As the dawn of a post-Rabius virus era began to break, I found myself at a crossroads. The past two months had been a relentless marathon of sirens and smoke, a testament to the city’s resilience and the tireless efforts of its first responders. The scientists had finally outmaneuvered the virus with a cure that promised to restore normalcy to our beleaguered streets.

Exhaustion had become my shadow, a constant reminder of the long days and even longer nights. Despite being a probationary firefighter, I knew my limits. I submitted a request for several weeks of leave, fully prepared to stand my ground should it be denied. The time had come for me to recharge, to step away from the heat of the blaze and the urgency of the alarms.

Financial independence is a principle I hold dear, a symbol of the autonomy I’ve fought to achieve. My girlfriend, ever the ally, paid rent, fronted the payment, which I promptly reimbursed. This arrangement was a bulwark against vulnerability, ensuring that my hard-earned money remained beyond the reach of my mother’s demons. Her battle with addiction was her own, and I refused to let my finances become collateral damage. Should she falter, it would unravel the threads of progress spun in rehab, sending her back to Kansas City, not as a visitor, but as a patient once more.

In the heart of Eastside, where the pulse of the district beats with a rhythm as old as the city itself, I found myself wandering. The streets, lined with the echoes of history, led me to the doors of local bars, each adorned with a “FOR SALE” sign. These establishments, once brimming with the laughter and stories of regulars, were now silent, their futures uncertain.

The owners, weary from the relentless tides of change, sought to hand over their legacies. Yet, they held a firm resolve not to let their haven's fall into the hands of faceless corporations. These bars were more than just businesses; they were cornerstones of the community, serving the working class that has been the backbone of Eastside for generations.

The thought of these spaces being stripped of their character, repackaged and polished to suit the tastes of the affluent, was a disservice to the very soul of the neighborhood. The owners understood this. They knew that the essence of Eastside wasn’t in its brick and mortar, but in the spirit of its people—their grit, their dreams, and their unwavering sense of community.

As I walked, the weight of my own badge felt heavier. Here, in the shadow of “FOR SALE” signs, I saw the reflection of the city’s relentless pursuit of the new, often at the expense of the cherished old. But like the steadfast owners, I too believe in the value of what endures, in the stories etched into the walls of these bars and in the lives they’ve touched.

With a vision for Eastside’s future and a respect for its past, I made a bold move. I approached the owners of the three bars, each a beacon of community and camaraderie, with an offer that spoke of partnership rather than mere transaction. $2,500 for each establishment, a total of $7,500—it was a fair price, but it was the promise that accompanied the check that truly sealed the deal.

I proposed a continuing legacy, a chance for the former owners to remain a part of the story they had begun. By signing with me they would not only receive their asking price but also a share of the profits, a weekly or monthly percentage to the enduring success of their life’s work. Alternatively, for those who wished to stay at the helm, I offered the role of manager, a position of honor and trust.

This was more than a business arrangement; it was a covenant to preserve the soul of Eastside. In these bars, we wouldn’t just serve drinks; we would serve memories, a place where the working class could still find refuge and recognition.

The moment the previous owners shook hands with me, I knew we had reached an understanding that went beyond mere numbers. I penned checks for the full asking price adding a little extra as a token of goodwill—a down payment on the future or a parting gift for those seeking new horizons.

My time at Arcane University, though brief, had been illuminating. A single business course had armed me with insights that would shape my approach to entrepreneurship. The professor, a sage in the world of commerce, imparted a fundamental truth: the art of inventory management is crucial to a bar’s vitality. “Keep it small and manageable,” he advised. “A large inventory demands a higher revenue to merely break even.”

This wisdom resonated with me as I contemplated the financial landscape of Empire City’s nightlife. Many proprietors, seduced by the allure of grandeur, stocked their shelves to the brim only to find themselves trapped in a cycle of insurmountable costs. They played a high-stakes game of double or nothing, often ending with empty hands.

In contrast, those who embraced a leaner inventory model found stability. They didn’t need to chase exorbitant profits to cover their expenses; a modest income sufficed. In the city of Empire, the arithmetic of survival was stark yet simple. A medium-sized bar needed to generate approximately $2,700 per week to break even. While the larger bars and nightclubs faced a daunting threshold of about $14,000 per week and that’s before the salaries of those who pour, mix, and serve.

In the vibrant tapestry of Empire’s nightlife, I see an opportunity to weave tradition with innovation. The drinks that have quenched the thirst of generations will remain, a nod to the legacy of these bars. Yet stagnation is not in my nature. Expansion beckons and with it, the introduction of a simple yet enticing culinary venture: sandwiches and affordable fare.

The economics of it are straightforward. While adding food options will indeed raise the break-even point, the cost-effectiveness of such offerings ensures that the increase remains modest. The goal is to enhance the patron experience without imposing a financial strain on the business. Here’s the simple math behind it:

The Sapphire Lounge, with its illustrious clientele and round-the-clock operations, serves as a beacon of what’s possible. It’s a place where the glitterati mingle with the everyman and legal battles with the paparazzi are as much a part of the ambiance as the cocktails. There the break-even point is not a week’s pursuit but a nightly achievement, a testament to the allure of its offerings and the efficiency of its operations.

The Sapphire Lounge, with its velvet ropes and exclusive guest lists, operates on a currency of fame and fortune. It’s a world where a Nightshade—our slang for a $10 bill—can open doors, turning a blind eye to the velvet rope. But such privileges come with a caveat; cause a stir, and you’ll find yourself barred, the glitz and glamor replaced by the cold shoulder of the bouncer who once ushered you in.

In stark contrast, my vision for the bars I’ve acquired in Eastside is one of inclusivity and community. The idea of hiring a bouncer isn’t to create an air of exclusivity, but to ensure a safe haven for all who enter. These sentinels at the door will be more than just muscle; they’ll be local faces familiar and friendly, who share a vested interest in the well-being of the neighborhood.

By hiring from within the community, I reinforce the message that these bars are a home for the locals, a place where the doors are open to everyone, regardless of which side of the tracks they come from. Anderson, Eastside, Westside—these names represent more than just areas of the city; they are tapestries of lives and stories, and my bars will serve as gathering places for all their threads.

In a city where the divide between the haves and the have-nots is often marked by the establishments they frequent, my bars will stand as bastions of equality. Here the value of a person won’t be measured by the weight of their wallet but by the content of their character. It’s a commitment to the spirit of Eastside, a pledge to keep the community at the heart of everything we do.

As I look to the horizon, the future of my Eastside bars holds a vision of growth but not the reckless kind that burns bright and fast only to fizzle out. I'm considering adding a billiards room for some friendly competition, or perhaps a smoke lounge for those who indulge. But these plans are for later, once we've established a solid foundation.

I've heard the siren call of "Double or nothing" and the allure of going "All out," but I've seen too many get caught in that trap. They stretch themselves thin, chasing dreams that their cash flow can't sustain. My dad likened business to the game of life. You tally up your earnings, subtract the bills, and what's left is your true score after the rent and utilities are paid.

I shared these expansion thoughts with my girlfriend, and her response was classic, "Go nuts, but keep me out of it." She's not one for business, but her support is unwavering. I reassured her that I wasn't roping her into this venture; I was just keeping her in the loop. She's proud of my investment in Eastside, especially since I'm keeping the original owners on as managers if they choose. She's seen too many local spots get gobbled up by corporations, only to be spit out as soulless shells that cater to the flashy crowd while forgetting the regulars who built the place.

So I'm planning some sensible renovations to spruce up the bars—nothing extravagant. A new floor here, a fresh coat of paint there, maybe even some wallpaper, though that's a beast to handle. I'm steering clear of the neon-drenched, over-the-top '80s vibe that movies love to exaggerate. No Hawaiian shirts or sports blazers here. Just a touch-up to honor the past while stepping confidently into the future.

Lusty, who lived through the '80s, knows the truth behind the glitz. And me? Born in '84, I caught just the tail end of that era. But it's not about reliving the past; it's about building a future where everyone—whether they're from the '80s, the '90s, or the 2000s—feels at home. That's the legacy I want to create with these bars, a place where stories are shared, and memories are made no matter the decade.

Hair Metal, with its electrifying riffs and larger-than-life personas, was the soundtrack of an era. It’s true, by '93, the scene shifted, and the gritty, raw sounds of Alternative Rock took center stage. But those power ballads and anthemic choruses from the '80s still echo in the hearts of many, myself included.

In the City of Empire and across Little Bird, the airwaves are a mosaic of melodies, each radio station a time machine to a different musical epoch. Jazz and blues, rock-and-roll, big band, swing, pop, rock, and country—each genre tells a story, each song a chapter of history. The Big Band’s brass of the '20s, the Swing’s lively bounce of the '30s, the Rock and Roll’s rebellion of the '50s and '60s, the Blues and Jazz’s soulful narratives, and Country’s honest tales of the working-class life.

Country Music, in particular, resonates with me. It’s the voice of the everyday hero, the narrative of the common man and woman, stories that modern pop glosses over. Here in Little Bird, musicians are craftsmen, dedicating their lives to the art of storytelling through music. They’re not just performers; they’re historians, poets, and the heartbeat of our culture.

The music industry may have evolved, now spotlighting dance routines and showmanship, where record deals seem to be handed out like flyers. But true artists, the ones who pour their souls into every note, they’re the ones who truly rock the house. They’re the ones who remind us that music is more than just a catchy beat—it’s a legacy.

As a Millennial, I’ve seen the trends come and go. Rap and Hip-hop dominate the charts, but for me, it’s about the connection, the clarity of the lyrics, the stories they tell. I prefer the rhythms that let me savor each word, each verse, and the authenticity that comes with it. That’s the kind of music that doesn’t just pass through the ears—it lingers in the soul. And that’s the kind of music you’ll hear in my bars, a tribute to the timeless, the classic, the real.

I even discussed with Lusty, a long-time local, about the future of her kids. I assured her that once they hit the age of 17 or 16, I’d be more than willing to bring them on board as part of the team.

Here in the Commonwealth of Mountain, the law is clear. While the drinking age is firmly set at 18, there’s room for the younger generation to step into the workforce early. National regulations, like those in Little Bird, allow minors in bars with parents or guardians, provided their drinks are non-alcoholic—think sodas and water. It’s a policy I stand behind, fostering responsibility and work ethic among the youth.

When it comes to labor laws, they’re designed with safety in mind. High school seniors can indeed work part-time in establishments like mine, as long as the environment is hazard-free and they’re not handling alcoholic beverages. It’s about giving them a chance to earn their keep, to learn the ropes by mopping floors and wiping down tables—honest work that builds character and prepares them for the world ahead.

I believe in giving back to the community that has given me so much. By offering these young individuals a stepping stone, I’m not just complying with the law; I’m investing in the future of Empire —one where hard work and integrity are the true measures of success.

Lusty’s aspirations for her daughters resonate deeply with me. She envisions them pursuing higher education, yet she’s also a pragmatist—understanding the value of part-time work during their high school years. It’s a balance I admire and one I’ve lived by myself. Before my days battling blazes and before I wore the Navy uniform, I was a waitress, learning the ropes of hard work and service.

Here in Little Bird, we hold a certain reverence for education. A college degree can be a golden ticket, but it’s not a guaranteed pass to your dream job. I remember sitting in the halls of Arcane University, absorbing the sobering truth that a diploma doesn’t always open the right doors. It’s a lesson that echoes my father’s wisdom. There’s always a need for hands-on labor, but a specialized degree doesn’t always mean a specialized job.

The heads-up we get before diving into academia is blunt but necessary. You might graduate with honors, but the job market doesn’t always honor your degree. Experience is a currency all its own, and sometimes, starting from the ground up can be more valuable than a fast pass to a mid-level position. It’s a reality I’ve seen play out time and again—the university graduate stepping into level 3 or 4, while the one who’s been in the trenches, gaining experience, might just climb to the same height, if not higher.

It’s a dichotomy that defines our approach to work and education. Whether you’re hitting the books or hitting the pavement, it’s about the journey, the growth, and the strength you build along the way.

In Little Bird, the wisdom of hands-on learning is instilled early on. From the moment children start elementary school, they’re introduced to the practical magic of vocational education. It’s a philosophy that grows with them—woodcrafting, leather crafting, metalwork, and clay work in middle school, evolving into the complexities of electricity, bikes, and the internal combustion engine in high school. The encouragement to pursue trade school is strong, offering a path to mastery in a trade while gaining invaluable experience.

This approach stands in stark contrast to the narrative I encountered back in the States, where the pursuit of a college degree was presented as the only viable route to success. Yet I’ve seen friends burdened by debt from college education, trapped in jobs that barely chip away at what they owe. It’s a harsh reality that makes Little Bird’s emphasis on trades all the more compelling.

My own journey took a different turn in 2005 when my father chose to invest in an education that promised more value for money—a university halfway across the world, far more affordable than its American counterparts. It was a decision that paid off, not just in financial terms, but in the rich experiences and diverse perspectives I gained.

The lesson here is clear there’s honor in every path, whether it’s through the halls of academia or the hands-on rigor of trade school. Each offers its own set of challenges and rewards, and it’s up to us to choose the one that aligns with our aspirations and values.

Of course Lusty also said that some who go to trade school usually don’t go into that trade as an occupation but just to learn so they would know how it would work. After all her father was a janitor for a company but the tenement building that they lived in that her father was the building groundskeeper and kept the land and the building maintained.

But I never asked Lusty why her dad never went to college or a trade school using the money he got from the military after the Vietnam War. I only can speculate that he didn’t want to or didn’t want to use the money that he earned from getting some friendly Marines killed one day. Or just wanted to put it behind him and not look back on his days in the Marines as an artillery battery radio operator and that the moment he got home in 1975 he just wanted to move on and not look back. But I wasn’t there and Lusty didn’t ask because her parent's business was their own business.

