades. Travis sunk his kitchen knife into the man's collarbone and then into his neck, just like how they did it in the movies. But the movies never told him the sick twisting feeling in his gut or the shock of realization. It was only through the constant support of his new found compatriots and a pair of rousing speeches from the Homeless King which gave him the strength to persevere and continue his path to command.

He was competant at leadership, far more than even he thought he was, able to balance out duty and order with relaxation and breaks. He had earned the trust of those under him and it showed.

"Hey, all of y'all get off your asses." Captain O'Hare walked into the lobby-bar of a brothel that had been set up inside an old tavern. Places like this were all over the place with entrepreneurs setting up whatever kind of shops they wished now that federal laws were no more and the Homeless King had looser rules. The only major thing he had banned was the selling of drugs. People were still allowed to grow them, only that selling or trading it was strictly prohibited. O'Hare walked around as his soldiers stood up, some in various states of undress and relaxation, "We've got orders so put on yo shit and mount up."

"Where we going now boss?" Grant Lynn, an ex-police officer, chirped up as he turned off radio currently playing Lost Boy by Ruth B, "Back to the train yard?"

"Nah, we're goin' far out." the captain pulled out a crinkled map from his jacket pocket and laid it out on a table, "Heard command got wind of some fools hiding out in the suburbs in a rundown preschool. Search and Destroy mission really."

"Well, let's get too it then cap." a muscle bound torso covered in tattoos and scars walked out from a side room, peeling off a scantily clad woman as he donned a biker jacket and found a cracked riot shield and barbed baseball bat, "Burnin' daylight here."

Within a few minutes about two dozen men poured out from the abode and line up outside. After a quick role call, they mounted their transports: a trio of armored pickup trucks with two of them boasting large crossbow-like guns bolted behind the cab. The tattered flag of the Lost Legion flying above some twenty odd poorly equipped, highly motivated soldiers covered in stolen jackets or wearing blankets like capes. Heroes they thought of themselves and heroes they were to many. Captain O'Hare pulled out the smart phone he would have never been able to even see in his old life and saw #LostLegion was still one of the most popular social media along with its sister tags and hashtags, at least amongst the ones used by all of the factions of the second civil war.

If it was one thing that the Lost Legion wasn't short on, it was an online presence. The clarion call of the Lost Legion where the same of that Lady Liberty's, "Give us your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breath free. The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to us for we lift the lamp beside the golden door!" No other faction in America could boast the presence they had; what the Forgotten lack in arms, they made up in enthusiasm in many ways. Hundreds of thousands of people had been displaced by the new civil war, unwilling to take a side. And to those who escaped the grasp of the communists or the federalists, the Lost Legion was there for them as a bell of sanctuary and a beacon of hope. They may have been the forgotten people under the old regime, but under the Lost Legion, their names were told echo through the ages; history remembering them when they would have other wise been lost to the wind.

[Dinh AaronMk]

Michigan

Lansing

September 5th, 2018

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

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

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

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

It was unlikely the federal government was listening.

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

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

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

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

“Coming through!”

“Let me passed!”

“Fuck off!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You're just terrorists.”

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

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

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

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

“So you have us, what now?”

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

“Long live the revolution.”

Illinois

Chicago

Present day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Mao Mao]

𝗟𝗼𝘀 𝗔𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝗖𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗮
𝟬𝟭 𝗝𝗮𝗻𝘂𝗮𝗿𝘆, 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟴

"I am Cameron Wallace with the ABC International News...Chinese and North Korean forces had officially landed on the island of Kyushu. The Japanese Self-Defense Forces held off against the invading forces in the city of Nagasaki before retreating to Fukuoka, the capital province of the island. It is where they will make their stand against the incoming forces. Both China and North Korea had stated in a press conference that they will not use any more nuclear weapons. This comes as a response to the international world condemning the bombing of Busan. The United Nations put sanctions on both China and North Korea. The Australian Army arrived months ago to provide aid against the Korean and Chinese aggression on their ally while defending their homeland from a possible invasion."

"Russia, meanwhile, increased their aggression towards East European countries while the European Union is planning for the future without America. And ISIL recaptured Mosul after Iraqi forces retreated from the ruins of the city due to the lack of air strikes in the area. Intelligence on ISIL have suggested that they are going to take advance of the situation in America to launch attacks of their own. The situation in America has now grown out of control as once the powerful nation has collapsed since the failed naval invasion of Korea. The massacre in Washington D.C. had been the main cause of the Second American Civil War. The remains of the America's military had retreated into the West Coast.

