A Revolution (Open - Bogota/Area 6)

[pope]

Santafé de Bogota--a beautiful city, a city planned in the 18th century ATB. A city with a large religious estalibshment. And, above all, a city with a revolutionary past. Perhaps that was why the Britannian military should have expected the riots that were now threatening to snap the already strained police lines of Britannia. In a way, Pope Lucius III, at the moment simply a young man named Luca, had to thank General Kennedy, particularly for his death. Because over his body a rebellion would ferment.

The Kennedy family had long existed as a clan in Ireland and Scotland, even when the Republics of Ireland and Scotland were still called Britain. The Kennedy family had always been family of diplomats, a family that played both sides for suckers. On one hand, it assisted Empress Elizabeth III in her escape to what would become the new nation of Britannia. But on the other hand, it assisted the French army in creating the new army of Scotland. Playing both sides, it managed to become affluent on both sides of the Atlantic--but during the Great war in Europe, it had become too obviously Pro-Britannian, and it had been driven West. The Kennedy patriarch, Lord Patrick Joseph Kennedy, had fought several generations for Britannia in Africa, finally retiring as the Governor General of Area 6. The Kennedy Dynasty had continued to this day. However, the Kennedy family, headed by Governor-General Lord Jack Kennedy II, had many enemies who frequently accused the Kennedys of fratenization with banned terrorist groups such as the Sons of Liberty and the E.U.--and they were probably correct, from what Lucius knew. Finally, Britannia had called Kennedy to Area 11, officially under the pretext of assisting the local forces against the Order of the Black knights. If he were killed by a terrorist ambush, Britannia reasoned, Kennedy would die with a complete reputation (and thus save Britannia face), and a new Governor-General could be quickly appointed to replace him in Area 6. They had not counted on survivors of the botched assassination from escaping. And now Area 6 was in an uproar.

Luca laughed quietly to himself as he watched the riots outside the university window. Most of the charges Britannia had levied against the General were correct--he HAD been secretly abetting the Sons of Liberty, and he HAD been in negotiations with the EU. But the Area 6 Media certainly hadn't noticed that, instead pointing the finger of blame at Britannia, for discrimination against Catholics and Immigrants. That charge wasn't wrong either, but Britannia would have had a rebellion on its hands anyway--after all Luca had been called over by the General himself. And now in death he would have to do what he couldn't in life. "Watari, let's go." The old man who had been standing next to him nodded. "Where to, young master?" "To the Kennedy Mansion."

[pope]

Kennedy Mansion, 18 Sherman Avenue

Well, this is inconvenient. Apparently, General Kennedy had neglected to tell the rest of the family about who Luca was before he had been mowed down by some badly disguised Britannian soldiers. On the other hand, it was also an advantage. Most of the family had no idea who he was, though the fact that this scruffy boy was generally with the patriarch of the clan did give some prestige. At the moment, two security guards were glaring rather threateningly as they walked through the elaborately decorated hallways of the Kennedy family mansion. Discretely and seemingly harmless, Watari quietly followed Luca, randomly blowing out smoke rings. If Luca had honestly wanted to, Watari could probably have knocked out the two men, but it probably wouldn’t do wonders between the relations between he and the remnants of the family. Many of the Kennedy family had quickly disappeared, and only in Area 6, where the riots would lead to instability, was the main branch of the family left alone. A mistake, Luca decided, as it was because of this that the rest of Area 6 would fall apart.