But I even told my girlfriend that I like Little Bird and how back in America I know some people who are politically correct and get offended easily while here on Little Bird being PC and easily offended is on par with being called a Witch during the Medieval, Renaissance and Colonial Era. But to me I’ve met many players on games who talk the talk but won’t walk the walk in which they talk smack but when meeting up in reality they’re not willing to talk like that again. But I'm the type that talks the talk but is willing to walk the walk.

Some people said that I wouldn’t put my money where my mouth is. Then I whipped their ass and they got upset that a guy got his ass whipped by a gal. But I know people besides me. They're the type who will put their money where their mouth is and have tough skin.

Lusty's tales from her district always struck a chord with me. She painted a picture of a world where resilience was not just valued but essential. "You either eat what I cook or go hungry," was the mantra her parents lived by, a stark reminder of the no-nonsense upbringing that shaped her. Her neighbors, too, echoed a similar sentiment, often remarking, "There are starving people who would be grateful for this meal," a reflection of their financial struggles that limited grocery runs to a monthly affair with food stamps.

I found common ground with Lusty's old neighbors not in hardship, but in the meticulous art of shopping. We'd scour the aisles, weighing the cost against the value, often finding that the generic brands offered the same satisfaction as the name brands, but at a fraction of the cost. Here in Little Bird, the price difference is stark. Name-brand soup costs 12 cents per can, while the generic is a mere 5 cents. To us, saving every penny matters more than you might think.

Discussing Little Bird's foreign policy with my American friends stirred up quite the debate. "Little Bird first, everyone else second," may sound harsh, but it's a policy born from pragmatism. As I've traveled across Little Bird, I've seen the results firsthand no homelessness, no unemployment, and roads free of potholes. It's a testament to a government that prioritizes its people, allocating half of its 15 trillion dollar budget to civic services and the other half to national defense.

The politicians here are a breed apart. To even qualify, one must serve in the military, a nod to our Stratocratic governance. They don't draw hefty salaries or live in fancy; they earn a modest $5500 a year, the same as those they represent, ensuring their decisions are grounded in reality.

My grand uncle, a beloved president, exemplified this ethos. He championed trade schools and maintained low taxes, policies that kept the populace content. Even as a firefighter earning $120 bi-weekly, the slight tax deduction from my $122 salary goes unnoticed. Little Bird's tax system is progressive yet unobtrusive: 2% for low-income workers, 5% for the middle class, and 12% for the wealthy. Moreover, my grand uncle's reform of the Little Bird Anti-Corruption Team (LBACT) has been revolutionary, empowering them to act decisively against corruption, ensuring integrity within our government.

This is the Little Bird I know, a place where practicality and fairness aren't just ideals, but the very foundation of our society.

To my friends in America, I often describe life in Little Bird as a throwback to the post-World War II era, where even the least fortunate could make ends meet and still have a little left over. It’s a place where a dollar holds significant value and the government’s team of experts in various fields has kept our economy stable since the 1920s. They’ve averted depressions and economic collapses through proactive measures, like the massive public works projects during the Great Depression that kept our citizens employed.

I’ve shared with them a documentary showcasing how Little Bird, unbound by the Washington and London Naval Treaties, advanced naval technology with the Cadence Class carriers. These vessels were far superior to their contemporaries, capable of carrying a diverse array of 90 squadrons and an additional 120 reconnaissance aircraft.

I’ve walked the decks of the CV-07 Mackenzie, a Cadence Class carrier preserved as a museum ship. Built in the mid-1930s, it was designed with hypothetical wartime scenarios in mind some of which, like kamikaze attacks and rocket assaults, eventually became reality. Unlike other carriers of the time, the Cadence Class was equipped with heavy cruiser artillery and dual-purpose guns, ensuring their capability to defend against both surface and aerial threats.

I’ve also discussed Little Bird’s film rating system with my girlfriend, explaining how it mirrors the Hays Code of yesteryear. Here, movies must adhere to strict moral guidelines: crime and immorality cannot be glorified, and any transgressions must be met with on-screen punishment. The portrayal of life is confined to middle-class standards, and any depiction of nudity, sexual behavior, or substance abuse is heavily restricted unless essential to the plot. Our films avoid themes of revenge in contemporary settings, uphold the sanctity of marriage and treat all flags, especially that of Little Bird, with the highest respect.

While my American friends might find such a system restrictive, I’ve grown to appreciate the clarity of Little Bird’s ratings:

Rated G: Suitable for all audiences.

Rated M: Mature content; parental discretion advised.

Rated R: Restricted; under 16s require an accompanying adult.

Rated X: No one under 18 admitted.

It’s different from the MPA ratings they’re used to, but it’s a system that works for us. And though I haven’t mentioned it, many of our shows share the wholesome, sitcom charm of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

My friends back home might find it odd, but when I first arrived in Little Bird, I gravitated towards animated movies. Here, animation is predominantly aimed at kids and families, yet some films trot on the fine line between Rated G and Rated M. Without a PG or PG-13 rating, the decision is binary: if an animated feature veers too close to mature content, it receives an M; otherwise, it’s deemed suitable for all and marked as G. My friends disapprove, especially when I describe how war movies in Little Bird are sanitized to honor veterans and shield children from the brutal realities of combat. Soldiers may fall with a mere red dot to signify a wound, a measure taken to respect those with PTSD and to prevent the glorification of violence.

As for driving, I’ve shared with Clairebear that my American friends would likely beeline for an automatic transmission upon visiting Little Bird. None of them know how to handle a manual gearbox, and I can’t help but think, “This is too painful to watch,” at the mere thought of them trying. But for me stick shift is second nature; my first practice car had a manual transmission, and it’s what I drive to this day. It’s just one of the many quirks that make life here distinct yet strangely familiar.

In Little Bird, the hum of manual transmissions is the norm, with 98% of vehicles demanding a driver’s full engagement. It’s a detail that Claire finds fascinating, especially when I contrast it with the cinematic portrayal of war here compared to America.

War films in Little Bird walk a tightrope, often vilifying the enemy to stir patriotic fervor, yet they also pause to reflect on the shared humanity of those on both sides of the conflict.

“At the end, he was just a soldier,” they say, acknowledging the universal doubts and hopes that plague men and women caught in the crossfire of ideologies.

Back home, American war films tend to spotlight the heroics of our troops while sidelining our allies or casting adversaries in a starkly negative light. I’ve expressed to Claire that, as an American, I crave historical accuracy in these depictions a balanced narrative that honors all who served, not just a single nation’s perspective.

Lusty, with her characteristic chuckle, reminded me of another aspect of Little Bird’s war movies. Their deliberate avoidance of depicting the raw panic and pain of inexperienced soldiers. No desperate cries for loved ones or graphic wounds here; such scenes are softened to spare veterans from reliving trauma and to prevent children from being exposed to the horrors of war.

My friends may find this approach sanitized, accustomed as they are to the visceral realism of Hollywood’s battle scenes. Yet, Lusty pointed out, this doesn’t necessarily cast the military in a glorifying light. Instead, it’s a nuanced approach, one that respects the sensitivities of its audience while still conveying the gravity of military service. It’s a balance that Little Bird strives to maintain, even in its storytelling.

Lusty and I often discussed the poignant way Little Bird's film industry portrays war. Unlike the distant battles depicted in some movies, the films here lay bare the truth that war touches every aspect of life. They drive the point home that conflicts unfold in someone's backyard, amidst the familiar settings of homes, schools, and city streets. It's a sobering reminder that the repercussions of war are felt far beyond the front lines.

The war films of Little Bird manage a delicate balance, depicting the military with honor yet without romanticizing the institution or the conflict. They present the grim realities of war, sparing the audience from graphic violence while still conveying the profound sacrifices made by those who serve. It's a narrative that honors the bravery and the bilingual prowess of Little Bird's military officers, reflecting the nation's rich heritage of European settlers. Their multilingual abilities, likely honed through education and possibly study abroad experiences, are a testament to the diverse roots of Little Bird's people—roots that stretch back to the days of Austrian, German, French, Swiss, Danish, Russian, English, and Norwegian colonists.

Watching that Little Birden war film with my great-grandfather, Terrence Waterson, was a moment I'll never forget. When he said, “Yes, that’s how it is.” It hit me hard. This was a man who had seen the horrors of two World Wars and the Korean War. The film didn’t glorify combat; it showed the raw, painful truth that even the toughest soldiers can break. It was real, and it resonated with him deeply.

The movie didn’t shy away from the personal sacrifices soldiers make—the loved ones they leave behind and the emotional walls they build. It showed how seasoned soldiers often keep their distance from new recruits, not out of hate, but to protect themselves from the pain of losing them. The camaraderie wasn’t just about patriotism; it was about friendship and the trust needed to survive.

What really struck my great-grandfather was how the film portrayed the enemy. They weren’t faceless villains; they were humans, scared and fighting for their own reasons. This humanization was a powerful reminder of our shared humanity, even in war. It’s a perspective that fosters understanding and maybe, just maybe, a hope for peace.

I remember quoting the movie to Lusty, where a Sergeant said, “They lost a lot of good friends in this war. They think if they don’t get to know you then they don’t have to grieve for you when you die. But they’re wrong. It doesn’t work that way.” My great-grandfather said something similar back in ‘44 when his squad got replacements after D-Day. He’d been through hell, like the First Battle of Ypres. Even as a squad leader in WWII, he treated his men as soldiers but gave replacements a chance to prove themselves. That’s just who he was.

My great-granddad, he was a breed apart. Not your run-of-the-mill doughboy, no sir. He was a man who saw beyond the color lines when the world was still in black and white. I remember him telling me about the Battle of the Bulge, how his squad, a mix of faces from all walks of life, stood shoulder to shoulder against the enemy. They were brothers in arms, unofficially integrated to strengthen their ranks, a testament to his belief that a man’s worth wasn’t dictated by the shade of his skin.

He’d been raised on the principle of the Golden Rule by his mother back in England, long before the war. That’s what drove him to leave behind the ashes of Europe in 1919, seeking a fresh start in America. But the New World had its own scars; segregation was a foreign concept to him, an ugly truth that he couldn’t fathom, even 45 years before the Civil Rights Act would try to heal those wounds.

In the eyes of his squad, he was an oddity, especially during the Second World War. He saw the African-American soldiers as more than just support staff; they were fighters, equals in the truest sense. And women? He was ahead of his time there too, treating them with the same respect he’d give any man.

But his old man, my great-great-granddad, was a different story—a “Forgotten Waterson,” we call him. A man so rigid, he made tyrants seem tender. My great-granddad often said, “The Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte was a blessing for my brothers, offering them an escape from our father’s iron grip.” They took to the skies with the Royal Flying Corps, the precursor to the RAF, finding their freedom amongst the clouds, far from the reach of tyranny.

When Lusty was about to probe deeper, I shared this snippet of our family’s legacy. She understood then, the dogfights between the Royal Flying Corps and the Deutsche Luftstreitkräfte weren’t just battles; they were the clashing of ideals, the fight for a future where men like my great-granddad could shape a world without the shadows of the past.

Lusty’s curiosity was piqued about family monikers, and she turned to me with a question. “So his son Junior, did he have a nickname?”

I leaned back, the memory of family stories flooding in. “In the Waterson clan, sharing a first name means you’re bound to end up with a nickname. Terrence Charlie Waterson Junior, though, he was simply ‘Jr’ to his dad and the rest of the family. But had he been a Terrence Charlie without the ‘Junior’? A nickname would’ve been a certainty.”

I chuckled, thinking of my own peculiar tag. “Take me, for instance. I’m Mackenzie, but with 14 other Mackenzie Watersons out there, I had to stand out. So, ‘Macaroni’ it was—because ‘Cheeseburger’ just didn’t have the same ring to it.”

I glanced at Lusty, her attention unwavering. “Then there’s Mackenzie ‘Sturmgewehr’ Waterson. She earned her stripes—and her nickname—as a garrison soldier for the Little Bird Army, wielding an outdated Assault Rifle 1943, their take on the captured Sturmgewehr 44.”

I explained further, “If a father and son share a name, and the son is dubbed ‘Junior’ or has a numeral, ‘Junior’ sticks. But if a ‘Junior’ fathers a ‘III’ or ‘IV’, they go by their first name and numeral. Unless, of course, they prefer a nickname. It’s our way of keeping track without losing our minds.”

Nicknames, they’re like badges we wear—some gleaming with honor, others tarnished with shame. They tell tales of our deeds, the moments that define us, or sometimes, the blunders we’d rather forget. I shared with Lusty how in the Waterson family, a nickname can be a mantle of pride or a cloak of disdain.

When I introduced Claire’s nickname, “Lusty,” to my family, it raised a few brows. They leapt to conclusions of romance and passion. But I set the record straight: “Lusty” isn’t about vigor or desire. It’s a play on “Lyricist,” a nod to her way with music, her poetic soul.

The family’s reaction was mixed—some insisted on calling her Claire, respecting the name given at birth, while others embraced “Lusty,” the name she chose for herself. It’s a curious thing, how a name can spark such debate, how it can be both a label and a legacy. But in the end, it’s the person behind the name that truly matters, and Claire—whether as “Lusty” or by her given name—remains the same remarkable individual I cherish.

Lusty’s question caught me mid-thought, “Aren’t you getting distracted?” It was a fair point. As I mulled over the logistics for my burgeoning enterprise, I realized efficiency was key.