We will talk about the current situation in the South America and how it directly affects international trade after this commercial break."

The advertisement was about accepting refugees from Japan that left their homeland in the wake of Chinese-Korean invasion. Before it was finished talking, someone had changed it to a different radio station that was playing "I Feel It Coming" by Weeknd. People inside the small cafe were grateful that it was not talking about the depressing news. Many people in Los Angeles knew someone that died during the invasion of Korea. It was the main reason why the protesting began in the city.

Nicolas Roth paid for his coffee and started to drink it when he outside. The plaza within downtown Los Angeles was full of people going to their destinations. It seemed too normal for Roth. He knew that beyond the borders of the California Republic was a war zone. New York City gone dark, Washington D.C. burnt to the ground, and other places that either burnt or went dark as well. Of course, there was the opportunity to earn some money and possibly find safe havens. Roth had seen enough destruction and death to realize that he deserved a break.

He walked passed a group of masked protesters shouting about the unfairness of the police force. Los Angeles was still one of the cities that had it's police force with military grade weapons. Of course, the protest was peaceful and Roth went on his way home. He also had seen enough protests and riots that he just wanted things to go back to normal; but, that will never happen. As he kept on walking, he saw his apartment in the heart of the city. It looked like the other buildings that were built in the sixties with the increased in popularity of Los Angeles. Roth crossed the busy street while looking for any incoming car.

Once he got to the stairs of the apartment, he saw a couple teenagers that lived in the same hallway as Roth did. They arrived right after word came that New York City went dark—cutting off any communications with the outside world. Roth wished that he went to New York City and visited the Statue of Liberty. But, he never envisioned the entire Union falling apart including the most populated cities in America. The teenagers headed for the parking lot while Roth entered the apartment. The teenagers' parents soon gave chase and followed to the parking lot, which an argument began between. Something about going out West and beyond Utah to look for their friends.

Roth was not interested in listening to the argument and went to his apartment room. As he searching for his keys to the room, an neighbor walked up to him as the argument intensified. "It is getting worse by the day." the man said in hopes of starting a conversation.

"Indeed." Roth said while digging around his pockets for the keys. "How long has it been since the last argument? Two weeks?"

"More like six days." the neighbor corrected Roth.

"Well, let's hope that-" Roth tried to finish, but one of teens began to shout at their father. Now that there was the possibility of a fight, Roth raced towards the parking lot as a crowd began to form on the sidewalk. He saw four teenagers and their parents in the parking lot near one of the teen's van. They were ready to leave for the East and their parents wanted to stop them. One of the teens' parents turned towards Roth and coldly stated, "What are you doing here?"

"I am just trying to end this argument for good." Roth responded and added, "Or do you want to deal with the police this time around?"

The man stepped aside with his arms crossed while Roth walked towards the teenagers. One of the teens rolled his eyes while another spoke towards Roth in a grating tone with his Boston accent noticeable, "Great. The pig is here to boss us around just like his pals."

"James!" the teen's mom pleaded for her son to stop, but he avoided her mother's request and approached Roth. Since the Washington Massacre, relations between police and the people were beyond repairing and both sides hated each other. Roth had been used to being called 'pig,' 'the donut patrol,' and other derogatory terms for police officers. He was not affected by the name calling and the intimidation that the teen was trying his best to do; but, it needed some work.

"You are wasting your time here. Go back to your room, eat some donuts, and choke on them." he had hoped for some sort of reaction from Roth but he just stood there and silently accepted the insults.

"Look at this fellow. A piece of bacon that just keeps his mouth shut." he stated while grabbing his phone to record the police officer. "Look at this fat ass motherfucker, trying to act like he's the man. Well, we are about to leave this hell hole."

Roth finally spoke up to the teenager, "I won't leave this place if I were you."

James gave the officer a disgusting look while he aimed his phone at him. He then began to give a speech, "Look at this motherfucker. Trying to make me stay at this paradise for the fucking pigs because they can dress up as troops and force us to obey their every word. However, everyone is getting tired of their abuse. We are all tired of this bullshit made by the government, who got us into this mess in the first place."

Then, two police cars arrived at the street and parked across street from the parking lot. The officers raced over towards the people and began to establish order. Two of the officers kept an eye on the massive crowd while the other two went to the teenagers. James looked at the police and started to laugh while recording them, "I guess that the pigs have reunited at once. I don't even get why they are here. Me and my friends just wanted to get out of this city."

