TheEvanCat

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

Alright, all set up in the characters tab.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

Terry Yanzi

Terry Yanzi

Age: 30

Species: Human

Physical Appearance: Terry is an unassuming figure aside from his taller-than-average height. While he is physically fit and carries himself with a confidence and posture that may betray his background to a careful observer, he is otherwise remarkably average, but not unattractive; there is no good way to tell him from a distance in a crowd. Ethnically Asian with a light complexion, he wears black hair that is often groomed stylishly. His dark brown eyes and young face are completely at odds with a stereotypical career military man’s rigid features and seriousness. His civilian clothes change routinely but are often utilitarian, drab, and durable, suited for his work. He occasionally wears body armor underneath a concealing jacket.

Skills: Terry’s skills fall mostly in the networking and influencing realm. While adept at combat fundamentals including blasters, blades, and martial arts, he prefers to train and influence organizations and networks to conduct asymmetrical attacks against his opponents. His swath of experience with criminal, terrorist, and insurgent actors has given him the wisdom of a man many years his senior. He maintains connections with senior military, police, criminal, and rebel organizations across the sector and often “knows a guy” for specific roles and jobs.

Weaknesses: Terry operates independently of other assets in the area, often alone and with only “allies” he can barely trust. This had led to a deep distrust of others outside of his former tight-knit group of soldiers, and a strictly transactional attitude to relationships. He can be difficult to work with, we he often works double-deals and alternate courses of action. Nobody even knows if his name or stories about his past are truthful. For Terry, this has led to a sense of mild paranoia and difficulty to return to social life, along with a buried anxiety about his former life that he had left behind. He drinks routinely and has started to abuse drugs, on a few occasions dangerously for his overall health. These fears may lead to missed opportunities or mistakes made in the field, especially as stress and tensions mount.

Character History: Terry Yanzi was born on Coruscant during a period of peace for the Galactic Republic. As a child, he grew up to a stable family with a handful of siblings and attended the Republic’s public schools on the planet. Getting mostly high average grades in school, he enjoyed playing outside with his friends amongst the urban city structure of the galactic capital. At 14, he had climbed the tallest building in his city sector with a group of friends; the trip had taken them four days to climb up and down the kilometers-tall structure, often having to hide from the droid security guards that roamed the property looking for trespassers. Terry attended university upon his graduation, and became yet another economics and sociology graduate ready for the job market.

His search for jobs was short-lived, however, when he was approached by a shipping company at a career fair held shortly after graduation. Terry, who had always tried to adventure around the planet, had not been out of the system yet and agreed to take a contract on a freighter hauling goods to the Outer Rim and back. While the contract was initially short, Terry signed on for another two years after his commitment was up. By then, he had risen to the rank of a senior officer onboard a respectable freighter. This success was short lived, however, when the Techno Union bought out his company and kept their contracted time: Terry’s freighter was folded into the Techno Union’s larger fleet and he was subsequently reassigned as a lower-ranking crewman.

With agency out of his hands, Terry continued to enjoy his travels across the galaxy. He entertained himself by reading foreign texts, exploring alien cultures, and learning languages not native to Basic. But while his contract was ticking down months and weeks, a galactic crisis was brewing: after conflicts on Naboo involving the Trade Federation and the Jedi-backed Republic, the Techno Union announced its secession alongside other members of the new Confederacy of Independent Systems. Preparations were made in secret for war, as Terry found himself carrying new cargo shipments from a strange planet: battle droids ferried to secret arsenals from the desert world of Geonosis. It was there where he would have his first taste of combat at age 25.

As Republic forces descended upon the planet in the largest invasion the galaxy had seen in centuries, Terry was ordered to crew one of the freighter’s shuttles to transport battle droids to and from combat zones across the fight. The gunships, a far cry from the specialized droid variants, consisted of shoddily fabricated droid racks retrofitted to the cargo bay and blaster turrets hastily welded to the fuselage. He fought as a door gunner to clear landing zones of clone troopers before the battle droids could be deployed. While heavily damaged, Terry’s shuttle returned to the freighter as Republic forces overwhelmed CIS defenders on the planet. His ship fled with the rest of the Techno Union forces.

At some point during the hyperspace jump, Terry’s freighter was crippled by previously unnoticed battle damage taken during the escape. As they descended onto a world in the Outer Rim, it became clear that the freighter was no longer going to fly. A decision was made to crash-land it softly into the deserts of Aargonar. The freighter became a key component of the CIS base to be created there, until its payload of battle droids were taken leaving it useless to the war effort. Despite its proximity to the base, the freighter became a hub for a refugee camp and shanty city populated by Geonosian refugees. Assigned to personnel and logistical management for a refugee camp, Terry was eager to get back to the fighting. He applied for a transfer to the ground forces of the CIS, with an option to attend Confederacy commando training.

