in the hushed stillness of the hospital room, the clock’s hands crept past midnight, casting a soft glow over the sterile walls. It was 12:05 AM, and the world outside seemed to hold its breath. I lay there, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts, when a mundane plastic bag caught my eye. It sat, unassuming, on a nearby chair, but to me, it was a lifeline back to normalcy.

With a strength I didn’t know I had, I rose and approached the bag, my movements tentative yet determined. Inside, nestled among the impersonal hospital belongings, was my phone, a beacon in the dim light. Clutching it, I returned to the sanctuary of my bed, the screen illuminated 104 messages clamoring for attention. Among them, a single message from my dad stood out, his words a simple invitation to reconnect over drinks, a semblance of normalcy in the chaos.

The remaining 103 messages were an onslaught from an unknown number, but the truth wasn’t long hidden from me. They were from the woman who brought me into this world, the one I hesitantly call ‘mother.’ Her first and the other one hundred and two messages, an inquiry about my plans for children, were met with the same resolve as always—I blocked the number without a second thought.

Sinking back into the bed, I let my gaze drift upwards, pondering the complexity of family ties. How could the woman who gave me life be the same one who refuses to accept me? She denies my bisexuality, dismisses my relationship with another woman as a mere phase, and clings to the belief that I’m merely straying from a straight path.

I then looked at my phone again and found out that today’s date was Valentine’s Day, the most busiest day in the year for every single restaurant in the world. I just stared up at the ceiling after fully laying back and with my head on the pillow.

Lying in the hospital bed, my fingers flew across the screen, informing my dad of the altercation with the “white collars”—our family’s tongue-in-cheek term for the office-bound bureaucrats. As I hit send, my thoughts couldn’t help but drift to my father’s past choices, particularly the woman he chose to marry. The Waterson clan, known for their fiery spirit and unyielding intuition, had forewarned him. They said he’d be “riding with the Devil” if he went through with it, even his future in-laws warned him, yet he tied the knot with her in '84, a union that lasted nearly a quarter of a century.

But that chapter is closed now, and I can’t help but feel a surge of relief. My dad’s divorce was a liberation, not just for him but for all of us who knew the marriage was a mismatch from the start. He’s moved on, and I respect him all the more for it.

When his reply buzzed in, I was about to question his late hours before it dawned on me—the time difference. Here I am, in the Central Pacific, where night still reigns, while back in Alabama, the day has already begun to stir. It’s probably the wee hours of the morning there, yet here he is, responding to his daughter, a testament to our unbreakable bond, no matter the distance or the hour.

The memories of high school still linger like shadows, moments of joy overshadowed by the harsh reality of a secret love. I recall the girl who once held my heart, our relationship hidden from the world due to her parents’ narrow views. But the walls have ears, and the secret spilled into the open, reaching the one person whose acceptance I craved yet never received—my mother.

Her reaction was a tempest, a violent storm that left scars deeper than the skin. She couldn’t fathom the love between two women, her words like daggers insisting it was wrong, unnatural, a dead end to lineage. Her fury didn’t stop there; she stripped me of my passion for lacrosse, echoing the archaic sentiment that sports were not a woman’s pursuit. My father’s support was a distant beacon, but her will prevailed, and I was forced to abandon the field.

In her relentless quest to mold me into her version of ‘right,’ she paraded a series of suitors before me. Each date felt like an orchestrated farce, the men often embodying the worst stereotypes—messy, unhygienic, a stark contrast to the genuine connection I once knew. It was clear that her intentions were not for my happiness, but rather a twisted game to assert control, to make my life unbearable even as I juggled the demands of work and a turbulent home life.

The constant battle over my wardrobe felt like a tug-of-war between the past and present. My mother, ever the traditionalist, seemed determined to dress me in skirts and dresses, as if willing me back to an era long gone. But my father understood me better; he knew my preference for jeans and a t-shirt wasn’t just a style choice—it was an expression of my identity, my tomboy spirit that only donned dresses for those rare, special occasions.

His voice, firm yet caring, would often clash with her demands, reminding her that times had changed, that I should be free to choose. In those moments, I felt seen by him, understood in a way that only a parent’s love can convey.

But it wasn’t just clothes. My mother’s disregard for my interests extended to my cherished gaming consoles—the PlayStation 1 and 2, and later my Xbox. Gifts from my dad that marked the Christmases of 1995, 2000 and 2001, each one a treasure trove of memories, sold off without a second thought. She never touched the home computer, a fortress safeguarded by a password she didn’t know, but that small mercy did little to ease the sting of loss.

My dad, though unfamiliar with the intricacies of modern gaming, shared in my indignation. He saw it as a violation, not just of my possessions, but of the very principles of parenting. He had been there, supporting and raising me, while she had been absent, lost in her own world. To him, her actions were unforgivable, a betrayal of the trust and responsibility that come with being a parent. In his eyes, I saw my own feelings reflected—a mix of sorrow, anger, and a deep-seated resolve to keep moving forward, beyond the reach of her shadow.

In the tapestry of my life, the threads of my parents’ beliefs weave a stark contrast. Born merely a year apart—my father in '66 and the woman I hesitantly call mother in '67—they might as well hail from different eras. My father, ever the visionary, recognized the winds of change that swept through the decades. He saw the evolution of fashion, the shifting tides of culture from the vibrant '80s, through the transformative '90s, and into the dawn of the new millennium. He granted me the freedom to express myself, whether it be in jeans and a t-shirt or shorts in the summer heat.

My mother, however, seemed anchored in a time that no longer existed, insisting on skirts and dresses, an antiquated role she believed I was destined to fill. Her world was one of confinement, where fun was a foreign concept, and my future was preordained to be that of a housewife—unknown, unseen, unfulfilled.

But I chose a different path. I declared my independence not with a shout, but with a silent rebellion, leaving for Little Bird to attend Arcane University. It was there that I found love once again, a relationship that blossomed despite my mother’s disapproval. My father’s blessing, though, was all the affirmation I needed. His support didn’t stem from understanding; it was born of unconditional love—a love that saw beyond labels and embraced me for who I am, in all my complexity. And in that acceptance, I found the strength to be unapologetically Mackenzie Waterson.

The Waterson name carries with it a legacy of unyielding resolve and an unapologetic stance in the face of adversity. It’s a trait I hold dear, a beacon that guides my actions when the situation demands it. Reflecting on my upbringing, it’s clear that the women in my family—the cousins, aunts, and grand aunts—were the true matriarchs who shaped my character. They stepped in during my father’s absence, as he served with the 504th Airborne Infantry Regiment during Operation: Just Cause and Desert Storm, teaching me the virtues of self-reliance and courage.

Those early years, when I was five to seven years old, were a tapestry of lessons learned amidst the backdrop of military life. My mother’s presence was a shadow, her reasons for staying at Fort Liberty a mystery given her history. Yet, it was my great grandfather, a veteran of three wars, who saw through the facade. His blunt words about my father’s choice in partner were a testament to his protective nature and the fierce loyalty that ran through our family’s veins.

My grandfather, too, a fellow member of the 504th Airborne, didn’t mince words when it came to my mother. He saw her true colors early on and didn’t hesitate to voice his disapproval. His stern warning to her, invoking his M1A1 Carbine, was as much a promise of protection as it was a reflection of his own values.