One of the police officers spoke to the teenager, "If you run away from this city, your safety will be-."

"At risk. Bah Bah. I already know that shit and I don't fucking care if I do die. It's better than being in this piece of shit city." James interrupted the officer and walked away from the officers. The officer tried to get James to come back, but he refused to listen anymore and began to head from the van. Roth began to walk towards James, trying to reason with him. The other teenagers walked upon Roth and stopped him from moving while pointing their phones at the officers.

"You cannot talk to him anymore, you fascist pig." a girl, no more than sixteen, said at Roth and then spat at the officer while the others laughed. The nearby police officer walked towards the girl and told her that she was being changed with spitting at someone. The teenagers stopped laughing once the officer grabbed the girl's arm to cuff her. She refused and cried out to others that she was being 'assaulted.' The teenagers began to surround the officer and they were ready to push the officer to the ground; however, the other officers rushed over to prevent the teens from saving their friend.

Her resistance towards the officers was what caused her to land face first on the asphalt. The teen's mother cried out that she was doing nothing while rushing towards her aid. One of the officers stopped her and asked her husband to control her. The crowd started to curse out the officers and demanding that they stop hurting her while she was on the ground. Thankfully, more officers arrived at the scene and entered the parking lot with their patrol cars. They existed out of their cars and walked over towards the growing crowd to calm them down from doing something stupid.

"Help me!" the girl shouted to her friends while she was being cuffed on the ground. One of the officers placed his knee on the girl's back and grabbed the other arm to arrest her. Roth watched in the background as the girl was lifted off of the ground and dragged to the nearby patrol car. He had hoped that things were peaceful enough that someone was not arrested. Then, the girl's parents rushed towards the patrol and asking why she was being arrested.

James looked at Roth and rushed towards while blaming him for everyone. He tried to punch him in the face, but that failed when Roth dodged the attack. James tried to run away, but Roth grabbed his long hair and pulled it. The pull caused James to fall face first to the ground and two more officers came to Roth's aid. His parents yelled out and his father cursed out Roth for ruining his son. His patience was running low as Roth breathed in and out while another officer forced the father to get away from Roth. After James had been cuffed, he was placed in another patrol car while the two remaining teens recorded the whole things.

"Are you alright, sir?" one of the officers asked him.

"Yeah, I have been through worse before." Roth was referring to the protests and riots after the Washington Massacre and the failed invasion of Korea. He watched as the teens' parents began talking to police officers while the crowd had begun to leave once the situation was under control. After the patrol cars left with the two teens, everyone began to return to their homes. James and the girl's parents looked at Roth with disgust as they walked passed him. He did not mind the looks and went inside his own apartment. Inside the closet, his police uniform was there.

Tomorrow was the day that Roth would finally go back to work with the Los Angeles Police Force after he was wounded during the LA Riots of 2017. It was good to be away from his neighbors, who mostly hated him because he was a cop. And now with the arrest of two well-known teenagers, it would not be a surprise to learn that everyone hated him now. He closed the closet and locked the apartment doors and turned on the television. It was on CNN, talking about the current situation Europe and how it is affecting the world economy.

[NecroKnight]

January 1, 2018

New Texas Republic, Handy Jim' Barbershop

Richard Buchard, watched the local television - hanging from the ceiling of the modest barbershop. Currently getting a shave, from the old barber. He had visited this place for forty years now - ever since his own father, took him to get a haircut when he was barely twelve years old. The old barber, called Handy Jim or rather Handy Old Jim nowadays, he had been working here for the past forty years - despite his old age, his hands were still as steady as the first day he had gotten a haircut. While much had changed, President Buchard always had a knack for loving the common things in life. Not all old things, should be thrown away for shiny, untested ones - plus, it was hard to find a decent barber - who wasn't a freshman or simply doing it without any prior experience.

"All don' ye'sir," replied Old Jim, finishing up and handing Richard Buchard a wet towel to clean off his face.

"Most thanks. I had needed that, for some time now," replied Buchard, standing up and adjusting his suit. He had been too busy, keeping Texas alive - that he had neglected the basic hygiene procedures. But now he had time, in the first time since the Washington Riot - to get a clean shave. He paid the barber, more than was needed - but it was customary now, for anybody to help everyone. A decent job kept one going, better than any social program. "Take care of yourself, and see you next month."