“Indeed, I am,” I confessed. “But it’s more than mere distraction. I’m strategizing a direct procurement approach. By sourcing materials straight from manufacturers for the select bars I require, I’m not just simplifying the process—I’m also shaving off unnecessary expenses. Eliminating middlemen means we can sidestep those extra fees they tack on, which inflates our costs. This move isn’t just about cutting corners; it’s about lean operations and competitive pricing. For a startup like ours, that could be the difference between just surviving and truly thriving in this cutthroat market.”

It was a calculated shift, one that could redefine our position in the industry. And as I knew that every decision could lead to either a breakthrough or a setback. This was a chance I was willing to take for the sake of innovation and growth.

I even asked Lusty if she’s sure she doesn’t want to partake in the business but she refused because to her being a Lieutenant Firefighter/EMT, freelance musician, armored car guard, and a single mother are good enough for her and don’t need to add another career to her life. But I assured her when her daughters because old enough to get a part-time job I’ll offer them a spot in a janitorial position until they turn eighteen to serve alcohol because I’m going to be following the Commonwealth of Mountain laws and how since I’m their legal guardian I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize that.

Even though Lusty’s daughter’s came from my cousin David “Dave” Mitchell Waterson even though she could’ve asked anyone else but guess she chose a good enough friend than asking a friend who doesn’t want to at least be apart the children’s life or gone to a sperm bank for IFV or artificial insemination where mistakes can be made by her getting pregnant by the wrong doner but she asked Dave on the request he would of done if it every other week if he and Linda could take them so he could at least be apart of their lives. At least Dave is the type who even though he’s married and has a family of his own but at least he was willing to help out a friend but unlike many others he’s willing to spend time with Lusty’s and his daughters.

I then got off track again before giving Lusty a kiss on the mouth before leaving.

“I’m going to go get quotes for renovations to upscale but attract the same customers,” I said.

Lusty replied, “That’s the damn point.”

Leaving my girlfriend’s penthouse, I couldn’t help but reflect on my eclectic academic journey. From 2004 to 2007, I earned a Bachelor’s degree in Physical Education and Fire Science. Later, I pursued a Master’s degree in Culinary Arts and Mythology. My studies took me deep into the works of poets like Homer—not Homer Simpson, but the ancient Greek poet who penned the Odyssey. I also delved into the writings of Aristotle and Aesop.

Aesop’s fables, especially “The Boy Who Cried Wolf,” left a lasting impression on me. My dad used to read it to me when I was a kid, explaining how the shepherd’s lies for attention led to his downfall when a real wolf appeared, and no one believed him. That story taught me the importance of honesty; if I became a compulsive liar, no one would trust me when I truly needed help.

Yet, whenever I’m near a boat or even just see one, I can’t resist quoting Odysseus, “Joyfully to the breeze royal Odysseus spread his sail, and with his rudder skillfully he steered.” It’s a reminder of the adventures and lessons that have shaped my life.

If only my mother could learn from “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Unfortunately, she’s a compulsive liar, and quite skilled at it. I often joke that she’d make a great politician. When she called me, asking to live with me while she was in rehab, I initially thought she was faking it. I said no, but a few days later, her rehab doctor contacted me, confirming her story. They even involved the US Embassy in the City of Empire, which reached out to local law enforcement to track me down and relay her message.

Realizing she was telling the truth, I returned to America and brought her to live with me. Now, I supervise her when I’m not working, ensuring she stays on the right path. It’s a challenging situation, but I’m committed to helping her through it.

Despite the rocky relationship with my mother, I’ve taken serious measures to ensure my firearms are secure. I have a military-grade weapons locker that even plastic explosives can’t breach. I feel like the female version of Burt Gummer from Tremors with my arsenal, but safety is my top priority.

When my mother once tried to access my locker, I had to scold her and then added extra security measures to prevent her from using bolt cutters on the lock. My training in weapon safety, both in Alabama and here on Little Bird in the Commonwealth of Mountain, has taught me the importance of keeping firearms secure.

To further ensure safety, I store my ammunition separately in a hidden location. This way, even if my mother somehow got into the locker, she wouldn’t have access to the ammo, preventing any potential mishaps.

I call it the “Commonwealth of Mountain,” but the name really depends on who you ask. Some people refer to it as the “State of Mountain,” others as the “Borough of Mountain,” and still others as the “County of Mountain.” Even state-level government buildings can’t seem to agree, with different departments using different terms.

For me, it’s all about personal preference. I stick with “Commonwealth of Mountain,” while my girlfriend prefers “Borough of Mountain.” My cousin, David “Dave” Waterson, likes to call it the “County of Mountain.” It’s interesting how something as simple as a name can vary so much depending on who you talk to.

The military buildings here all refer to it as the “Commonwealth of Mountain.” Back when I was at Arcane University, I used to head over to the Armory for the city’s militia to play basketball. The armory is a public building, and I always thought of the militia as akin to the Minutemen and militias of the American Revolution.

The militia here on Little Bird replaced the Home Guard, which I liken to the Army National Guard back in the United States. The Home Guard was too large and often moved units around, sometimes leaving areas under-protected during times of civil unrest. During the anti-war protests, some cities or universities in the Commonwealth of Mountain ended up with more “weekend warriors” than others.

So, the Home Guard was replaced with the militia, with each militia assigned to protect a specific town or city. Unlike the Home Guard, the militia cannot be federalized into military service. The militia includes many people who the regular military would label as 4F (unfit for service), but they only reject those who are mentally unfit for military service.

The term “Commonwealth” was added in the 1960s to create another layer between the State/Borough/County and the Stratocratic Government of Little Bird. This helped create legislation broad enough to address common concerns across these regions. According to my cousin Dave, the military prefers “Commonwealth” because it simplifies logistics and deployment. The Little Bird military has five armies, and the Third Army is responsible for the Commonwealth of Mountain. This means the military can be deployed within its boundaries and can only cross into other Commonwealths if necessary, like during an invasion or times of war. Dave says this makes defense operations, like ballistic defense stations, more efficient.

The Third Army is quite the formidable force, consisting of the 14th, 15th, 17th, and 18th Infantry Divisions, the 21st Airborne Division, the 39th Airborne Regiment, the 1st and 2nd Mountaineer Divisions, the 5th and 7th Armored Divisions, and the 5th and 7th Air Cavalry Regiments.

On the other hand, the Little Bird Marine Corps boasts the First Marine Corps, which is their equivalent of a Field Army. This includes the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 7th, 8th, and 9th Marine Divisions, along with the 10th Marine Regiment. Notably, the 21st Airborne Division and the 3rd Marine Division are stationed just outside the city of Empire.

The Little Bird Third Army has a storied history, having received numerous military citations and medals since the early 1900s. Both the Army and Marine Corps play crucial roles in the defense and operational capabilities of the Commonwealth of Mountain. While the Little Bird First Army has the same roles for the Commonwealth of Blueberry, the Little Bird Second Army for the Commonwealth of Strawberry, the Fourth Army for the Commonwealth of Cascade, and the Little Birden Fifth Army for the Commonwealth of Starfish.

After all when the Soviets did a surprise invasion of Little Bird back in 2005 well if it wasn’t for the Fort Suction Militia, and the Fort Suction Police Department whom the latter isn’t even trained to fight professional soldiers, armored vehicles and attack helicopters. Not adding that during skirmishes the Soviet officers thought about having their units get close to Little Birden military units so they would be hesitant to call down an artillery strike, air strike or a Napalm strike on their own position but found out the hard way that they would call down fire support down on their own position if need be. Not adding that the Little Bird Army brought out the heavy artillery literally where the Soviet's artillery didn’t have the range while the Little Bird Army there 210mm and 240mm artillery guns fired with impunity.

But I do give props to how the Soviets got onto Little Bird by doing a surprise invasion where the Soviets launch a surprise invasion of Little Bird by loading up their troops on disguised cargo ships and sneaking them into the Commonwealth of Starfish, past the L.B. Navy. They quickly overrun the city of Fort Suction and the town of Riverwood and spread out inland before officially being surrounded by the Little Birden First, Second, Fourth, and Fifth Armies.

And the Little Bird 7th Army aka the 1st and 2nd Ranger Regiments (1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 7th Rangers Battalions for 1st Ranger Regiment, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 14th, and 15th Ranger Battalions for the 2nd Ranger Regiment) who said Rangers every night for two months infiltrated Soviet occupied Fort Suction every night by boat. Or by para dropping they done a lot of damage to the Soviet defenses and artillery weapons where if said weapons were well hidden and couldn’t be targeted by counter-artillery fire or an airstrike well said Rangers used Thermite to permanently disable artillery pieces by inserting said Thermite into the breech and quickly closing it then said Thermite welds the breech shut and make loading the artillery impossible.

I have to give props to the Little Bird War Department for their strategic deployment of “Project Phoenix” soldiers. According to some of my cousins in the military, the War Department follows a philosophy of “knowing when it’s time to watch, knowing when it’s time to build and when it’s time to act.” They were cautious about deploying their supersoldiers, who are part of Special Operations and wear some kind of advanced body suit—probably a titanium shell if I had to guess.

The advantage of “Project Phoenix” soldiers is their incredible strength and endurance. They can carry crew-served weapons like a .50 Cal Heavy Machine Gun, which usually requires a crew of three, as easily as a standard infantryman carries an assault rifle. I’ve seen these soldiers on war news feeds, their identities hidden by helmets with faceplates that can polarize to obscure their faces.

Many of these helmets are equipped with small, hardened cameras that record high-definition footage and send it back to command. The footage I’ve seen is almost futuristic. These soldiers can withstand heavy gunfire, including armor-piercing and full metal jacket rounds, which just bounce off their armor. They’re so strong that they can punch the side of a tank’s barrel, rendering it useless.

“Project Phoenix” actually dates back to 1945, originally intended to increase a soldier’s durability for the invasion of mainland Japan. By the time these soldiers were ready, the war was over, and this was before the testing of the Trinity nuclear bomb. The project selected the most battle-hardened Marines and Army Rangers, and the modern version of “Project Phoenix” builds on that legacy.

My half-cousin, who’s involved with the project, said that these soldiers have to be careful with their strength. Even something as simple as opening a car door or a building door can result in them ripping it off its hinges if they’re not careful. This is true even when they’re out of their armor. It’s fascinating and a bit intimidating to think about the power they wield.

As I was walking down the street, whistling a tune, an SUV pulled up beside me. Three of the four occupants got out, and one of them addressed me.

“Ms. Waterson, we need you to come with us,” he said.

I took a moment to size them up. They were all wearing relatively light gear caps with logos (some forward, some backward), shades, polo shirts or sleeveless shirts, and sometimes bulletproof vests. They had camo pants with gun holsters strapped to their left legs and sturdy boots. Their arms were adorned with various tattoo designs, giving them a rugged, yet coordinated look.

I told them no, since I didn’t know them. But I was reading their movements and their eyes, trying to gauge their intentions.

Despite my vigilance, they managed to get me by force—not at gunpoint, but they were strong and determined. They bound my hands and hustled me into the SUV.

As we left the city, I noticed two helicopters circling overhead. They weren’t civilian or police helicopters; they were military. Specifically, they were UH-140 “Falcons.” The Falcon is a versatile, multipurpose utility helicopter used by the Little Bird Army for troop transport, deployment, and air-to-ground support. It was designed to compete with the USMC Osprey. While the Osprey’s first flight was in 1989 and it entered service in 2007, the Falcon first flew in 1992 and was put into service in 1996.

The Falcon’s specifications are impressive:

Length: 37.9 ft

Width: 33 ft

Height: 14.1 ft

Mass: 14.2 metric tons

Maximum speed: 296 kilometers per hour (184 mph)

Engine(s): Twin turboprop engines

Armament: One four-round burst 20mm or 30mm autocannon under the nose

Crew: One pilot, two-door gunners

Complement: Five passengers, including gunners

Seeing those helicopters overhead, I knew things were serious. The presence of military hardware like the Falcon meant that whatever was happening, it was on a whole different level.

Soon, the driver was hit by something from an impressive range. The SUV swerved off the Interstate and crashed into a tree. Before the driver was hit, the four mercs glanced at the helicopters but quickly dismissed them, using a radio to alert the SUV behind us to be ready since the Falcons weren’t part of the plan.

When the driver was hit, I deduced it was from a high-powered rifle with a low-powered round. It pierced the window and struck the driver without going through the seat to hit the mercenary next to me. I noticed the second vehicle following us flipped out of control after its front left tire was hit. It looked like a rescue mission was underway.

My heart raced as I realized someone out there was trying to save me. The precision of the shots and the sudden chaos gave me a glimmer of hope amidst the tension.

The passenger-side window shattered as a figure punched through it, grabbing the mercenary next to the driver. In a swift fluid motion, the figure disarmed the merc and pulled him halfway out of the vehicle before dragging him out completely through the passenger door.

One of the Falcons landed nearby, and three lightly armed spec ops soldiers emerged, carrying submachine guns equipped with suppressor-compensator hybrids. They moved with lethal precision, neutralizing the remaining mercenaries as if they had done it a million times before. Dressed in all-black battle dress uniforms, black vests, FAST helmets, and black masks, their identities were completely obscured.

The mercenaries didn’t stand a chance. The soldiers took them down before they even knew what hit them.

“Strike Actual, this is Strike-One,” one of the soldiers said into his radio. “VIP is secure. Repeat, VIP is secure.”

I was nervous to get out of the SUV, unsure of what to expect.

“Alright, Mac, we’re here to get you out of here,” the same soldier reassured me.

I had no idea where to begin, so I asked, “Who are you?”

The soldier looked at me through his mask, his eyes the only visible part of his face. “We’re your extraction team. Let’s get you to safety.”

I asked, “How do y’all know I was in danger?”

The soldier ignored my question, his attention diverted by a message in his earpiece.