Jean Lee Kennedy was the typical adolescent—dressed in a T-shirt and boxers, he didn’t seem exceptionally considerate about his appearance. Nor was he too scandalized by Luca’s appearance—in fact, it probably made him feel a little more at home. Yet Jean Kennedy’s reputation was not that of a layabout—he had done well managing some of the Kennedys’ resources in the EU, doubling the size of Kennedy Enterprises’ EU branch. Somewhere deep behind those earbuds (seemingly pointless, since it was loud enough for even Watari to wince) was something of an opportunistic opportunity. And, at this moment, both of them probably shared the same vision of the possibility. Jean pulled off his earphones. The song was pop, by the band Productive Emotion—popular mainly in Northeastern Britannia. If Luca recalled from his file, Jean had been educated at (and had dropped out of) Columbia and Dartmouth. Without asking, Luca took a piece of candy from the bowl casually left near one of the extra desks. Candy had a lure to him that few could understand—when most of the things you eat are made by the best chefs in the papal states, the small things are the most enjoyable. Jean didn’t seem too perturbed. “So…you knew the old man.” Luca nodded as he leapt onto his seat with an agile leap, crouching in his trademark position. Jean continued. “Well…if you’re expecting me to mourn about him, it’s not happening. The guy was a strict asshole, y’know?” Luca shrugged. “He was a man of the military.”
“Yes. As you can tell, I am not.”
“That I am aware of.”
For a moment, the two stared at each other, neither blinking or giving any hint of more than friendliness. And yet the tension was obvious. “I don’t know who you are, but don’t you think I don’t know why you’re here.” Luca shrugged as he took another piece of candy. “Does this knowledge affect your position?” “Like I would change my decision on account on some scruffy guy with no fashion sense.” Luca blinked.
“So boxers constitute the height of fashion nowadays?”
“Touché.”
Once again, they stared at each other—but then Jean burst into laughter. “I like you. Alright, what have you got for me?” Luca shrugged. “What have you got to offer?” Jean looked up at a map of Area 6 that he had used as a dartboard. “Our best pilots, the Highlanders, haven’t been heard of since the Old Man’s Death. They were our best, and they used the newest knightmares, those Iroquois Gladstones. Most of Area 6’s regulars are part of our forces or sympathetic. We spread out the loyal forces, so it should be fairly easy to homogenize them. But most of our knightmares are old Sutherlands—the Gloucesters are mainly in the war effort. We have forces here in Bogota and most of former Gran Colombia, plus Argentina—but they’re not enough to hold the territory.” Luca nodded. “So what is your plan of action?” “…seize the Imperial Canal in Panama. That way, we can cut off trade and obtain supplies while having an easily defensible front for a land invasion.” “…what if the Canal is too well-guarded?” “…then we’ll have to make a stand on the Rio de Magdalena or the Andes. We should hold for some time…” Luca nodded. “A solid, if unexceptional plan. However, I can arrange…some help. You can expect EU battleships defending the seas, and the Chinese 3rd Fleet will hold exercises near Hawaii—Britannia will be too jittery to dispatch troops from California. We’ve already shipped over Panzer-hummels and Panzer-Wespes into Brazil, and the Chinese have gangfengs and Gun-ru ready. So far we can assemble 5 armies from the foreign-assembled forces:
1-Gran Colombian Territorial Army: Mainly Chinese-trained officers. Second-most numerous army, but probably the weakest individually. They’ll function as a rearguard on the coasts.
2-The Army of the Republic: Mainly EU-trained forces, deployed in Brazil.
3-Continental Army of Gran Colombia: Former Britannian Personnel. Relatively well-trained, but not that many. Should be used to rally support in the country side and to function as training units. Anything else should go for Panama.
4-Order of St. Bolivar: Catholic Volunteers using Panzer-Wespes. Very well armed, but very few in number.
5-4th Republic Volunteer Army: Militia. Legion in size, but ill-trained and few (if any) knightmares. Not to be relied on extensively, but to be used as support and insurgents.”
Jean slowly nodded. “You referred to the EU as we. You are European?” Luca shrugged. “Sharp.” Jean ignored that. “Well, your plan is all well and good—but what do YOU plan on getting out of it?” Luca shrugged. “Isn’t that for you to find out?” Jean sighed. “You don’t say a thing, do you? Well…since you haven’t even given me a name to be known by, what should I call you?” “Joseph Maury Hakurei Menes Charles Alistair Mery Devereaux II?” “…Seriously?” Luca shrugged. “In that case, just refer to me as…hmm…” Luca needed something of a mysterious nickname—if he were to appear publicly, the ambiguity would only give the movement mystique. “…L. L will do.”