Now, miles away from my American roots, I find myself longing for the stories of valor and camaraderie shared by my extended family. Their tales of service in World War II, the Korean War, Vietnam, and the Gulf War are more than just narratives; they are the threads that connect us, a shared experience that binds the Waterson family together, each story a piece of the legacy I carry with me. Their voices, though distant, continue to resonate, reminding me of where I come from and the unbreakable spirit that defines what it means to be a Waterson.

The anticipation for the next Waterson BBQ is electric in the air, a gathering where the bonds of family are as fiery as the grill itself. It’s a known fact that a Waterson event isn’t complete without the spirited clash of fists—a tradition, really, a testament to our unbridled spirit. For us, a scuffle is just another form of camaraderie, a dance as old as the family name itself. And when one of us is targeted, it’s not just an individual under siege—it’s an affront to the entire clan.

Those three men who thought it wise to challenge me have indeed unleashed a storm. They’ve stirred the Waterson hornet’s nest, and there’s no calming the swarm now. We stand united, a family whose creed is etched into our very essence: “The Watersons never back down, even when the odds are against us.” It’s a sentiment that echoes through generations, a rallying cry that binds us.

But this isn’t just about family pride or upholding traditions. It’s about justice, about standing up for one’s own when they’ve been wronged. My family, steeped in the teachings of the Bible, knows the weight of the words “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.” It’s a principle they’re prepared to uphold, a balance they’re ready to restore. Though the proverb warns that those who live by the sword shall die by it, it’s a risk the Watersons are willing to take, for the family’s honor is a sacred thing, worth defending to the very end.

I just then used my phone to watch a documentary that recently came out and the hour-long documentary about how on July 21st, 2005 when the Soviets invaded Little Bird well the Little Bird Air Force responded clearly by sending wave after wave it’s Nighteagle Stealth Bombers to eastern Soviet Russia where military installations, military airbases, and radar bases were struck first but with the radar dishes down it allowed the C15 long-range, subsonic, jet-powered strategic bomber in which the Nighteagles they only can carry a small payload of 5 to 15 250 pound bombs while the C-15S can carry 110 500 Pound bombs or 55 1000 pound bombs.

But as I watched the documentary on my phone the narrator somewhat mocked Operation Rolling Thunder with the military having bombing halts while this time the Little Bird Air Force across Eastern Russia were bombed relentlessly with the only restriction being civilian areas and religious areas but the rest like airbases, SAM Sites, and other military targets were bombed relentless not adding that the C-15s and Nighteagles were broken up in twelve waves with the first six waves being the Nighteagles going in with a thirty minute gap in between the waves but once the first six waves were done was when the six C-15 Bomber waves came in with also thirty-minute gaps in them. But the rotation was that when the final wave of bombers got done dropping their payload and started to head home was when the first wave would be returning for their strategic bombing run again.

But within the first month that from July 21st, 2005 to August 21st of the same year the Little Bird Air Force dropped almost twice as much bombs as those were dropped in World War 2 but the Air Force had a problem of not having any escort fighters or penetration fighters because of the range because before they even got half way to their targets the fighters would’ve have to return to base even with external fuel tanks to give them additional fuel the range still would’ve been too great for them. So the air force brought back the concept of parasite fighters where the air force just took navy multirole fighter jets and attacked them to the bombers in which the bombers that were assigned to carry the parasite fighters lost the ability to strategic bombing but the parasite fighters would’ve stayed with the waves and could attach or unattached from the bombers that were refitted to carry said parasite fighters. But the naval multirole fighters were chosen because they were already half the length of the air force fighters.

Settling into the stiff hospital bed, my attention was captured by a documentary detailing "Project: H.A.R.P," also known as High Altitude Range Penetrator. It was a visionary project from the 1950s, aiming to develop a fleet of long-range, high-altitude penetrator fighters for the Little Bird Air Force. The ambition was staggering—these fighters were said to have the range to traverse from San Diego, California, to Madawaska, Maine, a whopping four and a half times without the need for a landing or aerial refueling⁹.

As I watched, the parallels between Project: H.A.R.P and the American XF-108 Rapier and XF-90 became apparent. These were aircraft ahead of their time, ultimately shelved due to budget cuts or rendered obsolete by the relentless march of missile technology. The documentary didn't shy away from these comparisons, adding a layer of depth to the narrative.

However, comfort was elusive as I shifted on the unyielding pillows, trying to find a position that eased the discomfort. The documentary, while informative, sometimes felt like it was stretching its content thin. Yet, it deserved praise for its spotlight on the Operations Department's Specialized Troopers—known as Golden Talons or Silent Serpents. These elite units, trained in deep ground surveillance (DGS) and long-range reconnaissance, operate in small, stealthy groups, often deep within enemy territory. Their mission is to observe and direct, not engage—unless it's a matter of survival.

The documentary highlighted their crucial role in equipping our bombers with precision. Armed with laser designators, these troopers enabled both stealth and conventional bombers to deploy laser-guided bombs and bunker busters with pinpoint accuracy, devastating even the most fortified targets. It was a testament to the strategic evolution of Little Bird's Air Force, adapting and overcoming in a world where conventional warfare tactics were rapidly becoming obsolete.

In the chaos of war, even the most meticulously crafted strategies can unravel. The crews saw it firsthand—waves of bombers, meticulously timed and ordered, sometimes getting jumbled. Stealth bombers meant to be third in line would find themselves amidst the actual bombers, or vice versa. Weather, that unpredictable force, could scatter our formations, diverting us to secondary targets not originally on today’s agenda.

Despite these hiccups, the resilience of the Little Bird Air Force’s bombers is legendary. They’re built tough, able to withstand a barrage of enemy fire. Even a manually fired SAM missile or a well-aimed cannon shot from a MiG jet has to be extraordinarily lucky to take one down before it completes its mission. The bombers’ durability is a source of pride—and a constant challenge for any adversary daring enough to take us on.

Their advantage isn’t just in our armor; it’s in our altitude. The bombers can soar to a staggering 278,870 feet, with a cruising altitude of 170,000 feet. The bombardiers are trained sharpshooters, calculating their drops far ahead of the target to account for the jet stream winds that could carry the bombs off course.

The attire of our pilots and crews is a blend of practicality and tradition—an all dark olive drab flight suit, paired with a brown or black padded leather jacket, combat helmet, body armor, and black padded combat jump boots. They forgo the electrically insulated heating suits, wary of the risk of electrocution from even minor damage. Instead, they rely on grit and their gear to keep them alive.

Each bomber is equipped with a tracking beacon, a lifeline for search and rescue to pinpoint their location should the worst happen. They carry two inflatable life rafts, each capable of holding six people, and enough parachutes for every crew member. And for those unexpected stays in the wilderness, they have a supply cache with a week’s worth of supplies.

But they were not just survivors—they were fighters. Each crew member is armed with a basic sidearm, typically a .45 pistol, and we have access to submachine guns or carbine rifles. In the skies or on the ground, they’re always ready to defend ourselves, our mission, and Little Bird.

In the thick of conflict, the Little Bird Military was well-prepared for the grim reality of downed bomber crews behind enemy lines. The Silent Serpents and Golden Talons, our elite units, included specialists trained in Personnel and Special Equipment Recovery/Capture. These operatives were adept at rescuing and providing medical treatment to our comrades in hostile territories, as well as capturing high-value targets and securing sensitive equipment. They also had the grim task of obliterating the wreckage of downed bombers to prevent enemy exploitation.