“Strike-One, let’s head to the LZ,” he said, then turned to me. “Heard you were capable in a fight. Try to keep up.”

He handed me a handgun from his holster. “Went through basic like you,” I replied, though I didn’t mention my time in the United States Navy as a Fire Controlman on the USS Bunker Hill from 2007-2009, where I controlled the bow Mark 45 5-inch/54-caliber lightweight gun.

“Who the heck are these guys?” I wondered quietly.

The pistol he handed me was a Viperstrike .50, a real hand cannon chambered in .50 AE. It had a ton of recoil, but this was the SOCOM version, equipped with a suppressor-compensator mix that made the recoil almost negligible.

As we moved towards the landing zone, I couldn’t help but feel a mix of adrenaline and curiosity. These soldiers were unlike any I’d encountered before, and I had a feeling this was just the beginning of a much larger story.

The squad leader used hand signals to communicate, and the moment he raised his hand, the team instantly stopped. It was clear these soldiers were highly trained; you don’t get into special operations by being a lone wolf. I’ve heard stories back in America about how the most athletic people sometimes can’t make it through Navy SEAL training, while the most unathletic ones can.

I couldn’t tell if these guys were from the Little Bird Army Special Forces or the Little Bird Marine Corps Commandos. Neither group wears insignias, allowing for plausible deniability if captured behind enemy lines. Their weapons were common within the Blister Canyon, Little Bird, Lava Falls Defense Force (BCLBLFDF), so if captured, they could claim to be from any of the three.

I decided to keep my mouth shut and follow their lead. These soldiers moved with a purpose and precision that left no room for doubt—they knew exactly what they were doing.

I knew they weren’t Silent Serpents because their uniforms were different. The Silent Serpents wear a black-gray undersuit made of Kevlar, which protects against small arms fire. The inner layer regulates temperature, keeping the wearer warm or cool based on the weather, and can match infrared signatures. Their armor, including the helmet and chest plate, is made of titanium and ceramic materials, covering from the clavicle to the bottom of the rib cage, with some protection for the abdomen. The helmet is distinct, with a rounded visor made of titanium and coated with a heat-dispersing material. The visor can polarize to obscure the user’s face or depolarize to become nearly transparent, usually colored silver-blue, but sometimes red, dark orange, silver, black, or golden.

Initially, I thought the Little Bird Marine Commandos were the Little Bird equivalent of the USMC Force Recon or Marine Raiders. However, I realized that Force Recon was established in 1957, while the Marine Raiders were established in 1942 and disbanded in 1944. The Little Bird Marine Commandos, on the other hand, were established in 1940.

I wanted to ask how far the landing zone was, but I kept my mouth shut. These guys had just saved me, and I figured asking who they were would probably get me a “need to know” response. So, I decided to follow their lead and stay quiet.

When we reached the landing zone, it was an open field. The four-man team quickly set up a defensive perimeter around the clearing. It was clear they had done this countless times before. Their movements were precise and practiced, like a well-rehearsed dance.

These guys operated in the shadows, their missions likely buried under layers of black ink in classified documents. The true extent of their operations would never be known to the public, only to those who were directly involved. For everyone else, it was always a matter of "need to know" and most of the time, we didn't need to know.

As I watched them work, I couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and curiosity. These were the kind of soldiers whose stories would never be told, whose deeds would remain in the dark, known only to a select few. It was a stark reminder of the hidden world of special operations, where the line between heroism and anonymity is razor-thin.

It wasn’t long before an armored jeep arrived. We all climbed in, with the squad leader getting on last, and we sped off. As soon as we were moving, the helmets and masks came off in unison, revealing familiar faces—it was some of my cousins. Many of my cousins here on Little Bird are military spec ops, and they make their jobs look like art. Infiltration, demolitions, assassination, intel retrieval—they turn these tasks into modern masterpieces.

“Strike Actual, this is Strike-One. The VIP is secure,” my cousin Detlef Waterson said into his earpiece.

I couldn’t believe it was family that had saved me. In the Waterson family, we have a saying, “We know what’s happening within the family.” And they knew. We all knew. But the speed and precision with which they responded and rescued me was almost unreal. It was a testament to their skill and dedication, and I felt a profound sense of gratitude and pride.

“Hey, do y’all know who’s after me?” I asked, trying to piece together what was happening.

My cousin Weaver replied, “Some big shot in the city of Empire. You know his friend Carter? Well, apparently, this big shot is the Lieutenant of the Sparrow Syndicate.”

I was about to say something, but he showed me some intel on a smartphone-like device.

“So they weren’t mercs?” I asked, surprised.

“No,” they told me. “But that’s how the Sparrow Syndicate outfits their people, making them look more like mercs than a cartel.”

It didn’t take long for us to reach the main highway.

“Do you think they’ll send corrupt officers to stop us?” I asked, still wary of what might come next.

Montgomery replied with a reassuring grin, “Mac, we’re in a 14-ton armored jeep. A 2-ton car won’t stand a chance. Even if those baddies opened fire with small arms, we’ll be completely safe and sound.”

His confidence was comforting, and I felt a bit more at ease knowing we were well-protected.

I saw Montgomery pick up a phone to receive a message.

“Well, that’s great,” he muttered.

“What is it?” I asked, sensing trouble.

“Got marked police vehicles coming up on our six, but our eye in the sky with government-level access says no police units are in the area,” Montgomery explained.

“So, criminals dressing up as cops for a false flag op?” I replied, piecing it together.

“Yup,” Detlef confirmed.

The situation was getting more complicated by the minute, but with my cousins’ expertise and our armored jeep, I felt a bit more confident we could handle whatever came our way.

I picked up a rifle and removed the magazine, inspecting it. “7.62x52mm Armor Piercing,” I noted.

“Favored by Little Bird Army Snipers for penetration of armor,” Montgomery added.

“I’ll deal with any unwanted guests,” I told them. Soon enough, we heard sirens in the distance. We weren’t fooled by the criminals posing as cops. I opened a hatch on the ceiling of the up-armored jeep, steadied the rifle, and fired three precise shots before ducking back inside and closing the hatch. I aimed at the tires of the cars chasing us, and with their tires popped, they had to give up the chase.

“We don’t have any visitors anymore,” I said, putting the rifle back in its place.

The tension eased a bit as we continued down the highway, knowing we had one less threat to worry about.

“If the crooks dressed as cops set up a roadblock…” I began to ask.

Montgomery cut me off with a confident grin. “What’s going to win, Mac? A two-ton steel car or a 14-ton up-armored, mine-resistant armored vehicle? I’m putting my money on the fourteen-ton up-armored vehicle.”

His confidence was reassuring. I couldn’t help but smile at his unwavering belief in our vehicle’s capabilities. It was clear that whatever obstacles lay ahead, we were more than prepared to handle them.

“Long time no see, Mac,” Detlef said with a grin. “Last time I saw you, you were just a youngling.”

The last time I saw Detlef was around 1989, when I was either four or five. He was living in West Germany back then. I remember it was around my birthday. As a teenager, I used to imagine he might have been an American CIA agent using a German name to cross into East Germany. It wasn’t until later that I found out he was actually in the West German Bundeswehr, not a CIA spook.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I replied, smiling at the memory. “I used to think you were some kind of secret agent.”

Detlef chuckled. “Well, I guess the truth is a bit less glamorous, but still pretty interesting.”

It was good to reconnect with family, especially under such intense circumstances. It reminded me that no matter how far we go or what we do, family ties always bring us back together.

I was about to say something, but they all responded in unison, “That cuts both ways.”

I paused, curious about their meaning. They explained that in the Waterson family, we don’t buy into the saying, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” It cuts both ways. If someone has two enemies, their enemies’ enemies might become their friends, but it also works the other way around. Essentially, alliances can be as dangerous as enmities, and trust is a rare commodity.

It was a reminder of the complex web of relationships and loyalties we navigate, especially in our line of work. It made me appreciate the clarity and loyalty within our family even more.

After all, they really don’t have friends per se because of the saying that “those who are the closest can hurt you the most” where they keep their friendships and other types of relationships at arm's length.

They dropped me off at home, and Montgomery gave me a stern warning. “Keep your door locked, Mac, and don’t open it or go outside unless it’s necessary.”

I was about to ask about my so-called mother, but I already knew what they would say, “See answer A.” In other words, look after myself. No Waterson, including me, likes my mother because of her constant lying and playing victim even when she wasn’t the victim. To my family, she’s like the shepherd from “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” Even her own family doesn’t like her.

As I locked the door behind me, I couldn’t help but reflect on the day’s events. It was a stark reminder of the complex web of trust and loyalty in my life. But one thing was clear, family had my back, and that was something I could always count on.

I headed into my master bedroom, which I affectionately call “La Villa Macaroni.” I chose the nickname Macaroni because “Cheeseburger” just doesn’t have the same ring to it, even though I love both cheeseburgers and macaroni and cheese equally.

I walked over to my weapons locker, entered the code on the pad, and opened it. I pondered for a moment, considering my options. Finally, I decided on the Baker Marine Combat Shotgun, the licensed version of the American Remington 870 MCS. I loaded it with Magnum Buckshot, chambering the first shell and loading the rest into the tube.

With the shotgun ready, I felt a bit more secure. It had been a long, intense day, and I needed to be prepared for whatever might come next.

I even used my cellphone to call my dad back in Alabama for help. But I remembered something he told me when I was a teenager. A lot of battles I’ll face, I’ll have to fight on my own. Not every time will I have the luxury of friends or family coming to my aid. Now, many battles I’ll face alone, but sometimes, I’ll have the luxury of having friends or family to back me up.

That’s one thing I love about being a Waterson—we love to fight, and we’re not the type to run our mouths without backing it up. I know many people who play online games and act tough, but in reality, they turn tail and run when things get rough. Us Watersons, we’re like the old days before people hide behind screens to act tough without proving it. We don’t hide behind screens and act differently. We put our money where our mouths are, willing to back up what we say. We practice what we preach, unlike many who preach but aren’t willing to practice what they preach.

It’s a tough world out there, but knowing I have the strength and the family to back me up when needed gives me the confidence to face whatever comes my way.

For additional security, I grabbed a handgun. It’s a versatile pistol with the following specs:

Caliber(s): 9x19mm, .45 ACP

Weight: 1.65 lb

Length: 7.2 in

Barrel length: 4 in (102 mm)

Capacity: 8-round magazine

Fire Modes: Semi-Auto (SA/DA)

When I bought it and waited for the five-day background check, the gun shop owner mentioned that this handgun was popular with the LBIAOSA (Little Bird Intelligence Agency and Office of Strategic Actions) and Little Bird Special Forces during WWII, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War until it was phased out in the mid-90s for the Viperstrike .50. The owner, a former member of the Little Bird 2nd SFG during the Vietnam War, shared this tidbit.

I also had a cousin once removed, Infernus, who was in the Little Birden 1st SFG. Other countries’ intelligence services couldn’t determine if Infernus was her birth name or a codename. She used the Phoenix Pistol, the Little Bird version of the M1911. According to some of my cousins in Little Bird Special Forces, their weapons have refined rifling for advanced muzzle velocity, different from basic rifling for civilian firearms.

I thought about suggesting to my dad that he become a dual citizen of both Little Bird and the United States and peacefully emigrate to Little Bird to retire in a log cabin overlooking a lake—his dream retirement spot. He used to work 50 hours a week, sometimes longer, only for my so-called mother to take 70-80% of his paycheck to fuel her vices, plus taxes for the State of Alabama and the U.S. Federal Government.

That’s why I emigrated to Little Bird. They have a sales tax and an income tax, but both are low—just pocket change compared to the myriad taxes in the United States. Here, I only pay 2% of my paycheck to the government. Losing two dollars is better than the government taking half my check. My friends in America complain about taxes, but I told them they shouldn’t complain. They live in a country that caters to the rich, while I live in a country that caters to the poor and impoverished. Most of Little Bird’s spending goes to civic programs to keep youth off the streets, so they don’t join gangs or commit crimes. These programs provide places for youth to play sports, make friends, talk to adults for help with schoolwork, and learn trades like woodcrafting or leathercrafting. There are also tutors to help with homework and schoolwork.

My girlfriend sends her kids to these youth centers to make friends and get help with schoolwork. She doesn’t pretend to know everything and only helps with what she knows. She went to these centers as a kid for help with schoolwork.

After securing my handgun, I locked my door with the deadbolt and the doorknob lock. I considered barricading the door with furniture but decided against it, knowing it would be a pain.

I pulled a history book off my shelf, a gift from my cousin Jimmy “James” Richard Waterson IV. It detailed the dark days of his town, Harvest, and the corrupt political machine that once ruled it. The mayor and his cronies used the police not as protectors of the law, but as enforcers, extorting residents and tourists alike, and threatening those who dared to vote for other candidates.

Harvest was a farming community, and in 1947, an election year delayed by the war, the corrupt mayor began shaking down returning G.I.s. These men and women, who had spent years fighting authoritarian regimes in Europe and the Pacific, refused to be intimidated. They had not fought against tyranny abroad only to face it at home. Banding together, they stormed the town’s armory, arming themselves with a mix of semi-automatic rifles, automatic rifles, and even some World War I-era weapons. They surrounded the police station, demanding the ballot boxes with the forced votes.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The mayor, desperate, called the Governor of the State of Starfish for help from the Home Guard. However, President Orange federalized the Home Guard, nullifying the governor’s order. The G.I.s, knowing the town was flanked by mountains, used explosives to cause a landslide, blocking the only two entrances to the town. The corrupt officials, trapped inside a building, quickly ran out of food and water. The G.I.s, well-supplied, cut off all water and power to the building. The officials had two choices: surrender or fight. Many chose to fight but were outgunned by the G.I.s, who had Tommy Gun-styled SMGs, BAR-styled automatic rifles, and semi-automatic rifles.