Despite their reliance on battle droids, the CIS utilized organic soldiers in special roles across the galaxy. Upon learning that they had an educated and seasoned veteran from Geonosis arriving for commando training, the CIS military fast-tracked Terry to selection and qualification. For the next year, Terry endured grueling training in military operations, espionage, combat, and asymmetrical warfare. He emerged as a pioneer in the CIS commando force, with a fake identity and new set of skills. His first assignment would be his only during the war: he was to be secretly trafficked to Coruscant and inserted amongst the undercity’s web of gangs and terrorists along with a team of fellow rebels. Their objective was simple, too, with only guidance to form insurgent and rebel forces to assist in the inevitable invasion of the planet.

So Terry was inserted across the planet from his home sector, and over the years established himself as a reliably asset for the Confederacy. His persuasive demeanor and ability to use established cultural connections enabled him to network groups of criminals and insurgents into cells to self-sustain an operation. Ambushes on police and clone forces were carried out using his military training, manned by Coruscant’s disaffected and disgruntled, and funded by illicit drug dealing and blaster running. His organizations became so effective, Republic intelligence was no longer looking for an economics graduate in his late 20s but instead a seasoned mob boss and terrorist kingpin.

The Battle of Coruscant activated Terry and his team’s networks of insurgents, providing distractions to the Coruscant defense forces while, above, the Sith performed their true mission. Days of fighting ensued, with Terry often becoming personally involved in sabotage and ambushes before slinking into the shadows. Yet not all was as it seemed: the battle had decimated the Separatist fleet and left Terry without the intelligence, military, and financial support he had used to prop up an insurgency on the planet. As the days and weeks passed and the Republic closed in on General Grievous on foreign worlds, Terry now realized that he was on the verge of defeat. Despite his work, he was left high and dry by the rapidly-deteriorating military capabilities of the CIS. Terry once again took to the underworld, turning himself into a warlord instead of a CIS operative. His motives turned to self-preservation rather than mission.

Order 66 was suddenly executed across the galaxy, with no prior warning to the former Separatist commando. The Jedi Temple, once a bastion of Republic glory, was in flames. Terry watched in terrified confusion as the Republic tore itself apart, slaughtering Jedi and their supporters in the temple and the streets. With the clone troopers rapidly filling the planetary city acting as despotic police and occupiers, Terry once again realized his fight with the Republic – now dubbed the Galactic Empire by the new Emperor Palpatine – would need to continue. This time, his former enemies would become his allies.

In the aftermath of Order 66, Terry Yanzi will need to reconcile his past with the present, as he must reach out to the Jedi to become an uneasy ally amidst the chaos of the new Empire.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

@TheEvanCat two minor issues with your sheet.

The first is the Techno Union "remained neutral" or atleast publicly retained their neutrality and denounced Wat Tambor as a traitor, much like how the Trade Federation treated Nute Gunray. Why? The simple answer is money. They continued to produce goods for both sides.

The second is we're just after Order 66, so Palpatine hasn't quite declared his new order yet.

@Sep

Huh, I just picked them because they're like the only shmucks from episode 2 that I remember with that goofy green dude. Wasn't there a whole battlefront mission where you had to blow up their transport ships too? Either way, even if they're pretend "neutral" I guess Terry would still be hanging out at Geonosis because the mission wouldn't have changed.

I pretty much only know them and the Trade Federation because they were those racist Asian stereotype aliens from episode 1 lol.

As for the second one, yeah, that's kind of just a primer for the situation, so it's not necessarily strictly linear if that makes sense. I think at least in the movie Palpatine did his thing within a few hours or whatever, right? Same night or so.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

@TheEvanCat Oh boy am I never going to top that! Unless I don't sleep tonight I'm researching Jedi stuff, planets, minerals and Trandoshan society...

@Blackmist16

The trick is to not go super in depth, I just wrote a dude with a basic background of Star Wars. I've only seen the movies and googled for some of the lore stuff that weren't in them. Often you can just explore the details later, with just a baseline up front.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

Terry Yanzi

Terry Yanzi

Age: 30

Species: Human

Physical Appearance: Terry is an unassuming figure aside from his taller-than-average height. While he is physically fit and carries himself with a confidence and posture that may betray his background to a careful observer, he is otherwise remarkably average, but not unattractive; there is no good way to tell him from a distance in a crowd. Ethnically Asian with a light complexion, he wears black hair that is often groomed stylishly. His dark brown eyes and young face are completely at odds with a stereotypical career military man’s rigid features and seriousness. His civilian clothes change routinely but are often utilitarian, drab, and durable, suited for his work. He occasionally wears body armor underneath a concealing jacket.