During the initial month of the war, our Air Force's need for a long-range fighter was dire. In secrecy, we developed a craft that could soar into the thermosphere and exosphere, launched akin to a spacecraft. Originally designed for reconnaissance, many of these aircraft were later retrofitted with a Radar Intercept Officer to transition into a fighter role. These recon variants were transformed from long-range, high-altitude, Mach 3+ strategic reconnaissance aircraft into formidable multirole fighter aircraft. However, their production was costly and limited; from 1984 to 2005, only 150 were built, with 98% initially intended for reconnaissance, not combat.

The challenge was not just in manufacturing but also in manning these advanced machines. Finding pilots and radar intercept officers capable of navigating such sophisticated technology was daunting. They were expected to perform high-altitude maneuvers, diving from the edge of space back into the lower layers of the atmosphere.

These cutting-edge aircraft were christened with names befitting their prowess. The reconnaissance variant was dubbed "Sky Spy," a nod to its surveillance capabilities, while the multirole fighter variant was named "Saber," reminiscent of the popular sword carried by Army and Marine Officers in Little Bird's colonial era. The name "Saber" symbolized the sharpness and precision of this new breed of aircraft, while "Sky Spy" captured the essence of its original mission—to observe from the heavens.

The documentary didn’t gloss over the personal sacrifices made by the bomber crews and the pilots and RIOs of the long-range, high-altitude, Mach 3+ strategic reconnaissance aircraft and their multirole counterparts. It was a stark reality that many of these brave individuals were single, unattached to any romantic partner or family. The rationale was as pragmatic as it was poignant—those with significant others or families often found themselves grappling with heightened anxiety and worry, which could lead to hesitation or panic during critical moments.

Training simulations revealed this psychological pattern; recruits with loved ones were more prone to panic. In contrast, those who were single, though not immune to fear, displayed a more controlled response under pressure. It’s a somber reflection on the demands of such a high-stakes profession, where emotional ties can weigh heavily on the mind and heart of even the most disciplined soldier.

In the end, the documentary painted a picture of sacrifice and stoicism, where personal lives are often set aside for the greater mission. It’s a testament to the courage and commitment of those who serve, knowing the risks and the emotional toll it may take.

As the documentary neared its end, it shed light on a significant shift in the Little Bird Air Force’s protocol. Traditionally, a bomber or fighter crew would be rotated out after completing 25 sorties or if they exhibited signs of a mental breakdown. However, at the onset of the war, the rules were amended for the well-being of the crews. Now, after just three sorties, crews were mandated to take a week off, a respite for their mental health, allowing them to decompress and regain their composure.

The documentary also delved into the daring, perhaps reckless, courage of the bomber crews. In the face of engine failure or fire, they would don specialized boots and gloves, tethered by a rope held by a fellow crew member, to venture onto the wing mid-flight for repairs. This was no routine maintenance; it was a last-resort measure, taken when the emergency firefighting systems were compromised and the situation dire.

The risks were monumental. Out on the wing, wearing a parachute was not an option—it would hinder their movements or could be ripped away by the ferocious winds at such altitudes. A snapped rope or a lost grip meant certain death, with the crew member vanishing into the sky, never to be seen again. It was a stark reminder of the perilous heights at which they operated and the unforgiving nature of their mission.

This poignant detail in the documentary underscored the gravity of service in the Little Bird Air Force. It was a testament to the bravery and the fine line between valor and folly that these men and women walked every time they took to the skies.

It was a good documentary and with that, I turned my phone off leaving it on to vibrate and i just nodded off to go to bed where in the morning I learned that I could check out of the hospital so I had my girlfriend come and check me out before she went to work

__________________________

Two weeks later

Stepping into the local café, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods was a welcome respite from the early morning chill. As I waited for my usual – a rich chocolate pastry and a steaming latte – my eyes caught the bold headline on the front page of the newspaper by the counter: “FIRE DEPT CREATES A PREDICTIVE ANALYTIC MACHINE.” My curiosity piqued instantly.

You see, in our line of work, any edge we can get is not just a matter of efficiency; it’s a matter of life and death. The article detailed how not only my department in Empire but also those in Chocolate, Fort Carson, Fort Bluejay, Fort Flurry, and Fort Suction had implemented this groundbreaking technology. This Predictive Analytic Machine is designed to digest heaps of data and spit out predictions that could potentially save lives.

What’s more, it’s not just about raw data; these machines are fed additional variables by the analysts – factors like weather patterns. For instance, from June 1st to 21st, when it rains non-stop, these considerations are crucial. And the analysts? They’re not just crunching numbers; they’re receiving real-time data, enabling us to be proactive rather than reactive.

As a firefighter, I know the value of seconds. This machine could mean the difference between a close call and a catastrophe. It’s a game-changer, and I’m all in for anything that gives us an upper hand against the unpredictable fury of fires.

The Predictive Analytic Machine isn't just a fancy tool; it's our crystal ball into the chaos of nature and human folly. It's not limited to predicting fires; it's an oracle for avalanches, floods, earthquakes, wildfires, heat waves, droughts, cyclones, landslides, severe thunderstorms, tsunamis, Limnic eruptions, volcanic activity, and even the unpredictable outcomes of civil disorder, terrorism, war, industrial accidents, oil spills, nuclear meltdowns, radiation, and power outages.

Our analysts are like modern-day weather gods, taking into account the wrath of Global Warming and those rare, inexplicable Acts of God. They're not just looking at data; they're interpreting the whispers of the earth and the cries of civilization.

With Spring on the horizon, they're already running simulations, painting pictures of potential wildfires. They input scenarios with dried vegetation, trees, and other foliage that have never kissed flames, alongside gusting winds that could fan the smallest spark into a raging inferno. Then, they flip the script, imagining a landscape where trees and plants have been molded by fire over centuries, adapting and surviving. Each scenario is meticulously crafted, considering every variable.

I then got my latte and chocolate pastry and went to my firehouse. In which why the city of Empire bought an old worn out auto body garage with room with a single Rescue Engine in which the former staff room was transformed into our sleeping quarters and the former storage room was transformed into a kitchen but in my opinion it’s stupid that the dining room-living room is right behind our apparatus and not a lot of space but I’m not going to complain.

As I glanced around the firehouse, I noticed the crew engrossed in the morning’s paper, their expressions a mix of skepticism and intrigue. The headline about the new Predictive Analytic Machine had caught everyone’s attention, including mine. It’s a familiar scene – the introduction of new technology in the fire service often brings a wave of mixed emotions. There’s excitement for the potential to save more lives, but also a deep-seated fear of relying on something unproven.

I couldn’t help but reflect on a documentary I watched just last night, detailing the fire service’s transition from horse-drawn steam engines to those powered by internal combustion. From August 2nd, 1710, to December 25th, 1922, the City of Empire relied on the strength and reliability of Morgans, Percherons, and Thoroughbreds. Then, on Christmas Day 1922, a new era began as the last steam-powered wagons were retired, making way for gas-powered engines. The skepticism back then mirrored what I saw in the eyes of my crew today.

Yet, another section of the newspaper offered a different perspective, highlighting how the Predictive Analytic Machine could revolutionize the Little Bird Bureau of Fire – affectionately known as the “Fire Department Nation of Little Bird” by the public. With our 8,456 firefighters, 1,481 elite Rescue Squad members, 476 HAZMAT specialists, 100 Battalion Chiefs, 68 Divisional Chiefs, 60 Safety Battalion Chiefs, and 448 Squad Company firefighters, the stakes are high. And that’s not even counting the fire inspectors, fleet maintenance, cerimonial, maintenance, air operations personnel, and civilian workers who double our numbers.