The G.I.s emerged victorious, restoring safety and ousting the corrupt mayor and his lackeys. However, they and their families were arrested and charged with starting an armed rebellion and treason. The charges were dropped when President Orange, through her brother-in-law Brigadier General Adam Orange, confirmed that their actions were protected by an act of Congress. The only punishable offense was the unlawful use of explosives, resulting in community service to repair the roads damaged in the landslide.

This story highlighted what I love about Little Bird: the protection of congressional and constitutional rights. The G.I.s acted within their rights to rebel against a tyrannical government and didn’t actually break any laws.

Now, I’m just waiting until it’s time to go get my mother. Despite my feelings towards her, I’d rather pick her up than risk her taking public transport.

Mrs. Abigail Orange, through her brother-in-law Brigadier General Adam Orange, sent a letter stating:

“The Defendants’ rights to act as an armed militia against a tyrannical government are protected by an act of Congress and they cannot be compelled nor tried for following their rights. This includes, in this case, forming an armed militia to protect their home against a tyrannical government on their home soil. - Signed Brigadier General Adam Orange, War Service Commander, War Department, City of Chocolate.”

I kept reading the book and even interviewed some of the G.I.s who were there. Some of them were tankers, those who operated inside tanks. They admitted that some wanted to steal a tank, but that would have alerted the authorities and activated the Home Guard much earlier. They also wanted the 78mm white phosphorus shells.

The book didn’t shy away from showing how these G.I.s weren’t pushovers. When push came to shove, they struck back. The corrupt mayor was playing with fire. Most of these men and women were 17-20 when they signed up to fight in the war in '42, so they were in their early 20s when they returned in '45. They had spent two to three years in active combat. When the corrupt cops pointed their .38 revolvers at the returning G.I.s, these men and women, who had faced MG42 fire, were not intimidated. They quickly disarmed the corrupt officials and pointed the .38s right back at them, reminding them that Panzerkampfwagen V Panthers and Panzerkampfwagen VI Tiger Ausf. E tanks were far scarier than a .38 revolver. These G.I.s, regular infantry, had engaged these tanks in the war, when the Axis powers were desperate and unpredictable.

I put the book back on the shelf and kept my head on a swivel, always watching my back. I headed over to Eastside, feeling a bit more at ease since I’m dating Lusty. People there treat me with respect because Lusty vouched for me.

When I met with the final person for the third bar, he told me I now owned the place and he didn’t care what I did with it. Even though I should have been home, I felt safer in Eastside. The men and women here, many of whom served in the Army or Marines, abhor the police department. Crimes here are punished by the community, and since Clairbear vouched for me, they treat me as one of their own. If anyone tried to kidnap or assassinate me, the community would step in. The last time someone almost got killed in Eastside, the people stopped it themselves because the cops didn’t care. They even killed the killer, and when the DA’s office got mad and sent the police to arrest the person who killed the killer, the cops left on foot after almost starting a riot. The people in Eastside solve crimes their way, doing what the police won’t or can’t do.

Eastside isn’t popular with the DA’s office, and vice versa. The people here voice their hatred against the police department and the DA’s office, which don’t treat crimes in Eastside, Westside, and Anderson as seriously as those in middle-class or affluent neighborhoods. In the city of Empire, an army of cops would respond to a crime in a wealthy area, but in places like Eastside, they barely show up. Once, there was a homicide in Westside, and the killer got only two years in max security prison, eligible for parole after nine months. If it had been in a middle-class neighborhood, it would have been five years, and in a rich neighborhood, ten years.

The people in Eastside know how broken the justice system is. Many travel on foot or take public transit to avoid traffic tickets. When they do get unfair tickets, they file motions in civil court to get them voided. Nine out of ten times, the tickets are unjust. When they go to court, the officers who wrote the tickets often don’t show up, even though subpoenas are sent to their residences and precincts well in advance. This shows the judge that the tickets weren’t issued legally.

Feeling a bit more secure, I continued to keep an eye on my surroundings, knowing that in Eastside, I had a community that had my back.

Lusty often talked about how messed up the criminal justice system is, but she also highlights the close-knit community of Eastside. Despite many people now living in modern apartment buildings, the sense of community remains strong. Eastside is only 1.162 square miles with a population of 58,200, making it a tight-knit area. The high Austrian and German population here celebrates their version of Oktoberfest, a tradition brought over in the 1800s. As Lusty puts it, “If both World Wars couldn’t separate us, then I don’t know what will.”

The people of Eastside had two choices: be divided and let the city overrun them, or become well-educated and fight back. Their education empowers them to challenge city hall, showing they don’t need the bureaucratic system. From 1967 to 1995, Eastside had a high fire rate due to obsolete wiring. In 1984, the city moved Firehouse 47 out of Eastside, Firehouse 17 from Westside, and Firehouse 33 from Anderson, claiming it was to save money. This was a lie, as the firehouses were relocated to areas that didn’t need fire protection. The fire commissioner blamed the residents, calling them rural people not used to city life, which was untrue since their ancestors had lived there for generations.

The people of Eastside learned the inner workings of the fire department, timing how long it took for the closest firehouse to respond, which was usually 12 minutes or longer. Before, the response time was under five minutes. They formed bucket brigades and used garden hoses to fight fires. They realized the city was practicing “Planned Shrinkage,” cutting civic services to let the area collapse so the city could buy it for pennies on the dollar without using eminent domain. The residents refused to sell their businesses and tenements, valuing their memories and community ties.

Lusty loves how in Eastside, parents can let their children play outside with adult supervision because of the trust within the community. This trust allows kids to play safely without constant adult oversight, fostering a strong sense of community and mutual support.

You know, people in Eastside are a lot smarter than they get credit for. As a firefighter, I’ve seen my fair share of reckless behavior, but not here. Unlike other places, folks in Eastside don’t wait until the last second to dart across the street when they see us coming. They know better than to challenge a 23-ton fire engine filled with 1,000 gallons of water or a 47-ton steel fire truck. These beasts can’t stop on a dime like a ten-pound mountain bike.

I have to give credit where it’s due. Most of the fires and emergencies I’ve responded to in Eastside fall into the “unavoidable” category—things that would happen no matter what. Sure, there are a few avoidable ones, but nothing like what my cousin Dave and my girlfriend Lusty deal with. They get calls for fires that could’ve been prevented with a bit of common sense. I’m talking about people grilling inside their homes, leaving stoves unattended with flammable items nearby, or smoking and carelessly letting their cigarettes fall into paint or oil. Some even light up in bed and fall asleep, letting the cigarette ignite the sheets. It’s like they’re asking for trouble.

Back in 2008, the city was still reeling from a devastating 8.3 earthquake that had caused extensive damage. During this chaotic time, my cousin Dave, my girlfriend Clairebear, and Dave’s wife Linda had to tackle a high-rise resort fire. The cause? Someone decided to use a hotplate in their room instead of calling for room service. This careless act ended up destroying an entire floor of the resort. When the fire broke out, everyone was outside, so the floor was abandoned. The automatic fire alarm (AFA) went off, but it was set up in such a way that it didn’t indicate which floor was affected. This meant more and more fire companies had to be called in to search each floor, room by room, to locate the fire.

I only heard about this emergency through word of mouth because I was back in the United States, training for the US Navy at the time. Clairebear described it as “the third time in the fire department’s history where all four Fire Department City of Empire Special Operations Units were at an emergency that wasn’t a school fire.” These elite units consist of men and women with extra training, skills, and a wealth of experience. I’m proud to say I fall into the category of those with extra training and skill.

In my view, natural disasters like hurricanes, wildfires, and extreme heat are unavoidable. However, structure fires, car accidents, and many EMS runs fall into the avoidable category. Many of the house fires my cousin Dave and Clairebear respond to could have been prevented if people exercised a bit of common sense. For instance, leaving stoves unattended with flammable items nearby, like cloth or paper towels, is just asking for trouble. It’s frustrating to see how easily these fires could have been avoided with a little caution.

I think a lot of people in Emerald Pastors and Riverview grew up being told that if they ever got into trouble, they should just call for help and someone would come to their rescue. This might explain why they’re so careless. These are middle-class districts with prefabricated steel houses made of fireproof materials, which pretty much nullifies the risk of fires. Riverview, while middle-class, is home to the elderly and university students who prefer living off-campus rather than in dorms, frats, or sororities. Even though university policy requires students to live on campus for a year before they can move off-ground, I managed to live in my great-granduncle’s villa when I was at Arcane University. It was his summer home, and it worked out perfectly for me.

Here in Eastside, most of the fires we fight are the unavoidable types. This is often due to neglect by the city or circumstances that make it impossible to prevent the fires, no matter how careful people are. It’s frustrating, but it’s the reality we deal with every day.

Not adding that Claire says that when she was a kid and teenager she was always happy for fire prevention week. Of course as a child it was not doing school work for an hour. But well learning how they provide a first line of defense against fire by being careful because of the fire department being the second and last line of defense against fire. In most other districts the fires are the avoidable type if people stop to use common sense like not leaving a cigarette next to a propane tank or mess around with a flare in a garage only to drop it when said flare gets hot and said flare falls onto oil canisters or lands in a bucket of oil based paint.

I’ve done a few inspections here in Eastside, and I have to say, the people here aren’t idiotic. They actually clean up after themselves and follow basic safety protocols. They turn off electric clothing irons when not in use, properly dispose of worn-out wires, avoid overloading electrical outlets, and don’t use power strips to plug in more cords. They also don’t put coins in fuse boxes or drape wet laundry over extension cords. Plus, they store their cleaning supplies properly, so in case of a fire, it takes longer for the flames to reach them.

But when my cousin Dave or my girlfriend Claire do their inspections, it’s a different story. They’ve seen enough careless behavior to write a book about it. Dave has been on the job for almost fifteen years, and Claire has fourteen years under her belt. They work out of different firehouses in Emerald Pastors and Riverview. I give the people of Riverview a pass because most of them are senior citizens, but Emerald Pastors are mostly middle-class folks who should know better.

Dave’s firehouse is on a one-way street, and across the street is a no-parking zone because of the firehouse. Despite the clear signage, people still park there. His company, Ladder Company 16, operates a 100-foot tiller ladder, which is longer than rear-mount ladder trucks. Many times, they’ve had to break car mirrors to get through, and the car owners get mad instead of taking responsibility for parking in a no-parking zone.

I’ve seen Dave crack his knuckles, ready to take on those arrogant drivers who refuse to take responsibility for their actions. These folks have even sued the department for vehicle damage, but the judges always dismiss the cases. Why? Because they parked in a no-parking zone clearly marked with a “NO PARKING 24/7” sign. The judges not only dismiss the cases but also slap the drivers with 8 points out of 12 on their licenses for parking illegally.

Dave, like the rest of us Watersons, takes responsibility for his actions. But he’s met plenty of angry drivers who blame him and his company for damaging their cars. Some even hire lawyers to file lawsuits, but these cases get thrown out because the drivers have no ground to stand on. They chose to park where they shouldn’t have.

As Dave says, “Able Shift gets those people twice a week.” I interpret this as people trying to make a quick buck by doing something stupid and then suing the city, hoping for an out-of-court settlement. It’s frustrating, but at least the lawsuits against the fire department for broken side mirrors get dismissed. The drivers who file these suits are the ones who decided to park illegally in the first place.

I just finished inspecting the bars I bought and called a few renovation companies for quotes. The estimates varied, with labor costs ranging from $400 to $800. My dad always said, “Just because something is expensive doesn’t mean it’s good,” so I had to decide whether to use the same company for all three bars or hire different companies to get the renovations done within a shorter time frame.

I considered asking my family for help since they know renovation and construction, but they’re not licensed contractors in the Commonwealth of Mountain. According to Little Bird’s laws, anyone doing renovations needs a license from their Commonwealth, approved by the HVAC and Skilled Trade board. My family only does renovations on their own property, not commercially. I decided against asking them because I don’t want the cops showing up and asking for a license they don’t have. The law states that only the leader of the renovation team needs the license.

I thought long and hard about it and decided to hire all three renovation companies, one for each bar. I made it clear they couldn’t pull a fast one on me. They asked for a small deposit upfront, which I understand goes towards purchasing materials, pulling permits, or securing a spot on the contractor’s schedule.

I know this because I have two cousins with contractor licenses in Mississippi and Virginia. Many of my family members on Little Bird have the education and skills to be licensed contractors, whether from living on a farm, attending vocational school, or joining the military and using their G.I. benefits to get their license fees waived. In Little Bird, it’s mandatory for men to sign up for the military, and those who don’t can sign up for the Selective Service and be eligible for the draft. While the U.S. got rid of the draft in 1973, Little Bird has limited conscription during peacetime and a more extensive draft during crises and wartime.

My family in Little Bird can do renovations on their own homes or help friends without any legal issues because it’s private property. However, since the bars I bought are commercial properties, they could only walk me through the process of putting up wallpaper or drywall, rewiring electrical systems, or laying down floors without actually doing the work. So I decided to go with the professional companies instead.

I’ve done renovations in the past as a “favor” for a family member in Mississippi. My dad always said, “This is why you don’t indebt yourself to others.” I learned exactly what he meant. My cousin and his wife went out of town and I ended up spending my entire summer vacation working on their house.

Back then I was in high school and working part-time as a waitress. My schedule was grueling, four hours a day at the restaurant, then several hours of travel to my cousin’s place, followed by hours of renovation work. Sundays were even tougher—church from 8-11 AM, waitressing from 11-3 PM, and then renovating from 5-10 PM. The other six days were just as packed, with waitressing from 8 AM-12 PM and renovating from 2-10 PM.