Skills: Terry’s skills fall mostly in the networking and influencing realm. While adept at combat fundamentals including blasters, blades, and martial arts, he prefers to train and influence organizations and networks to conduct asymmetrical attacks against his opponents. His swath of experience with criminal, terrorist, and insurgent actors has given him the wisdom of a man many years his senior. He maintains connections with senior military, police, criminal, and rebel organizations across the sector and often “knows a guy” for specific roles and jobs.

Weaknesses: Terry operates independently of other assets in the area, often alone and with only “allies” he can barely trust. This had led to a deep distrust of others outside of his former tight-knit group of soldiers, and a strictly transactional attitude to relationships. He can be difficult to work with, we he often works double-deals and alternate courses of action. Nobody even knows if his name or stories about his past are truthful. For Terry, this has led to a sense of mild paranoia and difficulty to return to social life, along with a buried anxiety about his former life that he had left behind. He drinks routinely and has started to abuse drugs, on a few occasions dangerously for his overall health. These fears may lead to missed opportunities or mistakes made in the field, especially as stress and tensions mount.

Character History: Terry Yanzi was born on Coruscant during a period of peace for the Galactic Republic. As a child, he grew up to a stable family with a handful of siblings and attended the Republic’s public schools on the planet. Getting mostly high average grades in school, he enjoyed playing outside with his friends amongst the urban city structure of the galactic capital. At 14, he had climbed the tallest building in his city sector with a group of friends; the trip had taken them four days to climb up and down the kilometers-tall structure, often having to hide from the droid security guards that roamed the property looking for trespassers. Terry attended university upon his graduation, and became yet another economics and sociology graduate ready for the job market.

His search for jobs was short-lived, however, when he was approached by a shipping company at a career fair held shortly after graduation. Terry, who had always tried to adventure around the planet, had not been out of the system yet and agreed to take a contract on a freighter hauling goods to the Outer Rim and back. While the contract was initially short, Terry signed on for another two years after his commitment was up. By then, he had risen to the rank of a senior officer onboard a respectable freighter. This success was short lived, however, when the Techno Union bought out his company and kept their contracted time: Terry’s freighter was folded into the Techno Union’s larger fleet and he was subsequently reassigned as a lower-ranking crewman.

With agency out of his hands, Terry continued to enjoy his travels across the galaxy. He entertained himself by reading foreign texts, exploring alien cultures, and learning languages not native to Basic. But while his contract was ticking down months and weeks, a galactic crisis was brewing: after conflicts on Naboo involving the Trade Federation and the Jedi-backed Republic, the Techno Union announced its secession alongside other members of the new Confederacy of Independent Systems. Preparations were made in secret for war, as Terry found himself carrying new cargo shipments from a strange planet: battle droids ferried to secret arsenals from the desert world of Geonosis. It was there where he would have his first taste of combat at age 25.

As Republic forces descended upon the planet in the largest invasion the galaxy had seen in centuries, Terry was ordered to crew one of the freighter’s shuttles to transport battle droids to and from combat zones across the fight. The gunships, a far cry from the specialized droid variants, consisted of shoddily fabricated droid racks retrofitted to the cargo bay and blaster turrets hastily welded to the fuselage. He fought as a door gunner to clear landing zones of clone troopers before the battle droids could be deployed. While heavily damaged, Terry’s shuttle returned to the freighter as Republic forces overwhelmed CIS defenders on the planet. His ship fled with the rest of the Techno Union forces.

At some point during the hyperspace jump, Terry’s freighter was crippled by previously unnoticed battle damage taken during the escape. As they descended onto a world in the Outer Rim, it became clear that the freighter was no longer going to fly. A decision was made to crash-land it softly into the deserts of Aargonar. The freighter became a key component of the CIS base to be created there, until its payload of battle droids were taken leaving it useless to the war effort. Despite its proximity to the base, the freighter became a hub for a refugee camp and shanty city populated by Geonosian refugees. Assigned to personnel and logistical management for a refugee camp, Terry was eager to get back to the fighting. He applied for a transfer to the ground forces of the CIS, with an option to attend Confederacy commando training.

Despite their reliance on battle droids, the CIS utilized organic soldiers in special roles across the galaxy. Upon learning that they had an educated and seasoned veteran from Geonosis arriving for commando training, the CIS military fast-tracked Terry to selection and qualification. For the next year, Terry endured grueling training in military operations, espionage, combat, and asymmetrical warfare. He emerged as a pioneer in the CIS commando force, with a fake identity and new set of skills. His first assignment would be his only during the war: he was to be secretly trafficked to Coruscant and inserted amongst the undercity’s web of gangs and terrorists along with a team of fellow rebels. Their objective was simple, too, with only guidance to form insurgent and rebel forces to assist in the inevitable invasion of the planet.