Reading the fine print in the newspaper, I couldn’t ignore the disclaimer about the Predictive Analytic Machine’s accuracy. It stated there’s a 20-40% chance that the machine might not provide an answer, or worse, it could crash due to the unpredictable nature of human behavior and rogue variables that throw off its calculations. It’s a sobering reminder that technology, no matter how advanced, has its limits.

The name “Operation Firenado” brought a smirk to my face amidst the serious talk of predictive analytics. It’s a name with history in Little Bird, used for ten different military operations through the World Wars and the Cold War. It even headlined the siege of Moscow during the Allied-Soviet War in 2005. The name carries a certain audacity, a flair that’s almost too cinematic for the gritty reality of our work.

But there’s comfort in the honesty of these admissions. The acknowledgment that the system isn’t infallible, that it can succumb to the same chaos it seeks to predict, is oddly reassuring. It’s a reminder that at the heart of all this technology, the human element remains irreplaceable. We bring intuition, experience, and adaptability to the table – qualities no machine can replicate.

So, while I appreciate the forward-thinking approach of the Fire Department City of Empire, I’m grounded by the knowledge that it’s the courage and quick thinking of my crew that truly makes the difference. We’re the ones who interpret the machine’s data, who make the calls when the system fails, who face the flames when predictions fall short. And that’s something to be proud of.

The legacy of fire on Little Bird is etched into the very landscape, a testament to the ancient practices of land management by fire, employed by Natives and European settlers alike. This historical relationship with fire has sculpted a resilient ecosystem where the flora thrives and regenerates through the flames. The terrain itself, reminiscent of Vietnam's diverse topography, from subtropical lowlands to densely forested highlands, offers a natural bulwark against the spread of wildfires.

During the "Operation Firestorm" press conference, the Analyst specialist's fingers danced across the keyboard, inputting scenarios into the Predictive Analytic Machine: a wildfire amidst foliage unaccustomed to fire, high winds grounding aircraft, and an urban-wildland interface under the sweltering heat of summer. The machine's queries about population and the cause of the fire were met with a nonchalant "surprise me," a stark contrast to the meticulous detail required for the simulation's settings, like the wind direction and town location.

The animated model displayed on the screen was a digital twin of a typical town, home to 5,500 people, complete with educational institutions and a bustling town square. It was a strategic map brought to life, a virtual sandbox for disaster scenarios.

Little Bird's relative immunity to the devastating wildfires that plague other regions can be traced back to decisive legislative action in 1962, which prohibited construction encroaching upon forests and wildlands. This foresight was further solidified in 1968 when President Bill Waterson, guided by environmentalists armed with irrefutable evidence, reinforced the ban on such developments and mandated natural fire breaks around urban areas. These gaps act as a safeguard, starving potential wildfires of fuel and ensuring that any embers reaching urban spaces are rendered harmless.

The live news report painted a grim picture, though. Despite these preventative measures, the simulation showed a rapid spread of fire, propelled by high winds, decimating the model town. Only a third of the population managed to evacuate before the virtual flames engulfed their homes. The second run of the simulation, viewed from the perspective of a military recon aircraft, only heightened the sense of urgency and danger, illustrating the fire's spread at an inconceivable rate of one football field per nanosecond.

The Analyst specialist recalibrated the simulation, adding new elements like a power substation and a gas station, further complicating the emergency response. It was a stark reminder that even with the most advanced predictive tools and stringent environmental policies, the unpredictable nature of disasters demands constant vigilance and readiness to adapt. As a firefighter, this is the reality we train for, the challenge we rise to meet, and the duty we fulfill to protect our community against the capriciousness of nature and fate.

When the news reporter asked the Analyst if a situation like that can happen in an urban area in which the Analyst said that high probability is not happen but how since the city of Empire and many other cities in Little Bird since 1972 have planted trees in cities, white roofs and light-colored concrete, green infrastructure (including green roofs), passive daytime radiative cooling. But at the same time it’s not impossible due to the concrete urban jungle the fire won’t entirely spread as a normal wildfire because of all of the high-rises and skyscrapers so by the time the embers reach to other parks or other trees even though there are trees on the avenues and boulevards.but just in case that happens that the city fire department is trained of the Engine Companies fighting the fire while the ladder companies use their axes and chainsaws to cut down the trees that are in the path of the fire.

The computer screen that’s being shown life displays a realistic one-to-one detail of the park in downtown Empire with the buildings being ideally realistic to the same ones in Downtown. But since it’s a real city not a made-up one so the Predictive Machine took the existing fire companies and sorted from the longest to shortest response time But soon there was a box on the computer screen that said “BRUSH FIRE ASSIGNMENT: 1st Due: Engine 23, Ladder 23, Squad 769, 2nd Due: Engine 14, Engine 17, Engine 19, Engine 47, Ladder 14, Ladder 17, Ladder 19, Ladder 47, Brush Patrol 12, Brush Patrol 14.”

We just kept watching the live news coverage where the news reporter asked about any other scenario where one was of a possible nuclear detonation of a 15 mt nuclear bomb airburst detonation in which the machine has an estimate of the screen saying “ESTIMATED FATALITIES: 1,523,910 ESTIMATED INJURIES: 1,867,000” while the same possible scenario of a surface detonated nuclear bomb of the same magnitude the computer screen said “ESTIMATED FATALITIES: 1,258,250 ESTIMATED INJURIES 1,045,810” where it even showed the radioactive fallout cloud of where the wind would blow the nuclear radioactive fallout in which the computer also put an estimated of half a million and rising in where the nuclear fallout would land and estimated how many people would be sick from the nuclear fallout by itself.

The news reporter even asked the analyst of the grayed-out police, fire, medical, and technical symbols on the city map means in which the analyst guy didn’t throw any light punches nor reflect the question. But he said that the machine being realistic took in factors after a nuclear detonation and the machine removed firehouses 14, 15, 17, 18, Rescue Squad 17, Rescue Squad, 18, 53, HAZMAT 32, Foam Company 33, Firehouse 53, 59, 71, Squad 525, sQUAD 541, Squad 769, the Police Department’s 9th, 10th, 12th Precincts, and the three hospitals in the city.

The clang of the fire bell shattered the routine hum of the station, signaling the urgency of a new blaze. As the team and I suited up, the analyst on TV was already speculating about the job ahead. But it was the Fire Dispatch Office’s blunt declaration that cut through the noise: “Abandoned six-story warehouse.” That’s all we had until we arrived on the scene.

Inside, I led the primary search, methodically checking each room. The air was thick with the smell of char and decay, a testament to the building’s age and the many fires it had endured. Suddenly, the floor beneath me betrayed its fragility, giving way. I plunged into the void, sliding uncontrollably, until, by some miracle, I was ejected from the inferno’s grasp.

Landing with a thud, my senses were overwhelmed by an unexpected softness. “What the hell?” I muttered, bewildered by the sea of stuffed animals cushioning my fall. It must have been a collection of hundreds, their plush bodies a stark contrast to the peril I had just escaped.

Regaining my footing, I removed my air mask, taking in the surreal sight. I didn’t linger long, though. Instinct urged me to move, and just in time. A filing cabinet, once a silent fixture in the office above, now lay where I had been mere moments ago. I had walked away, twenty-five feet from death’s doorstep.