I had no social life because I was constantly working. The only breaks I got were the car rides to and from the house. Many nights, I was so exhausted that my dad had to carry me inside and put me to bed. It was a tough lesson in the importance of setting boundaries and not overcommitting, even for family.

At least I had my dad with me during those renovations. He only helped with the electrical work because he was worried I’d mess it up and either electrocute myself or cause a fire. He was a licensed electrician in Alabama before the 2008 recession. After his time in the 82nd Airborne he wanted a job with a better work-life balance, so he chose to become an electrician. He felt it was a good fit and provided a stable income.

My dad served in the 82nd Airborne and was deployed to Panama for Operation: Just Cause and later to Iraq for the Gulf War. He missed several years of my life during those deployments, and I stayed with extended family because he didn’t trust my mother. Honestly, I don’t trust her to fill a pot with water either. He couldn’t get those years from 1989 to 1992 back, so he chose a job that allowed him to spend more time with me. He didn’t want me to grow up resenting him for missing out on my life. Looking back, I never really hated him for it. He made up for lost time, and I understand that his deployments were beyond his control.

As I left Eastside I kept my head on a swivel making sure whoever was after me didn’t get a second chance of getting me because next time I most likely won’t have the luxury of having my family safe guard my back.

_________________

Several hours later, I was relaxing on my couch, reading a book, when I heard a knock on my apartment door. I got up to answer it and found a man standing there. He introduced himself, saying he had just moved into an apartment down the hall.

Something about him set off my instincts. My gut was telling me something was off, but I decided to play along, not wanting to raise any suspicions. But my suspicions were high because of everything that had happened today. Saying I was a tad bit on edge was definitely an understatement.

After that introduction, I grabbed my apartment key and car keys and decided to head to the Sapphire Lounge, a bar and dance club on top of a high-rise. I used to visit it a lot when I was at Arcane University. Maybe the bouncer would remember me; every Friday, I’d slip him ten bucks to let me in. Most of the time, it was an event, and only those on the list could get in. That ten bucks always got my name added to the list.

__________________________

At the Sapphire Lounge

I headed straight to the bar.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked.

Without missing a beat, I replied, “Mozzarella sticks with marinara sauce and a cheeseburger with extra grease.”

“Oh, the Macaroni special,” the bartender said with a grin. “Want a shot or a bottle of whiskey to go with it?”

I looked at him, and after a few seconds, his memory clicked. The special was named after me because I always ordered mozzarella sticks, a cheeseburger with extra grease, and a shot of whiskey.

The bartender put in my order after I handed him five bucks, then gave me a number. I went to find a seat.

“Must be slow dancin’ night,” I muttered to myself.

On the dance floor, people were swaying to a slow-beat song. Maybe it was a special slow dancing event for couples to enjoy.

I watched them dance, keeping my phone on vibrate so any calls wouldn’t disrupt the atmosphere or ruin anyone’s fun. I also kept my head on a swivel, occasionally checking my surroundings and even my back.

After a while, someone approached my table. Instinctively, I prepared to jump up in a defensive stance, but it was just one of the kitchen staff delivering my order. I eased up, relieved.

As I ate, I kept my eyes up, scanning the crowd, convinced that someone might be after me. I remembered watching The Terminator and Lieutenant Traxler saying, "You're in a public place, so you'll be safe." I never believed that, and while I'm not being hunted by a futuristic cyborg, I'm not taking any chances with the "Sparrow Cartel."

Why I decided to come out tonight is a mystery, even to me. Maybe I just didn't want to be home. I wasn't going to my girlfriend's place because I didn't want to put her and her children in harm's way. The same goes for Dave and Linda's apartment. I didn't want to endanger Linda and their kids. Although, knowing Dave, he would have insisted I come over anyway. The last person who threatened Dave ended up being flown to a shock trauma center by air ambulance with every bone in his body broken.

I'm choosing not to involve them because I don't want them to get into trouble with the people after me. But I know Dave would pull the family card, reminding me that family is there for each other no matter what. For us Watersons, we have a saying, "You mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."

I remember when I was a kid, staying with a female cousin who treated me like her own daughter. Some kids were picking on me and when I told her, she went ballistic. She wasn't my biological mother, but while my dad was away for the Gulf War, she acted like I was her own. She marched right over to those kids' houses and snapped at their parents, even telling them that if they wanted a fight, it would be the battle of the century. She was, and still is, the caretaker of my great-granddad, making sure he's not alone on his farm in Upstate New York.

Of course my great-grandfather told her that she should just bring the Thompson M1A1 that he has even though he wasn’t issued a Thompson with his time in the US Army in World War 2 and the Korean War but actually an M1918A2 Browning Automatic Rifle.

I stayed at the Sapphire Lounge, mostly eating and having a few drinks. I had a few shots of whiskey and then a cup of coffee.

I get why it’s called “The Sapphire Lounge.” The lighting here looks like someone held a sapphire gem up to the light, casting that deep blue glow. They can change the color, but it usually represents a blue sapphire. In Little Bird, each Commonwealth has its own state gem. The Commonwealth of Mountain’s gem is a ruby, Cascade’s is a sapphire, Starfish’s is an emerald, Strawberry’s is lazurite, and Blueberry’s is a diamond.

A guy came up and asked if he could sit at my table. My gut was screaming no, but it was giving me bad vibes about everyone, so I let him sit down.

We had a lively conversation, but the moment he tried to sweet talk or seduce me, I shut him down. I told him to pump the brakes because I’m already in a relationship and not interested.

When the guy asked what my family does for a living, I didn't hesitate. I told him it was classified, known only to a handful of people, and that what they do never happened.

He thought I was playing hard to get.

Legally, I can only say that most of my family's work is known to them and a select few, including the highest echelons of the military and on-site survivors. If someone dies, they become an "un-person," with all evidence of their existence systematically erased—birth certificates, records, everything, as if they never existed. And those who knew them would have two choices: either never speak (and by extension everybody they know as well) or be committed to an insane asylum on the pretext of them being dangerous to themselves and society.

When he asked if I thought my own family would betray me, I dismissed the idea immediately. Us Watersons stick together, no matter what. Back in 1955, here on Little Bird, we had a standoff with the cops for 117 hours. They were after one of us, thinking he was the criminal because of the same shoe size. The real criminal was picked up in another town for the same crime. The standoff didn't turn into a firefight, but the cops surrounded the house for four days, trying to draw us out. The guys inside had served in World War II or the Korean War, or both, and knew how to stretch their supplies and ration effectively.

The Waterson family never abandons each other. We're always there for one another, no matter what. It's countries that betray their own people, burying the truth beneath lies and deceit. Our loyalty to each other is unwavering, and we're fiercely protective. As we say, "If you mess with one of us, you mess with all of us."

Even though there's a saying that those closest to you can hurt you the most, I don't worry about that with my family. According to my cousin Mitchell, his mother-in-law always said the KGB was generally better-informed about American activities. But the LBIAOSA (Little Bird Intelligence Agency Office of Strategic Actions) was even better-informed about both the CIA and KGB. Like the KGB, the LBIAOSA is still better-informed than the CIA. Star mentioned that the Little Bird Government viewed Americans as a dangerous menace on par with the Soviets during the Cold War.

The only time a Waterson has ever hurt another Waterson is usually during sibling squabbles.

After a while, I left the Sapphire Lounge. I took different routes home to make sure I wasn't being followed. Thankfully, I made it back to my apartment building and safely into my apartment.

________________________

In my apartment, the air felt unusually thick, like the calm before a storm. I noticed something on the kitchen counter, a shadowy figure that shouldn’t be there. Instinctively, my hand went to my pistol, gripping it tightly as I moved into a Weaver stance, every muscle in my body tensed and ready.

“Mom… You home?” I called out, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping it was just her.

Silence. The kind that makes your skin crawl. No response. My heart pounded louder in my ears as I edged closer, the weight of the unknown pressing down on me.

In my apartment, the air felt thick with tension, like the opening scene of a horror movie where the unknown lurks just out of sight.

"Mom... You home?" I called out again, my voice echoing in the silence. No response.

I moved cautiously, checking my bedroom, the guest bedroom, and the bathroom. Each room was empty, the eerie quiet amplifying my unease. It was just me and the unsettling stillness.

As I approached the object on the kitchen counter, a figure suddenly emerged from my blind spot, lunging at me. Instinct took over. I fired off a few rounds, the deafening shots breaking the silence, before he could disarm me. My handgun slid down the hall towards the bathroom, leaving me to face the intruder with nothing but my wits and training.

Instead of going after the handgun leaving myself defenseless. I just stood there in a defensive stance with my fist balled up.

“You fuckin’ trying to shoot me? You fuckin’ crazy?” said the assailant.

I stood there, heart pounding, waiting for the assailant to make his move. The silence was deafening, each second stretching into an eternity. I didn't say a word, just braced myself for the inevitable clash.

When he attacked, it was fierce and relentless. I fought back with everything I had, but he was strong, overpowering me despite my best efforts. Even from the floor, I continued to struggle, refusing to give in.

As I grappled with him, a desperate hope flickered in my mind. Those gunshots had to have been loud enough to alert my neighbors. Maybe someone would call the cops. Maybe help was on the way. But for now, all I could do was hold on and fight, praying that time was on my side.

As my vision began to blur, I saw a shadowy figure approaching. Panic surged through me, fearing it was another assailant. My mind raced, trying to make sense of the situation.

Then, the figure whispered, "Psst," catching the assailant's attention. To my surprise, the attacker immediately got off me, his face twisted in horror. I lay there, gasping for breath, trying to understand what had just happened. The room spun around me, but I clung to the hope that this unexpected turn might be my chance for survival.

“Whoa hey,” the assailant stammered, “I’m a cop.”

The mysterious figure, cloaked in black, replied coldly, “Show me your badge.”

The guy fumbled, producing a badge. The figure barely glanced at it before declaring, “It’s a fake. Little Bird police badges have six numbers, not four.”

“You’re not a cop,” the figure said, voice steady and commanding. “Go stand by the wall. Hands on the wall. No funny business.”

I recognized the voice but couldn’t place it. The figure was dressed head-to-toe in black battle dress uniform, black combat boots, a black mask, sunglasses, and a lightweight tactical special forces helmet. His right hand stayed on his suppressed handgun, while his left reached out to me. Despite the familiarity of the voice, I couldn’t identify him. I grabbed his hand, feeling a strange sense of relief.

Whoever he was, he knew I was in trouble and had arrived faster than the cops. I suspected my neighbors hadn’t called the police; the thick walls of these Empire city apartments could muffle screams and gunshots. I wondered how this mysterious figure knew the assailant was impersonating an officer, but that was a question for another time. For now, I was just grateful for the unexpected rescue.

“How do you know I was in trouble?” I demanded, my voice shaky but determined. “How do you know he’s impersonating an officer?”

“I’ll tell you in due time,” the mysterious figure replied, his tone calm and authoritative.

Suddenly, my apartment landline rang, the sound slicing through the tension.

“Answer it, Ms.,” the guy ordered.

Nervous but knowing the incessant ringing would drive me crazy, I picked up on the third ring. “It’s for you,” I said, handing the phone to the mysterious figure, who kept his eyes and gun trained on the assailant.

As he took the call, I couldn’t help but speculate. Could this be a family member from Little Bird? The Phoenix pistol he carried, a licensed version of the American M1911A1, was a clue. But this was modified for covert operations, complete with a suppressor. My cousin Mitchell had once explained the different types of barrels used by the Little Bird military: standard issue, covert, and overpressure. The covert system, designed for control and reduced rate of fire, seemed to fit this situation perfectly.

Whoever this mysterious figure was, he had arrived just in time, and his knowledge of the fake badge and quick response hinted at a deeper connection. But for now, I had to trust him and hope that the situation would soon be under control.

I overheard bits of the phone call, but the jargon was beyond me. It sounded like spy lingo or advanced military code. Despite my rank as a Master Chief Petty Officer in the Navy, I was out of my depth here. To me, there’s only one Master Chief Petty Officer, and that’s John 117.

The only phrase I caught was, “Hostile currently apprehended in One Four Charlie.” I deciphered “One Four Charlie” as my apartment, 14C. But I still had no idea who this mysterious figure was. My mind raced with questions. How did he and the assailant get into my apartment?

I speculated that the assailant might have scaled the side of the building and either broke in or picked the lock on the patio door. But the mysterious figure? I knew he hadn’t come through the front door—it creaks loudly no matter how you open it. His sudden appearance and the way he handled the situation suggested he was highly trained, possibly special forces or intelligence. But for now, his identity remained a mystery, and I was left to piece together the puzzle of my unexpected rescue.

Soon, there was a knock on my door, followed by a voice announcing, “Police Department.” The mysterious figure quickly interjected, “They’re not cops. Real cops bang on doors with the side of their hand, not their knuckles.” The sound of knuckles rapping against the door confirmed his suspicion.

It seemed this figure had a background in law enforcement. My mind raced through the possibilities. My family had a history with the police. My grand uncle Charlie was a precinct phone operator for the NYPD in post-World War II Manhattan; my cousin Midnight’s father was a receptionist cop in the town of Lumber; and Mitchell, who currently serves as a cop in Clearlake when not in military training.

But Charlie and Midnight’s father were long gone—Charlie died in a car accident in 1972, and Midnight’s father was killed in 1985 when a tractor trailer’s brakes failed, crashing into his car. Could it be Mitchell? It seemed unlikely; he’s a devoted husband and father, not someone who would leave his family in the middle of the night without a pressing reason.

Despite the mystery, I felt a strange certainty that this figure was either a family member or someone closely connected to my family. The way he handled the situation, his knowledge, and his timing all pointed to someone who knew me well. But for now, I had to trust him and focus on the immediate danger at hand.