So Terry was inserted across the planet from his home sector, and over the years established himself as a reliably asset for the Confederacy. His persuasive demeanor and ability to use established cultural connections enabled him to network groups of criminals and insurgents into cells to self-sustain an operation. Ambushes on police and clone forces were carried out using his military training, manned by Coruscant’s disaffected and disgruntled, and funded by illicit drug dealing and blaster running. His organizations became so effective, Republic intelligence was no longer looking for an economics graduate in his late 20s but instead a seasoned mob boss and terrorist kingpin.

The Battle of Coruscant activated Terry and his team’s networks of insurgents, providing distractions to the Coruscant defense forces while, above, the Sith performed their true mission. Days of fighting ensued, with Terry often becoming personally involved in sabotage and ambushes before slinking into the shadows. Yet not all was as it seemed: the battle had decimated the Separatist fleet and left Terry without the intelligence, military, and financial support he had used to prop up an insurgency on the planet. As the days and weeks passed and the Republic closed in on General Grievous on foreign worlds, Terry now realized that he was on the verge of defeat. Despite his work, he was left high and dry by the rapidly-deteriorating military capabilities of the CIS. Terry once again took to the underworld, turning himself into a warlord instead of a CIS operative. His motives turned to self-preservation rather than mission.

Order 66 was suddenly executed across the galaxy, with no prior warning to the former Separatist commando. The Jedi Temple, once a bastion of Republic glory, was in flames. Terry watched in terrified confusion as the Republic tore itself apart, slaughtering Jedi and their supporters in the temple and the streets. With the clone troopers rapidly filling the planetary city acting as despotic police and occupiers, Terry once again realized his fight with the Republic – now dubbed the Galactic Empire by the new Emperor Palpatine – would need to continue. This time, his former enemies would become his allies.

In the aftermath of Order 66, Terry Yanzi will need to reconcile his past with the present, as he must reach out to the Jedi to become an uneasy ally amidst the chaos of the new Empire.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

yam ur cool dont come to the youngling class tomorrow

Star Wars - Jedi Exile

Alright I'm down. Send it.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

For all those saying you can't post, just get an AI to do it for you:

---

The door of the grey sedan parked next to the table as tigran quietly inspected one of the more worrying development in politics was the current president 's attempts to inhibit as many of assanian 's administration. He had been allowed brushed on his chest and the armenian people that the armenian state instead and a student 's a lot of it appearing as he was unable to make it look like he was combing over while worrying about balding. " the director took off to rejoin their platoon " tigran scowled.

Sevan mafiya gave themselves a hit of meth when it was time to go looking back up at the runner tomorrow with the files. Monarchies became too many. Violently seeing anything happened on their side passenger: seven thirty meters in his section found himself as he checked his hand was still raining at least for their next morning. Assanian stood still in hrazdan sorting his money through their revolver. In a horizontal spray pattern from lingorian 's casket his cigarette burning crookedly " i fucking ambushed the police vehicle to make batirashvili ballots out from underneath the border. "

junior policeman came through her window to take pictures for later. Whatever information network that they would adopt until krikor turned on its proximity pistol. Bullets tore his cigarette while assanian led primarily into cover. Guns impacted straight out: perhaps someday as the rest for the funeral and the armenian church.

Economic was just like usual fire as yaglian himself before we do: he felt bad. Unconcerned police hoped more insight on one after looking out in front to do: hasmik and had only two truck to take it back into their way they found an idiot for now.

david nodded " what we're excited a military reserves for sure communities had not worried papers was their uniforms mandated every student wear "

absolutely the next supply chain in their respective eyes that had gone by vadratian. Casinos covered with memos specifically had spent shells for apparent officials.

It and other cities that there really his eyes had no stranger through into fists: tigran stood firmly as tigran nodded onto an accident for gor will have no response. Assanian at attention in from an internal mountains and delicately compartmentalized anything was one hand.

His section just nodded to the city and other utility about to his duty was an all through some last rites on them: " alex shook a single dram. " Oppression was no reply for … and what we're glad a line with several leaders had not worried papers pushing risks. Others tried to stop it was time for the next hour or something like he did for the funeral.

As assanian stood still respected the ground through this back was in some big place that blew mostly. This platoon came open and its entirety the country went in armenia became his other fallen. After looking out in front to do: a little to their respective black suits bearing down onto abovyan. With these augmented attack assembled through yet he was going on the street to retrieve a second round. " we're delivering a deep operation: reinforcements were being called in from neighboring towns. " we get all there with them with another mafiya with several troops.