---

New Texas Republic, Interrogation Room C9

President Buchard didn't flinch, when the first strike was delivered. An hour after his visit to the barber, he was back in business. Namely having the host of 'Free American Radio' - currently being interrogated by Operatives from Task Force Gamma. When America had collapsed into civil war - many soldiers in the various military bases in Texas were suddenly stranded and without a command structure to give them orders. Most of them had taken, what they were allowed and headed out into the other States to search for their families. The rest chose to stay - either having family here or no-where else to go. The average ones were folded into the New Texas Army - while the elite soldiers were moved into Task Force Gamma; namely meant to deal with the more 'subversive', 'communistic' and 'domestic terrorist' elements.

A second punch soon hit the 'anarchist' in the gut, as Buchard soon contacted them via comm. "That is enough for now. Please leave the room," he spoke - the masked SpecOps soldier, soon leaving the room. Leaving Michael Faraday, host of Free American Radio, with a busted face, a bloody lip and a broken jaw - in the barely lit room. "I am not going to ask you again - tell me the names of your conspirators and your socialist leaders."

The man in question, was in his late 20s - a college drop-out, whom like many other young people had taken to the social media sites and 'fought' against the Government. When the collapse happened - well, many suddenly went into shock. It was always easy to complian about a system, when it worked and you were living in it. Many of his friends liked to comment on the corrupt system, it's archaic laws and bigoted nature. Their tones changed - when the basic element of food, shelther and security had been threatened. Many of the 'rebels' had turned around completely in their beliefs - many of them, whom once had called their 'parents' old-fashioned and short-sighted had returned and submitted completely to the 'Old Ways'.

Nobody questioned or argued against the ideal - that the leftist ideals were cancerous, that the many 'civil right groups' had been domestic terror groups. They were afraid - namely on one hand, most of the more vocal and direct protest movements, during the first weeks after the 'Washington Riots' had disappeared and had been broken up. People dressed in black military uniforms, without any identification tags had rounded up many of the leadership and the vocal ones. No trial, no mention, no reason - just taken and gone. The other reason was - the outside was even worse. The local news was speaking on how, some parts of America had descended to gang rule, some lacked basic water - some unknown part had even a reactor leak and was a radiated zone.

He had been the 'ideal' type - he couldn't just keep quiet and continued demonizing the New Texas Republic, as anti-American - via his jacked-up dish and makeshift radio. He had gotten a visit, by some men in black uniforms, wearing sunglasses - handing him an order of 'cease and desist' signed by the local Judge. Several of his friends had distanced himself from him - unwilling to associate with him. One had even accused him of being a 'communist symphatizers' who wanted to destroy her way of life. He had pushed on, sure of his ideas - until one night, his house was raided. He had been bound, drugged and dragged away - having awoken to getting a beating from a grunt in a black uniform.

Buchard humped at the man' silence - speaking again into the intercom. "Let me remind you this. You are not entitled to anything - no legal protection, no civil rights, no political protection. If you choose to work against the State, that has provided you shelther and security - then your an enemy of state and any of your Citizen' Rights are forfeit. Your kind can no longer hide behind the law. Cause it doesn't exist for your type. Now then, can we talk like civilized people? Or would you prefer the label 'domestic terrorist'?"

[Dinh AaronMk]

Michigan

Somewhere South of Saint Joseph

John Lennon sang the lyrics to Imagine as a line of trucks thundered along a snowy highway. A light snowfall was coming down across the Michigan landscape, and even though they were on an open highway the long trailing convoy moved at a steady thirty-five through accumulating snow. With the heat of exhaust and the pulverization of tires much if it was turning to slush, but it was only a narrow half of the south-west bound lane of I-94. Traffic along the highway had slowly died off as they got off and turned away from Saint Joseph. But since the beginning of the breakdown of the country traffic in general had steadily slowed.

The steadily falling demand for it and the rising expense of it had too affected the course of road utility work. Snow plows were vacant from the road. The interstate would be nigh impassable for the convoy then if it wasn't for the equipment up front. Far ahead of the main spread-out body of automobiles commandeered trucks swept aside the snow as they lead the vanguard towards Indiana. Light chatter on the radio reported regularly in on the vehicles progress as they cleared the way south.

Staring out through the windows of an old and repurposed police cruiser a car full of men with their assault rifles laying across their laps looked out at the winter landscape. The trees on either side stood barren and gray, their branches coated in fresh fallen snow. At odd moments one would look up, thinking he could see the dull gun-metal gray shine of Lake Michigan beyond the tree line and hills.

“Do we know what we're doing?” the driver said over John Lennon.

His compatriots turned and looked over at with silent glares.