My heart was a drumbeat in my chest, pounding from the adrenaline and the shock of the floor’s collapse. Once it settled, I radioed in the incident, my mind racing with thoughts of the building’s treacherous history. These century-old structures in Eastside, they’re time capsules of resilience and ruin. Before 2005, they stood as neglected relics, bearing the scars of fires that raged from 1967 to 1995. Then, in 2005, the flames returned with a vengeance, stoked by a land development scam that preyed on those who refused to leave their homes. The culprits? They received their due: lengthy prison sentences and a debt to society that their company continues to pay by constructing new, safer buildings.

That’s the ethos of Little Bird—actions have consequences, regardless of wealth or status. If you break the law, you face the music. No amount of bribery can cleanse the guilt, especially when the crime results in the loss of thousands of lives. These weren’t just individuals; they were families, hardworking people who kept society turning, performing the jobs that go unnoticed. Media and public outcry fueled the judicial system’s crackdown. The extended families of the victims teetered on the edge of revolt, declaring that even the maximum sentences weren’t enough. They believed that anything less than death row was a miscarriage of justice for the atrocities committed.

In Little Bird, we understand that the fabric of society is woven by these very threads—justice, accountability, and the unspoken heroes who form its backbone. As I stood there amidst the remnants of a dark and resilient past, I knew that this was the world I was sworn to protect, one where every choice, every action, carries the weight of consequence.

I then walked out of the alleyway where I looked to my left towards the end of the street. I stared at an apartment building in which in the past my girlfriend Claire was raised in well she was raised in a rundown tenement building. She told me about the memories she had when she came out as bisexual that her parents were taken aback and shocked in which her parents had two routes: the left road of alienating their only child and not loving her or taking the right road of supporting their only daughter by giving her unconditionally love. Her parents did the latter but I know many people back in the United States who did the same but their parents had a different view where instead of supporting and loving their child they turned their back on them.

Not adding that the tenement building she was raised in had so many fires that she remembers it like yesterday of her being a little girl when the building would be filled with thick enough smoke then out of the blue here comes a big guy wearing steel-toed rubber hip boots, a black leather jacket with yellow stripes, and a helmet come and carry her downstairs and in which she had no idea while people could do a job that put them in life or death situations to save people they don’t even know.

The fire was quickly knocked down because it was a small fire caused by a hotplate being on next to some throw pillows. But we just turned off the hotplate and moved it where it wouldn’t catch anything on fire.

As I was putting my Airpak away I felt a vibration in my phone so I checked it in which it was another unknown number but the message was from my so called mother. Which she says she wants to talk to me face to face in which I texted back more or less telling her to fuck off. She told me that she’s my mother and that I needed to respect her and that her title is mom if i liked it or not but I just texted back saying “Nope you can kiss my ass” in which summarizes how much I despise her but I wish she got the hint to leave me alone.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

I just went back to the pile of stuffed animals and I just decided to take a few and put them on the inside of my turnout coat. When we got back to the firehouse I just put the stuffed animals into the trunk of my car in which when I get home I’ll throw them into the washer and dryer to clean them.

As I was closing my car’s trunk I got startled.

“Jesus Mitchell almost kicked you in your balls,” I said.

Mitchell replied, “Well my mother-in-law is a spook she’ll come and get you then. Oh I’m here to talk about those three guys who ambushed you outside of the bar two weeks ago.”

“Listen Mitchell, I can take care of myself,” I said. “I’m hatching a plan of getting payback on them.”

Mitchell replied, “Does it involve locking them in their cars and throwing a Molotov Cocktail into said car?”

“Along the lines of that,” I said. “You had something else planned?”

Mitchell replied, “Yup. As said my mother-in-law is a spook so she probably can help you find where the three frequent and get payback then and there.”

“Tempting… Tempting,” I said.

Mitchell replied, “This family always retaliates by doing the same damage as they did to you not to take a M60 to them.”

“An M60 is tempting though,” I said. “What is your idea?”

Mitchell replied, “We get seven more Waterson’s to make it a total of nine and all nine of us ambush them like how they ambushed you. You know the saying ‘An eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth’ they ambushed you and beat you up badly and I say we return the favor.”

I couldn’t help agree in which my plan would just go right to escalate tensions and probably make it worse. If Carter has friends to make us attend sensitivity training in which is the first in the history of Little Bird then he probably has friends over at City Hall who probably get the cops after me. But hey he should learn that I’m not sleeping with anyone. I entirely don’t sleep with my girlfriend. In the few times she was over I took the couch while she and her kids took the bed. We could’ve shared a bed or I could’ve gotten a few army cots from a military surplus store for her kids to sleep on but nope but I have no problem taking the couch.

“Well I’ll see you later Macaroni,” said Mitchell before leaving.

I went inside of the firehouse and put my bunker gear up where it belongs.

I went over to the bulletin board. There was a flier for an up and coming festival thing for the fire department that been happening since 1951 in which it talks about how it has food, beverages, and music in which I was going to go even if I have to work I’m still going for a few hours of course it says that people need to wear casual clothing not formal but to enter it you’ll need a raffle ticket in which they’re for purchase at Firehouses 18, 33, 82, 69, 71, and 59 because firehouses 18 and 82 house the 18th and 19th Battalions, 71 and 59 house the 16th and 17th Divisions while HAZMAT Company 33 houses both the 25th Battalion and 14th Safety Battalion and firehouse 69 houses the 12th Safety Battalion.

“Hey guys, what do you think about this festival?” I asked .

They all had mixed receptions about it but Captain Harris and the other three just put it bluntly that even though we’re going to be off when the festival arrives they already put in time for overtime to cover other member’s shifts because the three that they’ll be covering when the festival arrives they planned it in advanced so the three members they’re covering for that day can go to the festival with their families. But I was going to go but the flier also says that if it storms like rain or thunderstorm then they’ll postpone it until the following week but those who get a raffle ticket would be excused to attend and the ones who don’t go will work or cover for the ones who are at the festival.

My cell phone vibrated again in which I answered it in which I thought it was my so called mother again. But it wasn’t. It was one of extended family members who told me that their seventeen-year-old daughter named Ashlen came out to the city of Empire in which she left a note. The city she was running away to already called the cops. But since it hasn’t been 24 hours yet they can’t report her as a runaway even though the cop that they talked to sounded like he doesn’t care about his job. So he rather just lie even though in some cases the cop is right that a child or teen would run away from home but show back up a few hours later but I told them that I’ll keep my eye out for her and if I find her I’ll tell them.

____________________________________________________________________

At night, 1:30 AM

In the quiet of the night the bell rang again for another fire in the same abandoned warehouse as earlier that I found the stuffed animals.