With several harsh measures against foreign countries by armenian military officers he didn't notice another armenian soldier who happened to be a quick damage. This man who are fucking retards before sitting back behind cover. " i understand they could do another fire in yerkatgtsi "

Their positions had already still injured anything nestled on that government. Assanian pulled fireworks in his office to take out landmines. There drunk: private leon with its plot leader gave her children into their uniforms clambering through georgia.

Back at their rooms the armenian government was a late breakfast from north armenia. Although efforts who still injured about putting back the same gutter their way was another multitude of assanian. " i guarantee they want coffee "

Maneuver to gaznian 's face and flicked his eyeball: " if you'll tried out violently in this damn ashtray the other side was over "

Leeway was no reply for it. Under it and other cities that there really his eyes had only recently shared care and had seen mistakes. " remember " a rifle asked his lips.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Mexico City, Distrito Federal
June 1955

Traffic in downtown Mexico City had been horrendous for years now, with thousands of automobiles in ruthlessly gridlocked traffic every day. One could look outside of their window and see old men hobbling on crutches and walkers faster than their shiny new car. For those who liked to brag of their speed and acceleration on the winding roads outside of the urban center, driving in the city was a humbling experience. The government had promised to reduce traffic by building a modern new subway system, but that was still in the throes of its planning stages and had yet to break ground underneath the increasingly dense streets. The honking and fumes of traffic were even enough to break the tranquility that the gardens of Los Pinos afforded the Mexican president. Annoyed, President Raul Álvarez closed his window and returned to his files.

Always working, he thought to himself as he leafed through page after page of briefing and analysis. It was a Sunday, after all. He just wanted to drink some whiskey after a long and uneventful Mass earlier that morning and deal with his problems tomorrow when the government was open for business. It was always the same. Laws debated in Congress and their progress, issues being handled by the state governors like obnoxious labor unions demanding something or the other, or the daily military and intelligence briefings that boiled down to nothing important. Yet his aides were insistent on delivering the briefings every day, and he felt he owed it to the government to at least pretend to be interested in them. It was his job, after all.

He tossed the papers onto the glass-pane coffee table that he would use when he wanted to sit on his leather couch instead of the office chair. Álvarez sighed, kicking his bare feet up to the wooden edge of the table. It was something he would never want to let the aides see, but it was his residence and it was a Sunday afternoon. The President briefly considered getting something from the kitchen, then paused… he was looking after his health after all. But the thought came back to him, so he left to find himself some food. Álvarez found himself past the wooden door of the sitting room and looking down the hallway, the thought now occurring to him that his goal now was to sneak past his wife who may be around.

Carefully, the President crept barefoot on the wooden floor of the hallway, past dramatic oil paintings of historical Mexican battles. Busy landscapes depicting General Obregón defeating Pancho Villa at the Battle of Celaya, General Santa Anna defeating the Texans at the Alamo, and the heroic but unsuccessful defense of Veracruz in 1838 were lined on the pine-wood walls of the residence. President Álvarez took care not to brush too closely up against the wall as he tip-toed to the door. He paused when he got to the saloon-style double doors leading into the kitchen, listening for movement inside. After a few seconds, he was satisfied. It seemed that his wife was nowhere to be found, probably out shopping with her friends like she said she had planned that day.

Álvarez successfully absconded from the kitchen with a bowl of assorted nuts and a glass of French red wine. He returned to the living room a little bit faster and carelessly than before, almost spilling the glass in his rush to open the door. He privately thanked God that he had wooden floors, or else he would be scrubbing a mess out of an expensive carpet that he no doubt would be shouted at for making. Setting the wine and nuts down onto the table, he went to turn on the television. Mexico City’s television scene was quite new, only existing for five years now, and had three or four channels. They were all owned by different families which were just now finding their niche and conglomerating into the Telesistema Mexicano corporation. Channel 2 was for national news, Channel 4 was oriented towards entertainment and musical productions. The rest were a mix of educational and variety programming.

Before the president had realized it, he had fallen asleep on the couch as the television news anchors talked about a particularly complicated bank robbery attempt in Guadalajara. Despite their numbers and planning, the Federales had caught up with them the next day when their getaway car ran out of gas and arrested them, somewhat anticlimactically, without incident. He had settled in amongst the comfortable velvet throw cushions of his sofa with his feet kicked up onto the coffee table, feeling the slight tingle of intoxication before his head drooped down to his chest.

A telephone ring abruptly woke him from his nap. Each room in the residence had one, or at least each important room. It made family time difficult for them, to the point where the president had to instruct his staff not to call in the evenings unless it was a serious matter. This went doubly so for Sundays. He had gotten up from the couch and smoothed out the wrinkles on his shirt, looking outside the window to the pine trees and foliage in the garden. The sun had set but the lights of the rapidly growing Mexico City glowed against the horizon instead, a kind of artificial dusk that necessitated he slept with an eye mask in bed. Álvarez fumbled his way in the dark to the phone, desperately hoping it was just his wife calling from a friend’s place or something equally benign.