I scratched Mitchell off the list. He’s incredibly close with his wife, Cadence—they’ve been friends since kindergarten, and their marriage is like a match made in heaven. With three kids and another on the way, I knew he’d want to be with her, especially now. There’s no way he’d leave her side at a time like this.

Whoever the mysterious figure was, his timing could’ve been better, but his intervention was a lifesaver. As the knocking on the door continued, he instructed me to let the fake cops in. I was about to ask why when he explained, “Real cops have the authority to kick in a door if nobody answers. And if they sense something is wrong, they would’ve radioed for backup. These guys haven’t. If they were real cops, they’d have attempted forced entry after the third knock.”

His knowledge was both scary and accurate. I couldn’t help but wonder about his background. His precise understanding of police procedures suggested a deep familiarity with law enforcement. As I moved to open the door, my mind raced with questions about who he was and how he knew so much. But for now, I had to trust him and hope that his plan would keep us safe.

I opened the door, letting the fake cops in. The mysterious figure moved swiftly, taking them out as if on cue.

“Why did you silence them?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“I can give you three reasons why they were fake cops,” he replied. “First, the badge numbers. Second, their ballistic vests were on the outside of their uniforms. Real cops wear their vests inside. Third, the watches they are wearing are way beyond a cop’s salary. Even with overtime and bribery, no cop could afford glow-in-the-dark LED watches. In Little Bird, cops wear common mechanical or analog watches. Gold-plated ones are rare and only worn by Lieutenants, of which there are only eight in Empire.”

He then told me to check the badge numbers. I did, and sure enough, there were only four digits. In Little Bird, police and fire department badges have six or more numbers. My own fire department badge number is 198445, seven digits.

The mysterious figure’s knowledge was impressive and unsettling. His timing, though not perfect, had saved me. As I stood there, trying to process everything, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was someone connected to my family or someone who knew me well. But for now, I had to focus on the immediate danger and trust that he had my back.

Soon, the apartment door opened, and two more figures dressed like the mysterious one stepped inside.

“Guess it’s time to reveal myself,” the mysterious figure said, removing his helmet, sunglasses, and mask. It was Mitchell.

“Cadence is with her mother for the night, and she took the kids,” Mitchell explained.

I was about to respond, but the thought of Cadence taking their kids to their grandmother's house warmed my heart. It was a kind gesture, especially since Mitchell’s kids would never meet his mother, Sanda, who died back in '96. Mitchell had always believed it was wolves that killed his mother and stepfather, but contrary to popular belief, wolves generally avoid humans. There have been fewer than a few dozen recorded wolf-related fatalities in North America and the world over the past 300 years.

Mitchell’s standoffishness around his birthday made sense, given the trauma of losing his mother. I speculated it might have been hyenas, but that was a mystery for another time. For now, I was just grateful he was here, saving me when I needed it most.

“Jack, Sam, you two can reveal yourselves,” Mitchell commanded.

The two figures removed their masks, revealing themselves. Jack spoke first, “Now we have to silence her as well.”

“That’s my cousin. We’re not going to silence her,” Mitchell shot back, his tone firm.

“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, a hint of joke or humor in his voice.

“I’m not a sir. I work for a living,” Mitchell retorted, the familiar banter of an NCO correcting a soldier.

Their exchange made it clear that Mitchell was a Sergeant, and his response was typical of NCOs when called “sir.” It’s a common faux pas, and the retort, “I am not a 'sir!' I work for a living!” is a classic correction.

“Corporal Skybolt, Corporal Hartstock, this is Master Chief Petty Officer Waterson,” Mitchell introduced me.

I nodded, still processing the whirlwind of events. Despite the tension, the familiarity of Mitchell’s voice and the banter between them brought a strange sense of normalcy to the chaos. It was a relief to know I was in capable hands, even if the situation was far from over.

“So what’ll happen to the two eliminated ones and the assailant?” I asked, my voice steady despite the chaos.

Mitchell replied cryptically, “The less you know, Mac, the better.”

I bit back my irritation at the nickname. I preferred Macaroni or Mackenzie, not Mac.

“You going to take our ‘friend’ here for a little chat?” I asked, using “friend” loosely.

Mitchell’s eyes hardened. “We know a hundred ways to get information out of the enemy. Asking nicely isn’t one of them.”

I watched as Jack and Sam efficiently removed the bodies from my apartment. The sight was surreal, like something out of a nightmare.

“Who are they?” I asked, needing to understand more about my unexpected rescuers.

“Jack Sybolt and Samuel ‘Sam’ Hartstock,” Mitchell said. “Sam has a unique way of thinking that often proves right. They’re harmless, but Sam’s instincts in the war were spot on, even when intelligence disagreed. In this business, Macaroni, never go against your gut. Jack’s a Marine Corps Machine Gunner, and Sam’s a DM aka Designated Marksman.”

I nodded, recognizing the terms. But their presence here suggested they weren’t ordinary Marines. They were likely part of the Little Bird Marine Corps Commandos (LBMCCO), established in 1940 for underwater demolitions and maritime infiltration. They reminded me of the U.S. Navy’s Underwater Demolition Teams before they became the SEALs. The LBMCCO seemed on par with the Marine Raiders from 1942-1944, but unlike the Raiders, the LBMCCO was still active, adapting to modern warfare while maintaining their specialized skills.

Mitchell’s friends had saved me, but the questions about their methods and the enemy’s intentions lingered. For now, I had to trust them and focus on the immediate threat. The answers would come in time.

“Thanks, Mitchell,” I said, my voice filled with gratitude.

“No problem, Mac,” he replied, though the nickname still grated on me.

Mitchell then grabbed the assailant, informing him they were going for a little walk. With that, they left, leaving me alone in the now eerily quiet apartment.

As the adrenaline began to fade, a new worry crept in. Where was my mother? She wasn’t here, and the thought of her falling asleep on the bus or getting on the wrong one gnawed at me. The idea of her ending up in another town or city made my blood boil. I needed to find her and make sure she was safe. But for now, I had to gather my thoughts and figure out my next steps.

I couldn’t call the cops. In Little Bird, anyone 18 and over has to be missing for 24 hours before law enforcement gets involved. If my mother were a teenager, I could report her missing after three hours. If she were a child, it would trigger an immediate response. But at 46, I had to wait a full day.

Honestly, a big part of me didn’t really miss her. She’d been neglectful and mean in the past. Only a minuscule part of me, maybe 0.000000001%, actually missed her. Still, I couldn’t help but worry. Despite everything, she was my mother, and the thought of her being lost or in trouble gnawed at me. I hoped she was just delayed and would walk through the door any minute now.

I watched the clock as 9 PM turned into 10 PM, then midnight, and finally 2:30 AM. The waiting was agonizing. To pass the time, I checked my apartment thoroughly. The windows were intact, the patio door was locked with no signs of forced entry or lockpicking, and the glass was unbroken.

How the assailant got in remained a mystery. With no signs of forced entry, I speculated he might have taken a photograph of my apartment door lock and had a key made at a hardware store. It was the only explanation that made sense without any visible damage.

I considered reinforcing the door or adding a double lock for extra security. My alarm system was supposed to send a silent alarm to the cops if someone broke in, bypassing the dispatcher. It also had a feature to alert me if any door opened during the night, but it hadn’t gone off. The system was set to recognize when my mom or I came and went, but tonight, it had been silent.

The thought of my mother still lingered. Despite our strained relationship, I couldn’t help but worry. I hoped she was safe and that this ordeal would soon be over. For now, I had to stay vigilant and figure out how to prevent this from happening again.

I can't help but feel a mix of frustration and concern when it comes to my mom. We've got a clear schedule, she's allowed out between 9 AM and 5 PM, aligning with her part-time job hours. But if she steps out of line, I've laid down a three-strikes rule. First strike, I'll snap at her like a parent scolding their child—though in this case, it's the other way around. Second strike, I'll have to babysit her. And if it comes to the third strike, she'll be heading back to Kansas City to her rehab center. Next time, I won't be so charitable if she doesn't play by my rules.

Honestly, my mom reminds me of a few folks I knew back in Alabama. They'd get all riled up if things didn't go their way—like expecting to inherit everything at a family member's funeral, only to find out they got next to nothing. Or maxing out their parents' credit cards and then getting mad when they can't even afford the dollar menu at McDonald's. It's frustrating, but I guess it's just another challenge to navigate.

Back at Arcane University, I had a classmate who went through a rough patch with her family—they disowned her, but she worked hard and put herself through college. One day, she got the news that her grandfather had passed away and left her a million dollars, along with a big ranch with a boat dock by a lake. Suddenly, her estranged family came crawling back, acting like nothing bad had ever happened. They expected her to forget the past or accused her of being delusional. It got so bad that I invited her to stay with me at my great granduncle’s villa.

I told her that when someone comes into money, people around them—including enemies and family—become like moths to a flame. Her parents even took her to court, but the judge threw their case out, stating that by disowning her, they had given up their parental rights. Legally, they weren't her parents anymore. When they tried to take her to criminal court for not helping family, the judge dismissed it, saying it wasn't a criminal matter and that they had voluntarily disowned her.

Her parents acted like entitled brats, thinking they could get whatever they wanted without facing any consequences. It was a tough situation, but she stood her ground and came out stronger.

I can relate to that. My dad stayed with my mom for twenty-four years, from 1982 to 2006, and I never quite understood why he didn't leave her sooner. Honestly, he should've broken up with her back in the spring of 1984, right after I was born. My mom was incredibly lazy and always took a majority of my dad's money. When I got a part-time job, she constantly asked me for money and was never there when I needed her. It was always my dad who stepped up.

It's frustrating to see someone you care about being taken advantage of, especially by a family member.

I was about to call it a night when I headed to my bedroom. Just as I stepped inside, a strong hand grabbed me from the shadows.

"Sloppy Mac," a familiar voice chided, "Letting your guard down."

"Damn it, Mitchell! Where did you even come from?" I snapped, my heart racing.

"A magician never reveals his tricks," he replied with a smirk. "I've been standing in this corner since 22:00 hours."

Of course, he used military time instead of just saying 10 PM. Typical Mitchell. He probably wanted to scare me or see if he could catch me off guard. Well, mission accomplished. But seriously, it's 3 AM—no wonder I'm a bit sloppy.

“So did the assailant who was after me earlier did he talk?” I asked

Mitchell replied, “They always talk.”

“What did he reveal?” I asked

Mitchell just threw a duffle bag at me and just said, “Suit up.”

The last thing I wanted to do was play Covert Ops at 3 AM but I did so anyway.

____________________________

In another apartment, I stood by the door, watching as Mitchell entered the room. His hand rested on his holster, a clear sign he was ready for anything.

Mitchell opened the door, slipped inside, and closed it behind him. The room was dimly lit, with light filtering in through the window blinds from the surrounding high-rises, skyscrapers, and streetlights.

_____________________________

(Sgt Mitchell Waterson POV)

I nudged him sharply, "Hey, wake up."

He jolted awake, eyes wide with panic as he scrambled to his feet. But I shoved him back down onto the bed.

"Who are you?" he demanded, voice trembling.

I fixed him with a steely gaze. "I'll be asking the fucking questions here. You better have the right answers."

"Fine," he muttered.

I leaned in, my voice steady and commanding. "What's your name?"

"Carter," he replied, trying to sound confident.

I shook my head slowly. "Carter? That's not enough. Your full name is Alexander Jeremiah Carter. You're 35 years old, Caucasian, and stand at 5'8". Born on January 14th, 1975, at 1:33 AM, weighing 186 pounds. Empire born and raised. Your father was an RBT, dishonorably discharged for AWD on a recruit who outshot him."

His eyes widened in shock, realizing I knew everything. And I used the term RBT, a Little Bird military term for Recruit in Basic Training.

Carter's shock was palpable, but I didn't give him time to recover. "Now, Carter, let's talk about your recent activities. Where were you last night?"

He hesitated, eyes darting around the room. "I was at home," he finally said, but his voice lacked conviction.

I leaned in closer, my tone icy. "Don't lie to me, Carter. We both know you weren't at home. I have witnesses placing you at the docks. What were you doing there?"

His face turned pale, and he stammered, "I... I was just meeting a friend."

I raised an eyebrow. "A friend? Who is this friend, and why meet at the docks in the middle of the night?"

Carter swallowed hard, realizing he was cornered. "It was just a business deal, nothing illegal."

I smirked. "Business deal, huh? We'll see about that. Now, tell me everything about this 'deal' and who else was involved."

Carter's throat seemed to tighten, rendering him speechless.

"Was it about the green light on Ms. Waterson?" I asked, my hand resting on the holstered handgun.

He hesitated, his silence confirming my suspicion.

"You don't have any legal jurisdiction here on Little Bird," Carter finally managed to say, trying to regain some control.

I leaned in, my voice low and menacing. "We were just on the right foot, Carter. Now we're on the wrong one. You really don't want me to make that one phone call."

Carter's eyes widened, realizing the gravity of the situation. He had no idea that I, Sgt. Mitchell Waterson, had the authority to operate domestically.

"Listen, Carter," I said, my voice firm and unyielding. "You have two choices. You can stonewall my questions, and I'll make that one phone call. You and everyone you've met will end up on the government watch list. Then, I'll make another call to your associates, letting them know just how eager you were to sell them out to save yourself."

Carter's eyes widened in fear, the weight of my words sinking in.

"Or," I continued, "you can tell me what I want to know, and I can guarantee your safety."

He swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of his situation. The room was silent, the tension palpable as he weighed his options.