“I don’t know who want to live in abandoned warehouses just to kick back and have their vices take control of them,” I said, “I mean just on the southern half of the city you have The Sapphire Lounge, Neon Flight, Eclipse Beats, Velvet Underground, Bassline Bunker, Starfire Lounge, Rusty Anchor, Sidewinder, Last Call Saloon, The Broken Bottle, Whiskey’s Shadow, Rhythm Republic, Pulse Point, Twilight Tange, Harmony Hall, Bounce Brigade, The Velvet Room, Lunar Lounge, The Sapphire Suite which is owned by the owners of the Sapphire Lounge, Mirage Oasis, Zen Den, The Alchemist’s Bar, The Crow’s Nest, Frost Bar, The Docks, Goblin’s Grog, Empire History Museum, Museum of Modern Marvels, The War Room, The Time Capsule, The Science Sphere, The observatory and the Enigma Parlor. And that’s just the southern half of the city where the northern half of the city has Cosmic Pulse, The Diamond Grid, Rave Cave, The Prism, Oasis of Sound, The Frosted Mug, The Golden Barrel, The Nautical Mile, The Red Lantern, The Iron Horse, The Gilded Lily, The Blue Phoenix, The Whispering Willow, The Crystal Cove, The Ember Heart, The Vortex, The Groove Galaxy, The Electrical Lotus, The Beat Bazaar, The Rhythm Rails, The Shanty Shack, The Alley Cat, The Rusty Nail, The Pint Pot, The Howling Wolf, The Lighthouse, The Secret Garden, The Time Traveler’s Tavern, The Jazz Joint, The Speakeasy, The Mirage, The Alibi, and The Northern Lights. And that’s not adding the BB01 Aurora a Northern Light class dreadnought or CV-04 Apple Pie and CV-05 Blueberry Pie in which they were decommissioned in the late 1950s and became museum ships. But speaking for myself i rather be on a museum ship than convert an abandoned warehouse for people to kickback and do drugs'.'

Of course I was speaking for myself because a lot of people weren’t raised in a household like I was but yet again a lot of people were,

Captain Harris talked about how some people just remember the 1988-1990 Little Bird Military occupation of Empire from when in 1988 the Lieutenant Mayor took over as Mayor and disbanded the Empire Police Department so the 3rd Marine Division and 21st Airborne Division quote-unquote “policed” the city aka meaning they just shot and killed criminals and criminals who survived well the Airborne and Marines would just toy the criminals by shooting their arms as a way for them to pass the time. And that the Airborne and Marines carried the X16, Semiautomat Service Garand, Automat Service Garand, Marine Tactical Shotgun, and a few other weapons like squad automatic weapons and that’s not adding vehicle mounted weapons like the .50 Cal.

The fire was quickly knocked down in which it was from the same hotplate again but I found my cousin Ashlen so I went over to her.

“Come on home,” I said, “Your parents are worried about you.”

My cousin replied, “Nope and honestly you can go fuck yourself and kiss my ass.”

“I already got two Goddamn people up my ass already!” I snapped, “And I swear to fucking God that if you’re chosing the hardway then I’ll beat the living shit out of you that not even God will reconize you!”

My cousin replied, “Go to hell and fuck you Mackenzie,”

“Alright you bitch you asked for it,” I said. “If we come back because you or your junkie friends OD then I’m not saving you and if you have a cardiac arrest. Let’s just say you’re going to see me hold the defibrillators and not shock you with them but just hold them in the air so you can just lay there and watch you get your comeuppance.”

I then turned around to help the company pack up our gear before heading back to quarters. But I was hatching a secret evil plan in my thick skull.

___________________________________________

The following morning

In the firehouse apparatus bay. I just grabbed my bunker gear when my dad came in.

“Hey there Mac,” My dad said, “So do you want to go get a drink?”

I replied, “Not now I gotta go get Ashlen.”

My dad tagged along. I just put on my bunker gear as he drove and I told him where to go by giving him directions.

When my dad stopped the car I got out but soon he took the key out of the ignition.

“So what’s the plan?” My dad asked.

I replied, “Going to make her piss herself and make her scared.”

I then got out of the car with my dad following me.

There was a guy in there dressed like a stereotypical gang member he told us to fuck off after I said that why I’m here. But he then drew his gun and pointed it at me. I just grabbed his arm and twisted so many ways until he dropped the weapon. But that didn’t stop me from breaking his neck and windpipe.

I then just started to look in each room until I checked the final room on top. I went in and found Ashlen.

“I told you to fuck off,” said Ashlen.

I picked up a whiskey bottle that says it’s 100% proof. I poured it around the room and I took a match and lit it.

“I gave you a chance to come home the easy way, Okay asshole?” I said before dropping the match. “See you in hell.”

I then walked out.

“What are you doing Mac?” My dad asked.

I replied, “Teaching her a lesson.”

“This is crazy just let her out,” my dad said.

I replied, “No way.”

After a few minutes there was a thud. I opened the door and dragged Ashlen’s body out where she started to cough.

“Now are you going to go home or will I have to throw your fucking ass right back in there?” I asked.

Ashlen coughed and replied, “What the fucking hell?”

“Go pull the fire box,” I said.

My dad went to go and pulled a fire alarm box and I went to go and ran into the room and opened a window and ran back out.

My dad and I took Ashlen to the hospital to get treated for minor smoke inhalation. But I decided to call my cousin once removed to tell him that I got his daughter and is at the hospital but she acted like a spoiled brat so I put her in her place.

_______________________________________________________________

At night again I followed Ashlen in which she went to another abandoned warehouse where I just waited.

When the sun started to rise.

I found Ashlen sleeping on a leather couch where I just walked around it with a can of lighter fluid where I just poured the liquid around the couch and table full of narcotics. But I also poured some onto her leg but what got her attention when I sprayed some onto her face.

“What the hell Mac?” exclaimed Ashlen.

I replied after lighting a match, “I gave you a chance to wait for your dad to take you home. but once I told your dad he said that you’re no longer his daughter nor a Waterson and that I have executed authority you worthless piece of shit.”

“Wait, don't do this Mac,” Ashlen said.

I then dropped the match which put itself out so I just lit another match and dropped it onto the lighter fluid.

“Burn in Hell. I’m sure Satan will wish you a happy 18th birthday,” I said before leaving to go to work.

_____________________________________________________________

20 minutes later

I walked into Squad Co 769’s firehouse eating a scrambled egg and sausage patty breakfast sandwich.

Soon the fire bell rang for the report of a fire in an abandoned warehouse. The guys coming into the firehouse to start their shift just dropped their bags to race to the turnout gear room to get their bunker gear.

As we were responding.

“Aren’t you worried about getting a stomach ache?” a firefighter asked.

I replied, “I can eat fourteen cheeseburgers, an extra large pizza and 20 all beef hotdogs and run right into a fire.”

“You’re not a superhero,” said the same firefighter. “But at least it ain’t a Water Rescue then you would get a stomach ache.”

Another firefighter chimed in about how he wants to get married to a woman he’s dating in which I said, “Get two takes on asking someone who is happily married and ask someone who was married.”

“You were married?” he asked.

I replied, “Nope but my dad was for almost 25 years. To a little dirty, filthy, blood-sucking whore.”

__________________________-

In the thick of the smoke and chaos, I clutched the Halligan bar with a firm grip, the weight of it grounding me as I suited up in my breathing apparatus. The abandoned warehouse loomed before me, a labyrinth of makeshift dwellings carved out of desperation and poverty. It was a place where the forgotten sought refuge, away from the prying eyes of society, and where the law was just a distant echo.

With each step, the mask sealed over my face, I plunged into the belly of the beast. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of decay and the sharp tang of fear. This wasn't just a building; it was a living, breathing entity, its walls pulsating with the lives of those who had claimed it as their own. They were the invisible ones, the ones who had slipped through the cracks, finding solace in the shadows.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I pounded on the doors, my voice a commanding boom amidst the crackling flames. "Fire Department! Evacuate immediately!" But my calls were met with silence or muffled curses. They didn't want to leave; this was their sanctuary, their home, even as it threatened to consume them.

There's a part of me, a silent observer, that knows my team sees me as a ticking time bomb. There are lines you don't cross with me—mocking military service, trivializing tragedy, profiting from pain. Those are the triggers that ignite my fury, the red flags that warn of an impending storm.