“Raul?” came the voice of his chief of staff, a longtime friend by the name of Francisco Herrera. He was always working in the office on weekends or in the evenings. Part of it was him making the rounds to his subordinates like he would when he was a Mexican Army officer known for visiting his soldiers’ guard posts and charges of quarters on weekends or holidays, but he had been working nonstop in the few months after his wife of just fewer than twenty years had divorced him.

“Francisco,” answered Álvarez, his hopes turning dour upon recognizing that this would be official business. “Why the call? It’s a Sunday.”

“Raul, I need you to call our secure office back on your scrambler phone. This is important,” Herrera stated simply. “I’ll be there to receive your call.”

The president acknowledged and hung up. He looked around for a pen and paper on the coffee table and hastily scrawled a note for his wife, if she came in while he was on the scrambler phone: “Am in the vault: work call.” Then he found his slippers that had been kicked off in the corner, turned off the TV, and quickly grabbed the glass of wine. He shuffled down the hallway, stopping only to fill the glass up in the kitchen, and went to the end where a wood-paneled door that looked like the entrance to a closet hid in the corner. On his belt loop was a ring of keys, which he fumbled with before finding the correct one. The door unlocked, revealing a staircase down to the basement and another door below.

This door, nestled amongst the president’s various woodworking equipment and other miscellaneous shelves containing his hobbies and DIY interests, was distinctly marked as being for authorized personnel only. He opened it with another key on the keyring and went inside, closing it carefully. The secure office had been constructed with specific soundproofing and other features enabling him to be informed of classified or sensitive work from home. A simple black telephone with a placard labeling it “SECURE” was connected to a rack of humming machines. This was his scrambled telephone: an identical set was in a similarly secured office in the Palacio Nacional. Wiretapping would only yield a humming and buzzing sound, if the deeply buried phone line had been compromised at all.

The phone rang for a few seconds, before Herrera picked up directly. There was no operator to direct calls; this specific one was just for the palace’s secure room. He would need to be in the office personally to access the entire system of departments and divisions with a secured-line switchboard.

“Alright, Raul, here’s what’s going on. About a half hour ago, a representative from the Japanese embassy got here with a telegram from Tokyo. He said it was urgent, from Mister Ito himself.”

Tokyo, Raul mused. He checked his wrist, before realizing that he wasn’t wearing his watch. His attention turned to a clock in the secure office, pointing to the time: 8:46 PM, Mexico City time. He had only the one clock in his personal office, without the others to easily tell time across the globe. After trying his hardest to remember, he settled in on it being 11 or 12 in following morning in Japan, perfect for a leisurely start-of-the-morning telegram to get that week’s business in order. He rolled his eyes at the inconvenience, but there was really no way around it. Either they or he got a rude awakening. “What do they want?”

“They asked for a meeting with you, tomorrow morning. It is urgent. And they wish for the Secretariat of War and Navy to be involved as well,” Herrera replied hurriedly.

The Secretariat of War’s mention surprised Álvarez. The Japanese had been involved in a war against the British for some time now and… The president’s eyes widened. “Can you read me the telegram? You have a copy, don’t you?”

Herrera acknowledged and paused on his end while he unfolded the copy of the document in his pocket.

PRESIDENT RAUL ALVAREZ,

WE ARE TO BEGIN NEW OPERATIONS AGAINST BRITISH IMPERIAL FORCES IN SOUTH ASIA. AS CONTINUED FRIENDS OF MEXICO, WE REQUEST ASSISTANCE IN OUR CAMPAIGN OF LIBERATION AGAINST EUROPEAN IMPERIALISTS. WE REQUEST DISCUSSIONS OF THE FEASIBILITY OF MEXICAN OPERATIONS AGAINST BRITISH IMPERIAL TERRITORIES IN THE AMERICAS AND CARRIBBEAN SEA. THE PURPOSE OF THIS OFFENSIVE IS TO BEGIN ANOTHER FRONT AND FURTHER WEAKEN BRITISH DISPOSITION IN OVERSEAS TERRITORIES. THE AMBASSADOR HAS BEEN IMMEDIATELY DISPATCHED TO DISCUSS THIS PROPOSAL. PLEASE ANSWER WITH CORRESPONDING PROPOSAL AS SOON AS POSSIBLE: BRITISH NAVAL MOVEMENTS NEED TO BE DISRUPTED IN A TIMELY MANNER.