"Can you promise that if I do talk and answer your questions, then my son and I will be safe from any harm?" Carter asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

I met his gaze, unwavering. "Tell me the truth, give me what I need, and I can ensure your safety from any retaliation. If your information checks out and proves useful, I can arrange new identities for you and your son. Your old lives will be systematically erased, and you can start anew."

Carter's eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope.

"But," I continued, my tone hardening, "if you lie to me or keep stonewalling with bogus answers, I'll make those calls. Everyone you've ever spoken to since the age of four will end up on a government watchlist. And your friends from the docks? They'll know just how eager you were to sell them out."

The room fell silent, the weight of my words hanging in the air. Carter knew he had no choice but to cooperate.

Carter took a deep breath, his resolve crumbling. "Alright, I'll talk," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just promise me my son will be safe."

I nodded, my expression softening slightly. "You have my word. Now, start from the beginning. What was the deal at the docks?"

Carter swallowed hard, then began to speak. "It was a weapons deal. We were supposed to receive a shipment of high-grade military equipment. The green light on Ms. Waterson was part of the payment."

I felt a surge of anger but kept my composure. "Who orchestrated this deal? Names, Carter. I need names."

He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "It was organized by a man named Victor Reyes. He's the one pulling the strings. I was just a middleman."

"Where can I find Reyes?" I pressed.

"He's got a safe house on the outskirts of the city. I can give you the address," Carter said, his voice trembling.

I nodded, taking down the information. "Good. Now, stay put and don't make any sudden moves. We'll get you and your son to safety once this is over."

Carter nodded, relief washing over his face. He knew he had no choice but to trust me.

"Before I go, I've got a few more questions," I said, my tone firm. "Does this Mr. Reyes have any guards or hired guns with him or along his routes?"

Carter opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off. "And remember, if you give me false information or alert Reyes, that phone call to your associates will happen. They'll know you blabbed."

Carter's face paled, and he nodded quickly. "Reyes always has a few guards with him. They're heavily armed and well-trained. He also has a couple of lookouts along his routes to warn him of any trouble."

I leaned in closer. "Names, Carter. I need names and descriptions of these guards and lookouts."

He swallowed hard, then began to list off names and descriptions. "There's Marco, his right-hand man. Big guy, about 6'4", built like a tank. Then there's Luis, a sharpshooter, always carries a sniper rifle. The lookouts are usually locals, but Reyes changes them frequently to avoid detection."

I took down the information, my mind already working on a plan. "Good. You've done well, Carter. Now, stay put and don't do anything stupid. We'll get you and your son to safety once this is over."

Carter nodded, relief and fear mingling in his eyes. He knew the stakes were high, and there was no turning back now.

"What if I want to stay in the city of Empire?" Carter asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

I didn't miss a beat. "Well, you and your son can always move to another district, but you'll need to change your routines. Those days of visiting the Empire Grandeur Hotel are over, buckaroo. No more heading to bars or clubs to chat up the ladies. You'll have to live a low-profile life to stay off the radar."

Carter's shoulders slumped as the reality of his situation sank in.

"If your son plays sports, take him out and enroll him in a different one. If he insists on staying in the same sport, your new identities will offer some protection, but you'll need to be cautious. The key is to avoid drawing attention to yourselves."

Carter nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the changes he would need to make. "Alright, I get it. We'll do whatever it takes to stay safe."

I gave him a reassuring nod. "Good. Now, stay put and don't do anything foolish. We'll get you and your son to safety once this is over."

"See, that was easy," I said, a hint of satisfaction in my voice.

Carter managed a weak smile. "Well, the saying goes, 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'"

I leaned in, my expression serious. "One day you'll find out that it cuts both ways."

Carter's face grew more concerned. "Wait, what about the police department? Some of my friends have paid off cops, and those corrupt officers are like gods. People do whatever they say."

I met his gaze, unwavering. "If they even get within fifty feet of you or your son, if they pick up your son from school and drop him off at your apartment without your knowledge, those officers will find themselves in a maximum security cellblock with the worst of the worst. Their power is relatively benign."

Carter looked relieved but still wary.

"Listen," I continued, "think about Lady Justice holding the balance. Those corrupt officials are on the lower balance. Their power is limited, and they won't be able to protect themselves once they're exposed. They would be selling each other out for a reduced sentence."

Carter nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. "Alright, I trust you."

"Good," I said, standing up. "Stay put and don't do anything foolish. We'll get you and your son to safety once this is over."

I then left Carter’s room and went back out into the living room and I got Macaroni and we went out the way we came in but I had Macaroni change back into her civilian clothing then keep her in an all black battle dress uniform.

___________________________

(Mackenzie “Macaroni” Waterson POV)

As I walked down the dimly lit street late at night, the distant wail of sirens reached my ears. I paid them no mind until I found my path blocked by a few police cars. Instinctively, I knew they were impostors. On Little Bird, all government vehicles, including police cars, are equipped with government exempt plates.

"Get her," commanded a voice from someone dressed as a cop.

I muttered under my breath, "Come on."

One of them charged at me, and I swiftly kicked him in the stomach. Another came at me, and I backhanded him across the face, knocking him down. I grabbed a wooden baton as an improvised weapon, ready to defend myself. Despite my efforts, I was soon overwhelmed and subdued.

_____________________________

Several minutes later, which felt like an eternity, I regained consciousness with a throbbing pain at the back of my head.

"I know y'all ain't real cops," I said, my voice steady. I had my reasons to prove it:

1. The badge numbers only had four digits, not the six or more typical of genuine badges.

2. They wore their ballistic vests on the outside of their uniforms, whereas patrol officers on Little Bird wear them underneath their shirts. Only SWAESU teams wear vests externally.

3. The convoy consisted solely of patrol cars, lacking the heavy Bearcat-like vehicles that are standard in Little Bird police convoys. Typically, these convoys have four cars in the front, four in the rear, an armored truck or transport van in the middle, and two motorcycles leading and trailing.

4. The watches they wore were luxury timepieces, not the ten-dollar watches from Walmart that genuine Little Bird officers wear. Most officers sport analog or mechanical watches, not glow-in-the-dark LED ones.

I was about to say something, but one of the fake cops barked, "Shut it."

"What's going on?" asked the fake cop driving the car.

The other fake cop grabbed the radio, "Lead car, what's going on?"

"Got some trees that fell down," came the reply over the radio. "We're going to take the long way around. We need to back up."

Another fake cop radioed, "This is rear car. We're going to back up so we can take the alternative route."

Suddenly, a loud but distant bang echoed through the night. I saw through the driver's side mirror a shower of sparks erupting from the rear car. Another loud bang followed, hitting the lead car and sending more sparks flying.

Both the lead and rear cars radioed in, reporting that whatever hit them had immobilized their vehicles. Their engines were destroyed, leaving them dead in the water. To me, it sounded like the work of the Little Bird Sniper Rifle System Model 1950, a formidable weapon that serves as both a sniper rifle and an anti-material rifle, firing .50 Cal High-Explosive Incendiary/Armor-Piercing (HEIAP) rounds.

To me, it felt like a classic tank ambush tactic. In such scenarios, an enemy or friendly tank would target the lead and rear tanks of an enemy column, effectively trapping the remaining tanks in the middle. This leaves them with no option but to turn and face the ambushing tank or expose their engines by turning the other way.

I scanned the treeline on the north side of the road, noticing shadowy figures moving and emerging from the woods. My vision was limited, but I had a strong feeling it was my family. They had been saving my bacon all day, and their actions in the military often fell under the "anti-hero" category. Their methods were questionable, but they were driven by the goal of keeping the world safe.

Their operations were and are on a "need to know" basis, known only to on-site survivors and the highest echelons of the military. The truth of their actions remained hidden from the world, known only to those who were there. The rest of the world remained in the dark, unaware of the sacrifices and decisions made to ensure their safety.

"Drivers of the convoy," a commanding voice boomed over a PA system, "Place your hands out of the window, turn off the vehicles, and throw the keys onto the ground. Then, place your hands outside of the window."

The fake cops hesitated at first. I glanced at the passenger side mirror and saw the passenger in the car behind us reach for his gun. A barrage of bullets quickly convinced the drivers to comply. Whoever was saving me this time had brought more friends or perhaps more family. They were following military protocol to the letter. My cousin Mitchell had once explained that from a squad level on up, each soldier is trained to keep their eyes and weapons pointed at a selected enemy, ready to fire at a moment's notice.

"All of you fake cops, take your weapons and drop them onto the asphalt," ordered the same man over the PA system. "Then, slowly get out of the cars with your hands in the air."

The fake cops in the passenger seats hesitated, but after witnessing what happened to the one who drew his gun, they quickly complied.

"All fifteen of you, line up east to west, shoulder to shoulder," the voice commanded.

The fake cops obeyed, but the team rescuing me remained hidden. They were smart, knowing that leaving their cover would be foolish, especially when the enemy was unaware of their exact positions. Contrary to popular belief, smart soldiers and officers never abandon great cover unless absolutely necessary.

Out of the fifteen fake cops, twelve were swiftly taken down, as if by a firing squad. The precision was chilling. Soon, shadowy figures emerged from the forest, moving with the stealth and coordination of a well-trained unit.

I felt a surge of relief and gratitude. My rescuers were not only skilled but also strategic, ensuring they maintained the upper hand. It was clear that they were professionals, possibly my family, who had been saving me all day. Their actions, though often falling into the "anti-hero" category, were driven by a deep commitment to keeping the world safe, even if it meant operating in the shadows.

Soon, the shadowy figures emerged from the forest. A man in an all-black battle dress uniform, black mask, and helmet approached my door. He freed me while another figure delivered a stern message to the two fake cops. "Tell your bosses to leave her alone."

The one who freed me expertly picked the lock on my handcuffs, releasing me with practiced ease.

One thing I know about the Waterson family is that we protect each other fiercely. Our families are off-limits, and if anyone dares to target them, we take off the gloves and fight back with everything we've got.

After the rescue, I learned it was indeed my family who had come to my aid. When someone messes with one Waterson, they mess with all of us. We stand united, ready to defend our own at any cost.

If I had to guess then my family members here now who are saving my bacon are trained in:

Asymmetric Warfare

Direct Covert Action

Special Reconnaissance

Unconventional Warfare

Counter-intelligence

Counter-narcotics

Counter-proliferation

Counter-terrorism

Executive Protection

Foreign Internal Defense

Guerrilla Warfare

Personnel Recovery

Owing to its secretive nature, the recruitment process for their unit is extremely stringent, with members required to have enlisted within the Little Bird Armed Forces and proven themselves in active combat. Rarely, however, membership is offered to those from other nations who have proven themselves among fellow operators. During the selection, all potential recruits are forced to participate in a rigorous psychological evaluation to test their perseverance and compatibility with fellow recruits.

Additionally, aside from a thorough psychological evaluation, all recruits are made partially aware of the unit's secretive nature, with many abiding by its covert nature. Understanding that unlike their brethren in other special forces units, their actions and successes would never become publicly acknowledged by the public and politicians.

My family members who saved my bacon right now do that on a daily basis where there could have been an insurrection faction that took over a nuclear launch facility. But they stopped the insurrectionists from launching the nukes. They won't ever get acknowledged for it and if an insurrectionist did fire a nuke then it would be written off as a nuclear test or a pair of jumpy operators who were testing the silo and the missile but unintentionally fired the missile. But that is what the government does best, sweeping things under the rug.

Some of my family members who rescued me were female and well us Watersons well the males are more inclined to do what Jack Ruby did to Oswald by just walking right up to them and shooting them while looking them in the eyes. But us female Watersons are even more dangerous than the men because we’re more inclined to barricade someone’s house up and catch it on fire and that’s just on a good day and if we’re having a bad day then we can do a lot worse.

As the dust settled, more vehicles rolled in, and I found myself being ushered into the middle one. We had to leave some of my family behind. My cousin Jack, always the dramatic one, said, “This is going to make the newspapers all across Little Bird.”

His sister, ever the realist, shot back, “This won’t even make the papers in Empire or Emerald Hollow.”

I couldn't help but chuckle at their banter, even though my nerves were still frayed. They had just saved my life, again. I knew they would stay behind to clean up the mess – the fallen trees blocking the road, the remnants of the ambush. By the time they were done, it would be like nothing ever happened.

But I think that their job, whatever it is, will never be publicized. If I had to guess, their work involves taking the gloves off to keep the world safe, crossing lines that many people can't cross due to moral constraints or simply because they aren't willing to go the extra mile. Many people can't do it because what they do will never be public knowledge. Those who can't do it often want to be heroes, get a chest full of medals, and become legends with statues made in their honor so they won't be forgotten. But their work? The after-action reports are covered in black ink and buried in the deepest part of the war department, never to see the light of day. To me, it's comparable to the British S.O.E., where their actions are heavily classified and will remain so until they die.

Of course, my cousins who saved me have accents that have changed over time. But to them, they don't play by the rules of war because they engage in unconventional warfare. If I had to guess, their missions are unsanctioned and unauthorized due to the secrecy involved. Not to mention, the motto of the Little Bird Silent Specters is, "Our enemies don't play by the rules, so neither do we."

“How did y’all know I was in trouble?” I asked.

Jack didn’t give a concrete answer but just said, “We always know when another Waterson is in trouble.”

I looked at him, trying to read between the lines. There was something unspoken, a bond that went beyond words. It was as if they had an invisible thread connecting them, always aware of each other's peril. It was both comforting and unsettling.

As we drove away, I couldn't help but think about the life they led. A life shrouded in secrecy, where their heroic deeds would never be known, their sacrifices never acknowledged. They were the unsung protectors, the silent guardians. And as much as I wanted to know more, I knew better than to ask. Some things were better left in the dark even if they did tell me then they would have to kill me afterwards.