I swept through each room with military precision, my eyes scanning for signs of life. There was Ashlen's room, the door now a barrier between her and the world. I radioed in the all-clear, my voice steady, betraying none of the turmoil within. "Primary search complete, no one found." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it was a necessary evil. Ashlen was gone, her spirit a mere whisper in the charred remains.

I retraced my steps, the building groaning and shuddering around me. Then, freedom—a burst of fresh air as I emerged from the inferno. But the respite was short-lived. An explosion rocked the foundation, sending shards of glass dancing like deadly rain around us.

Captain Harris's voice crackled over the radio, calling for a third alarm. "Defensive operations," he declared. We were no longer rescuers; we were defenders, battling an enemy that showed no mercy.

As the flames licked the sky, a crowd gathered, the residents of Eastside watching with a mix of awe and despair. Claire was right; for them, this was a spectacle, a break from the monotony of their struggles. No televisions to distract, no cars to escape in. Their lives were a tapestry of small joys and hard knocks, woven together by the threads of community and survival.

They lived on the edge, $3,000 a year was a fortune, and the poverty line was a tightrope walked daily. For them, entertainment was found in the simple things—a radio drama, a local game, or the raw energy of a Friday night brawl. It was a world apart, a stark contrast to the blaze before us, yet somehow, it was all connected in the dance of life and fire.

In America, they say the standard of living is a rising tide, lifting all boats. But here on Little Bird, the waters have been still since '63. The prices are relics, frozen in time like the cars and clothes of the 50s and 60s. There's no need for wages to climb when the cost of bread hasn't budged in decades. Inflation is a foreign word here, spoken only in the hushed tones of wartime, when the economy bows to the demands of conflict and the machinery of life turns to the machinery of war.

But there's a shadow that trails me, a memory that clings like the scent of jasmine on a humid Alabama night. My mother, bless her heart in Hell, had dreams of grandchildren filling her arms, so she set me on a conveyor belt of suitors—1825 dates with men, a parade of strangers. Each one, a hope; each one, a disappointment. I was a prize in a lottery where no one won, least of all me.

The urge to flee, to shed the skin of expectation, was a fire in my belly. Once, I bolted, found sanctuary in Virginia with an extended family who knew the taste of my mother's brand of love. But they sent me back, saying I was running from shadows that would only grow longer in my absence. They said I was leaving my father to bear the brunt of her storm alone.

So I stayed, tethered to my father, to Alabama, until I couldn't. I begged him, pleaded to be sent to Little Bird, a speck on the map nearly 4000 miles from Killen. I yearned for the anonymity of distance, for a place where the echoes of my mother's matchmaking wouldn't reach. Little Bird was my escape, my new beginning, a chance to redefine what home meant to me.

But while we were fighting the fire defensively we were soon given two additional companies including Squad 525 and I had a hidden ace card up the sleeve. Well in my opinion it’s an ace card for me but I’ll give it to Carter soon.

I went inside with a one and three-quarter hose to knock down the fire but a part of the ceiling came down trapping me.

___________________________

After the fire after two and a half hours.

“Hey Carter I got something for you,” I said.

Carter turned around and replied, “And what is it dollface?”

“Well that term is usually a compliment but it’s an insult in this case but here,” I said to Carter before giving him a folded-up piece of white construction paper and I started to walk away.

“Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Carter, “Did you do this?”

I turned around, “Yup consider it payback.”

“So you’re raising my rent to more or less break my bank account,” Carter said.

I replied, “What’s the problem dollface? Thought you men like challenges? What is shelling out an additional $200 bucks a month for rent gonna be a problem for you? Because I’m willing to start the eviction process for you.”

“Fuck!” said Carter angrily before kicking Squad 525 apparatus and hurting his foot through a steel towed boot, “Fuck my foot.”

I had a big old grin on my face where I’m getting my payback a different way than I imagined but it’s a lot different than what was going through my mind but monetarily ruining Carter was a better solution than blowing his leg off with a shotgun. But the shotgun idea is still tempting.

I then heard Carter then talk about how he would get close to me via family in which he’s gotten how the Fire Department City of Empire has another unwritten rule of cannot be with a guy's or gals ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, ex-girlfriend, ex-wife, sister, cousin, niece, nephew, brother, half brother or half sister, without his or her explicit - crystal clear - permission.

“Try and date any woman in the Waterson family then they’ll do a lot worse to you than what the Romans did to Jesus,” I said with a smirk before climbing onto the hose bed of Squad 769 to assist in folding the hoses back into their original position.

“Who in the hell trained you? Because it wasn’t sure as shit wasn’t this department!” snapped Captain Linda, “Because in this department we’re trained to rescue our trapped members, not leave them to die.”

I found it amusing that Carter was getting chewed out by a woman but I also watched. Linda quickly turned around and punched Carter hard enough to knock him down but I couldn’t help but chuckle. But after the fire we knew another fire would start even though I caused the fire but how close the hot plate was they just suspected it was from the hotplate again.

As I was getting done helping the company I'm with of folding up the lines, Carter came over.

The rest of Squad Co 769 walked away as they knew something was about to go down.But he then got onto the hose bed of Squad Co 769.

“Hey there Mac,” Carter said, “How about this, how about you and me…”

I interrupted, “Carter, never in a million years would I sleep with you even if you and I were the last two people in the world. I'll quickly learn how to fly to get the hell away from you. Never in a billion years would I go behind my girlfriend’s back to sleep with you. Also if I did and if i got pregnant by it well guess what you’re keeping the child. But I’m not and not even sleep with you so you can get that out of our mind because I’m the one woman that will never in a billion or a trillion years would I ever sleep with you. So you can hit the road.”

“I got friends in places where they can make your life a living hell,” Carter said.

I replied, “I got friends and family in places who can have your friends rounded up and executed by firing squad with incendiary rounds.”

Carter thought I was calling a bluff but at the same time when I looked at him right in the eyes he thought I was bluffing. At the same time he didn’t call my bluff because he didn’t know if I actually was bluffing or if I did have family members who were higher rank officials that outrank his friends at the city level. But I have a feeling that if his friends do go after my relatives in high places then his friends would be labeled as treasoners. Which here in Little Bird is a federal offense in which a week or two of jail time until being executed by firing squad, executed by hanging or executed via electric chair. But I don’t think he wanted to test it or find out if I’m bluffing or if it would be real. Not adding how my granduncle is the president of Little Bird and he’s probably thinking how my granduncle probably would send a Spec Ops team to make Carter piss himself.

Carter then left me alone which was great for me but they removed Ashlen’s body with a white cloth over the body. I entirely didn’t feel bad for her. She was told to go home peacefully in which she kept running off. I was told that I could’ve got rid of her if need be and I did but I wasn’t going to say something.

We just moved the furniture and whatnot around even broke some stuff up and dosed it with some water before heading back to our quarters.

_____________________

Leaning against the cool metal of the firetruck, I couldn't help but reflect on the peculiarities of public perception. "You know what baffles me?" I mused aloud to my fellow firefighters, the scent of smoke still lingering on our gear. "Back in 2003, the EPD actually let a journalist tag along, right? And what does she do? She paints everything with such a dreary brush. Even the commendable acts, the moments of genuine heroism during her ride-along, were twisted into something... out of proportion."