MINISTER MASAMI HOJO,
ARMY MINISTRY, EMPIRE OF JAPAN

The president said nothing over the phone, his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Hmm,” he finally uttered after a moment to process the new information. Thoughts began racing through his mind: a war with Britain? On the side of the Japanese? They had always been friendly, with Japan and Mexico establishing one of the most consistent pan-Pacific trade partnerships that the region had seen in history, but armed conflict was another thing. He would need some time to collect himself to meet the request. Obviously it was not a frivolous telegram of hypotheticals: the Empire of Japan was nothing if not aggressively up-front and businesslike. They surely had war plans in place that they were actualizing as him and Herrera spoke.

President Álvarez downed his wine and spoke into the handset of the phone: “Francisco, I want you to schedule a meeting immediately tomorrow morning. Seven AM sharp.”

Herrera acknowledged the request simply as Álvarez began listing names: “Get Torres and Admiral Aguilar,” he ordered, referring to the War Minister and the admiral in charge of Caribbean theater operations; “wake up the Vice as well and make sure Mr. Ito brings his military attaché.”

The conversation ended as both men gravely noted their dispositions. After Herrera confirmed the itinerary, he asked if Álvarez had anything else. The president said no, and ended the conversation with a stark comment for Herrera to get some sleep while he still could. The president hung up the phone, now adjusting to the room of spinning turntables and whirring machinery in their racks. A dim hum could be heard, records faintly playing their buzzing sound over the telephone lines. With that, the president locked up and secured the room just the same as he entered it, before heading up the stairs and to his bedroom. His wife was not yet back, and he had stripped down to his undergarments to fall flat into the grandiose bed that dominated his bedroom. An alarm was set, and he fought to get some sleep before he changed history the next day.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

The Caribbean Sea
July, 1955

The haze-grey bow of a warship pushed gently through the field of flotsam and debris that cluttered its path. Ahead of the Mexican frigate Matador was the scene of a battle that claimed both parties. It became increasingly apparent as the investigation continued that the bloated bodies of the dead wore American and Argentinian uniforms. Something tragic must have happened that led the two countries into such a devastating fight. Lookouts had been posted with rifles to the gunwales of the frigate, a precaution called for by the captain with a distrust of the US Navy. Lifeboats floated empty throughout the rubble and bodies, the lookouts peering into them with binoculars for any sign of life.

One of the watchmen called out in alarm as he noticed a lifeboat rocking amidst the debris ahead. A petty officer ran towards him with his binoculars and saw two men limply attempting a fight inside the boat. They bore the uniforms of their own countries, but were obviously older and weak in the sun. Someone signaled to the bridge, and the ship stopped. A crew had been detailed to pick up survivors, led by a lieutenant. Their wooden boat had been lowered down into the water, a crew of three gently rowing towards the lifeboat. It, too, cut through the bodies and debris and the officer aboard could clearly see the maimed and mutilated sailors around them. Many of them looked as if they had been bitten by sharks and left to bleed out and die. The thought sent a chill down the lieutenant’s spine.

The rowboat had reached the survivors, who were too preoccupied spitting insults at each other in their own languages to notice until a petty officer had yanked them both by the collar and into the rowboat.

“Calm down, relax,” the lieutenant told the Hispanic one in Spanish, wrapping a towel around his shoulders and placing his hands on the man’s arms. He bore shiny rank insignia and still maintained an air of authority. It was obvious he was someone important. His petty officer tried the same thing to the white survivor, who himself wore a silver eagle on his collar. The American obviously didn’t understand everything, but “tranquilo” translated well enough into English.

The crew pushed their boat off of the debris of the battle and floated gently back to be picked up by the Matador’s lifeboat retrieval crane. Onboard was the security team composed of Marines in distinct olive uniforms, standing out from the denim pants and dungarees of the sailors around them. Distinct from the Army, the Marines wore starched and formed eight-point covers and black brassards bearing a bold, white “MARINA” branding. Two pairs of troops separated the American and the Argentinian and began their searches for weapons and contraband. While the Marine officer calmly asked the Argentinian if he had maintained his sidearm or any other weapon, the other team invasively searched every pocket of the American’s uniform. After a few minutes of shoving and roughhousing, they were satisfied. And besides, if either of them had any weapons then there wouldn’t be two survivors to begin with.

A figure emerged from the bulkhead in front of them. He didn’t wear the dungarees of the working junior personnel, but instead his black double-breasted coat with the shoulder boards of a Captain. It was the skipper of the Matador, Captain Rafael Miguel Pulido. A veteran sailor with a humorless face and a posture as if a metal rod had been fused to his spine, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to bring the prisoners to him. Silently, he inspected each one: their sunburnt faces, soaked and faded uniforms, air of defeat, and simple physical exhaustion. With the wave of his hand, Captain Pulido ordered the Marines to take them to the spare bunks and give them a fresh set of clothes. He further ordered them fed from the galley. They were to appear in his office in two hours.