“I take it then that's my invitation for some exposition.” he said with a forced smile. He momentarily glanced to his side and behind to his companions. The driver wore a pair of black sunglasses in front of normal glasses to guard against the light reflected by the snow. Wild dark-colored hair hung down from under a rolled up balaclava and the collar of a heavy dark colored winter coat was popped and tucked tight around his neck, his bearded chin resting over it.

“We need to relieve Chicago.” he began, “But to do that we need to hit Michigan City and South Bend, both towns are quarters for divisions of the regular army rolled in to back up the state militia to try and restore some order. White House's orders, no doubt. We're going to punch a hole in and through Gary to take the Federals in from behind. The general Michigan Militia will handle South Bend.”

“I think Amir asked if we were expecting anything from Ohio way. Is that true?”

“It's always likely. But that is being watched. But it's more likely at the moment that Chicago will be a higher priority than Detroit. But we're juggling a few things at the moment. I wouldn't be surprised if Bat'ko sends us a request for help out east.”

“Will we be dropping this then in that case?”

The driver shrugged. “Mmmaybe.” he said indifferently, “I want to see how it's going to pan out when we get there.

“I want to see if we can scare them up at the border line and how fidgety they are first.”

“Then do you think they don't know what's going on?” he was asked with a laugh.

“Fuck, I don't think anyone knows what's up.” the driver grinned, “I heard they've flown a few planes over Chicago acting like they're going to drop a bomb but then had second thoughts and turned around. I'm willing to bet they don't know if they're actually hitting civilians or not.”

“I don't imagine we'll have an issue with planes if that's the case.”

“Maybe not. But if we start shooting and turning captured guns on them then it's very likely they'll figure it out.”

“Isn't there an airbase at South Bend? If we're going to worry about airstrikes then we should hold off and coordinate with the others. That way they need to pick and choose between us.”

“I was thinking just that.” the Driver said.

“So we're seeing how jumpy they're going to be, and waiting for action to heat up in South Bend? Boss, do you have idea what's going on?”

“As I said, I don't think anyone knows what's going on.” the driver said with a defeated sigh.

Illinois

Chicago

From the top floor of an empty office building a dull glow could be seen in the distance. Something had hit something, that's all that could be gained from it. But even in the overcast snowy afternoon the black smoke that rose up over the horizon was clear and orange as distant and faded as it was. Standing with his arms cross behind his back a hooded man stood erect as he looked out that way.

A man entered through the door behind him.

“He tried.” the newcomer announced, breaking the silent din.

The hooded man turned. His face was hidden behind a skimask, his frame buried under a heavy green nylon winter coat. It was cold in the skyscraper, the AC had been turned off when the bankers and the like fled town; But everything else worked. He nodded to him.

Behind the mask his face was painted over with a heavy application of mascara, which hid the color of his skin and of his race. All that remained were a pair of sharp green eyes. “I didn't suppose he would.” he said in a heavy, yet soft voice, “But it needed to be said. We'll need to try again when they settle in out of harm's way.”

“Until then, how many months of cold and fuel oil rationing? Two, three? The rest of winter?” the other man said. Unlike his commander he went without a mask. He was a heavy set figure with a well defined frame. His cheek bones looked particularly prominent, and it squared away his face.

Bat'ko 2 shrugged. “We do what we need to do.”

Stepping by his side the new man joined up to look out the window. “I heard a artillery shell hit a warehouse at the edge of town.” he remarked with a wistful and distant voice, “It was full of chemicals and stuff, I don't know exactly what. But between the explosion and leaking containers something lit up and the fire's been burning for some four hours now.”

“I noticed. Whose stopping it?” Bat'ko asked.

“No one right now.” the other man said, “There is no one to try to stop it. At least none that can get there. They've settled themselves to try and contain the fire and let it burn itself out. They reckon it might go for a while.”

The two stood in silence as they watched the distant fires burn on. After awhile the other spoke, “Word on the Dark Horse came through.” he said, “Someone managed to call when he got to Kalamazoo.”

“What's he doing?” Bat'ko asked.

“I don't know, he was vague on the subject I hear. If anything I would say he doesn't have much of a plan and is making it up as he was going along. But he had stopped to let his men have a bite to eat.

“The Michigan militia was much more clear about their plans. General Parsaksi is pretty clear on hitting South Bend. He want to raid the military depots there and hopefully break the army's communication systems.”

“He'll need to do more than that to do it.”

“Well, way he put it he's breaking off links until he's certain their deaf and blind.”