[pope]

The riots on the streets had not gotten any better since L's arrival to the Kennedy mansion--in fact, it had only gotten worse. Riot Police, forming a phalanx of riot shields, led charge after charge to break up the crowd--and yet they, too were faltering--for most were recruited from locally--and Police are men as well. The local CO, a young Corporal, winced as another wine bottle shattered on his helmet. The situation was certainly getting violent, and several stores had been torched already. "Requesting more assistance on Stanford Avenue!" The crowd was now getting too close for comfort. "Charge on 3...2...1!" Immediately, the Riot Police charged forwards, laying on with their batons as the shield wall collided with the crowd, driving it back from the impact. Yet, like a child trying to empty out the ocean, the tide roared back, and the riot police moved back--save for one. "Oh Sh-t..." his Baton had dropped in the ground between the crowd and the Riot Police. Immediately, he broker anks to grab for it--the Britannian Authorities did not tend well to losing valuable ordinance. "Gonzalez, get back here!" Gonzalez turned around--but it was too late as the crowd washed over him, dragging him into their midst. The Corporal cursed. "Dammit, push back the crowd!" Grabbing his handgun, he fired into the air. Instantly, the crowd backed away. "You men stay here!" Running forwards with his handgun pointed at the crowd, the corporal reached the bloody, prone form of his subordinate. He was alive--but barely. For a moment, there was silence as the Corporal kneeled over Gonzalez, taking off his helmet to hear better--a mistake. Instantly, he reeled back as a stone struck his head, causing an explosions of sparks and a sudden pain in his ear. He turned around--and reeled back drunkenly as something struck his head. Immediately, blood began to flow down, flooding into his eyes as he saw someone coming closer, yelling something as the crowd suddenly seemed to fade into nothing. I'm dying... "Get away!" He raised his revolver...

Jamie Naomi Mason was not a man of strong views. She was a medical student at Bogota University. Despite the views of her friends, her views were not radically opposed to any real side. Born in the Caribbean, she had never really cared for politics. As she pushed aside for the protestors, the crowd seemed only a dull blur as she reached out for the wounded soldier, who scrabbled back, yelling. For a moment, touched, both the soldiers and crowd stopped for a moment. All the world seemed to watch as she pried open a first aid kit and inquired, "Are you alright?" One particularly angry protester, perhaps unnoticing the situatiion pointed at her. "What the hell are you doing with those bastards? Are you on their side?!" Jamie turned around. "Murder takes no sides!" She turned around once more. "Are you alri--" And then she came face to face with the revolver.

Corporal Joel Campbell would have, after the riots, have become the head of the police department. Having lived in Bogota, he would have become one of Bogota's most loved police chiefs and then its most popular mayor, a man who would do his best to solve with words but was willing to fight where it was necessary. On that timeline, he would have had two children. He would die in Bogota, surrounded by his grandchildren and children, a man for whom Bogota would be in mourning for. In the road of Jamie Naomi Mason's life, she would have graduated and returned to Caribbean and then to Africa, devising a cure for Malaria and a therapy for Sickle Cell Anemia. She would have three sons with a South African Boer and spend the last half of her life campaigning for an end to war in Africa. She would have died in Johannesburg, a hero in both the EU and Britannia. All this, in that last moment, transitioned from what would be to what could have been when the lives of Jamie Mason and Joel Campbell intersected. All this would be blown away by a single piece of metal, electromagnetically propelled into her skull at 5 times the speed of sound. In that millisecond, the lives of almost a Billion People would be altered forever--all this by 6 grams of teflon-coated metal.

It was the silence that made the sound of the shot all the louder. For a moment, nothing was heard except the clink of bullet casing. And then the body of Jamie Mason staggered back and then collapsed. Slowly, like a wave building up, a roar of anger, rage, fear arose from the crowd as they slowly began to surge forwards. the Corporal was only saved by his unit as they quickly formed up a shieldwall in front of him. "Corporal, are you alright?" As the soldiers immediately pulled their CO back, nobody noticed that the cog of fate had turned once more, slowly but ever-steadily towards what would come.

[Aloysius Drebbel]

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