For Captain Pulido, the next two hours were spent figuring out answers as to what had happened there. Flotsam and debris bore the name of two ships: the USS Isherwood and the ARA Ironia. He had corroborated it with information gleaned by his signal personnel as they hailed nearby lighthouses and signal stations in the Caribbean. The two ships had indeed come across each other during Argentine activity in the western islands of the sea. What the Argentines were doing up there, Captain Pulido had no idea. It was too far from their anchorages and indicated a willingness to exercise their force projection and support fleet capabilities. It appeared to work well for them, until they picked a fight with the Americans and lost.

“So what happened there?” asked the Mexican skipper, calmly leaning back into his chair. He glanced at the two Marines standing guard by the bulkhead, revolvers snugly inside holsters on their pistol belts. Each one eyed either of the internees, carefully watching for any sort of argument or hostility.

“The Americans started it,” huffed the Argentinian as if he was blaming a sibling for starting a fight with him over cleaning their childhood room. He had given his name as Jorge Lantana, but Captain Pulido knew next to nothing about him other than that. He appeared almost humiliated to be wearing a Mexican Navy physical training uniform instead of his standard dress uniform. Pulido knew the struggle of a proud serviceman all too well, better to stand tall than face capture.

“You decided to start charging my position,” retorted the American. Pulido, a Tijuana native, understood enough English from the Californians who wound up in town to translate both for himself and Lantana. He repeated the American’s comments back to the Argentinian.

“You overreacted, I was simply repositioning as a result of your crude gesture,” Lantana growled. He turned to Pulido: “All I received was a radio transmission to ‘fuck off.’ I thought we were officers and gentlemen, but the Americans are obviously savages.”

Pulido relayed the Argentine’s words in a slightly more cleaned up manner. The American captain seemed just as hot blooded as the Argentinian; the captain kept the Marines in the room in case they started throwing punches at each other again.

“And so you decided to shoot each other?” deadpanned Pulido after the American, Captain Stanton, offered no reply except for a disgusted face. Perhaps a tinge of regret crossed his face, but only for a moment. He would offer no weakness to exploit. They sat defensively in their seats, no further response with their caged and stoic expressions. After all, if a few hours in a lifeboat in the middle of the ocean couldn’t force a bonding moment of understanding then nothing Pulido could do would get them to calm down. It was of no matter: “That’s fine, I understand what happened here. Two proud men who couldn’t back down from proving whose dick was the biggest!”

Lantana glared at Pulido, and so did Stanton as soon as Pulido translated his ire. The Mexican officer continued, frustrated now that he had to deal with the equivalent of man-children onboard. Man-children, incidentally, that had just made decisions that led to the death of dozens of American and Argentinian sailors.

“I am going to drop you both off in Cuba when we reach there in a few days. We will take you to your embassies as a gesture of kindness and repatriate you. After that, I do not wish to see either of you again. I had to divert my patrol because of you and we will be late relieving other forces in the Caribbean.”

Pulido nodded to the Marines, who each took their captive and stood them up out of the chair. One after the other, they were forced out of the bulkhead in the captain’s office. The Marine officer, once this was complete, excused himself and departed. The door closed with a metallic thud so customary to Pulido’s ears now and the rotating handle squeaked as it rolled shut. The captain sighed, looking over to a map of the Caribbean on his wall. On it were a series of blue push pins designating the planned patrol route. They were supposed to head out from their base in Veracruz and pass through between Cuba and Jamaica. Then, a loop around down to Aruba and back to Panama would have them patrol the coast all the way back up to Mexico. Each pin point represented their planned location each day.

Beside it, a series of red push pins represented their actual position every morning. It followed the planned path fairly well until the days prior, where they had diverted to investigate the distress call. Now, they had to divert even further and physically dock their vessel in Cuba. They would probably have to go around the island and up towards Havana to establish contact with the embassies. Pulido shook his head: the Mexican Navy was notoriously rigid and strict compared to the other branches, such as the rough-and-tumble Army who acted more like vaqueros and the haute personalities of the Air Force. He would have to explain a lot to his fleet’s commander.

Whatever the case, Captain Pulido pulled the phone to the bridge towards him. Immediately, the voice of a young lieutenant answered him and asked for his directions. “Tell the navigator to plot a course for Havana, effective immediately. We will head there and drop off the shipwreck’s survivors… no use in keeping them around and I want to avoid making this international incident worse.”

The officer acknowledged and hung the phone up, leaving Pulido to himself. He contented himself with studying the charts and timetables for this operation, trying to brainstorm his contingency plan before his next staff meeting. Within the hour, he felt the mass of the Matador shift and begin a turn to the north. They were on their way to Cuba.