Wonderful
[GM: Nightrunner | AGM: __]
[Genre: Fandom, Superhuman | Type: Linear]
Act_One______
In the last Native American reservation on the face of the planet, the local tribe was greeted by the shadow of a roaring gargantuan bird diving over them, landing on a small patch of rocky heath beside their settlement. Its glorious shine blinded many of the locals for a moment as it slowed down, trotting through the uncultivated land. It's growl was dampened to a whimper before sudden silence overcame it. Perhaps it had died? No, this was no beast. The vast majority of the people knew this for what it really was, the work of the white man.
Stepping out of an opening on the side of its belly was a young man, but healthy and strong, decorated in metal bits over dark blue fabrics, and he was chattering with a black stone in his hand. His name was Terry Sloan. Behind him, another man came out, this one had a hunchback and an odd Aboriginal mask. Terry completely disregarded the man, intent on listening to his phone.
"Sloan, I can't say I'm too excited to about this. But, you do have the grounds to perform this exercise," Amar admitted on the other end of the line, wrinkling the corner of his lip with muted frustration.
"Good talk, Amar. Be seeing you soon," he snarked, ending the call abruptly. With that out of the way, he looked behind his shoulder and nodded at his company. When they were both on the ground, a wall of silent, colorfully dressed people surrounded them. Their chief, or at least an ambassador for the people stepped forward.
"We've already told you, you have no right to this land! You and the people before you are not welcome here. Leave us, at once!"
Sloan stuffed his hands in his pockets, dropped his head to the ground, and tapped his foot, chuckling and grinning quietly. "I beg to differ. Personally, I think the term 'World Government' is pretty self explanatory. By definition, your people are within our borders, or you will not be at all. You don't need to give a response; all you need to know is that we will not back down ."
The people were silent, so Sloan casually stuck up his thumb, giving the go-ahead to his accompanying man.
The masked man collapsed to the groin, as still as a stone could ever hope to be. But the tribesman began unprovokedly striking one another. One at a time, several of them struck their friends, family, and even mates out of the blue. Madness, chaotic panic spread like pollen in the wind. The entire tribe was forcibly involved, their own members puppetted like expert fighters and running like greyhounds. The thundering of rifles, screams of children, and panting of exhaustion rang through the settlement like a concert hall.
A few minutes in, Sloan had left, flown away in the jumbo jet. But several ground teams of black ops World Army soldiers fed the fury, scattering weapons about and spreading conflict. The Civil War of the Iroquois Federation had begun.