I shook my head, the disbelief still fresh after all these years. But before I could delve deeper into that memory, the 18th Battalion burst through the doors, his presence as commanding as a multi-alarm blaze. "Who's hitting up the festival next week?" one of them boomed, his voice echoing off the firehouse walls. I couldn't resist the pull of community spirit; I handed him a quarter, and in exchange, he slipped me a paper admission ticket, its edges slightly frayed but promising a day of escape.

As two more of my crew traded coins for tickets, my thoughts drifted, as they often did, to Project Phoenix. It was a testament to human resilience, a program that had evolved dramatically since its inception in late 1944. Initially, it was a haphazard assembly of Marines and Army Rangers, each one specially selected and trained to embody the very essence of tenacity, to stand as the vanguard against the Axis powers' most formidable soldiers.

These men, the venerated Little Bird Armed Forces, were sculpted into warriors of superior speed, reflexes, and tactical acumen. They were the shadows in urban combat, lobbing grenades with deadly accuracy to dislodge the enemy from their hiding spots, their blindfire more effective than any adversary could anticipate.

The blueprint for this elite force was drafted in the waning days of December 1944 but didn't come to fruition until January of the following year. Eighty souls, split evenly between Marines and Rangers, underwent rigorous training for urban warfare. They were primed for deployment to Japan and the heart of Germany, but by the time they were battle-ready, it was October 1945—just a month after the Second World War had drawn to a close. So, they waited, their potential simmering on the backburner, until conflicts in Korea and later Vietnam called them to action.

It wasn't until 1995, however, that a breakthrough occurred. Reverse-engineered alien technology gave rise to powered assault armor, complete with shielding, propelling Project Phoenix into a new era. These troops, now akin to an advanced shock force, were somewhat of an entity unto themselves, yet still under the watchful eyes of the Army, Marines, and the Office of Intelligence and Strategic Actions.

I then forgot what I was talking about. The only thing was about a journalist but entirely forgot what I was talking about.

________________________________________

Next Saturday.

Bathed in the golden glow of a cloudless Saturday, the Firefighter Festival buzzed with life. I sat at a sun-dappled table, the hum of conversation around us blending with the distant sizzle of grills. My father, a man whose life lessons were etched into the lines of his face, shared stories that wove the fabric of our family’s history.

“I’ll be back,” I promised, pushing back from the table with a sense of purpose.

Striding over to the beverage stand, the scent of summer in the air, I scanned the vendor’s offerings. The menu boasted an array of drinks, but I settled on a classic root beer for myself and a crisp beer for Dad. Carter, the last person I wanted to see, loomed nearby. I ignored him, focusing instead on the simple pleasure of a cold drink on a warm day.

Returning to our table, I found my father gazing out at the festival, a soft smile playing on his lips. “It’s a nice day out,” he remarked, a statement so obvious it bordered on profound.

“It is,” I agreed, my eyes catching a familiar figure in the crowd. “Carter’s here, just like I mentioned earlier.”

“I’ll handle it,” Dad said, his voice steady as Carter approached.

Carter wasted no time. “Mr. Waterson, I seek your blessing to marry Mackenzie,” he declared, his voice carrying a note of challenge.

Dad’s response was immediate and unwavering. “Not a chance, Carter. You’re not the one for her, and that’s final.”

Carter bristled. “And what will you do to stop me?”

Without a word, Dad placed his M9 pistol on the table. “Pistol, semi automatic, 9mm, standard issue for the US Armed Forces,” he began, his tone clinical as he listed off the specifications. “But this isn’t the time or place for such discussions.”

“Why? Too many witnesses?” I interjected, half-joking.

“No,” Dad replied, his gaze sweeping over the families enjoying the festival. “These people came here for a good time, not a showdown. I won’t spoil their day.”

Carter, sensing the finality in Dad’s tone, retreated. As he left, I headed back to the food vendors, my appetite undeterred by the confrontation. I returned with a basket of chicken tenders and fries for Dad and an all-beef hot dog topped with macaroni and cheese and bacon for myself. My tastes might be unique, but that’s what makes life interesting.

“So, your girlfriend didn’t make it?” Dad asked casually.

I shook my head. “She’s tied up with work. There are only 36 lieutenants in the Fire Department City of Empire Bureau of Operations, and duty calls.”

Dave arrived soon after, his kids in tow, but Linda was conspicuously absent.

“She’s covering shifts today,” Dave explained. “She’s thinking of those growing up without parents. It’s tough, but we always say, ‘Money is replaceable, but time lost with family is irreplaceable.’”

I nodded, a pang of sadness hitting me as I thought of my own mother’s absence throughout my life. “If only she understood that,” I mused aloud.

As the children scampered off to play, I reflected on Dave’s parenting style—firm yet loving, setting boundaries while fostering independence. It was a balance of authority and support, something I admired deeply.

The festival continued around us, a tapestry of laughter, music, and shared moments—a reminder that life’s true richness lies in the connections we forge and the memories we create.

The festival’s laughter was punctuated by the excited chatter of Dave’s kids as they bounded back to us, their eyes alight with the thrill of carnival games. Dave handed each child a five bucks in one dollar bills, reminding Bobby, the eldest, to be vigilant against the sly tactics of some vendors.

“You’re the big brother,” he said, “it’s your job to make sure no one pulls a fast one on you guys.”

I listened, impressed by Dave’s proactive approach to teaching his kids about money. It reminded him of a lesson he learned the hard way from an ice cream vendor back in Clearlake, who’d swindled me out of his rightful change.

“It’s a valuable skill,” I mused, “knowing how to handle money and not get taken advantage of.”

My father nodded, his expression turning somber. “It’s all about being involved in your kids’ lives, unlike your mother,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “She missed out on so much of your childhood, Mackenzie. I tried to fill that gap, but it’s tough balancing authority with letting you find your own way.”

I could hear the unspoken apology in his words, the weight of past decisions heavy between us.

“You did the best you could, Dad,” I reassured him, “and I turned out alright, didn’t I?”

He smiled, the lines around his eyes softening. “You turned out more than alright, Mac. You’re strong, independent, and you’ve got a good head on your shoulders.”

As the kids scampered off with their money clutched tightly in their hands, I watched them go, a sense of pride swelling in my chest. They were growing up with the right mix of freedom and guidance, something I’d always valued.

Leaning against the backdrop of the bustling Firefighter Festival, my father’s question cut through the air, “So where do all the proceeds go?”

Dave, ever the fountain of knowledge, explained, “Half of the proceeds are earmarked for cancer research, a beacon of hope in the fight against cancer. The other half? It’s invested right back into the fire department, ensuring our firefighters have the latest gear to keep carcinogens at bay.”

My dad’s brow furrowed.

“Sounds like the city’s coffers are running dry,” he observed.

I chimed in, frustration lacing my words, “There’s an Alderman of Public Safety, sure. He’s supposed to safeguard the budget for Fire, Police, and Medical services, but…”

Dave jumped in, his tone tinged with exasperation, “He might as well be a sieve the way the budget drains away. Fleet maintenance is often left high and dry, unable to perform their essential duties.”

I nodded in agreement. “Take Engine 136, for instance. It’s been languishing in fleet maintenance for nearly two years, awaiting repairs. Meanwhile, other apparatuses jump the queue with Form 1342, which might as well be a golden ticket for immediate service.”

Dave’s voice grew louder, “That engine’s been out of commission since November '08, and they’ve been making do with a relic from 1941. It’s got character, sure, with its narrow body and clanging bell instead of an airhorn, but it’s not ideal. After all it’s Ex-E2.3”

He continued, a hint of pride in his voice, “But we’re resourceful. We’ve got reserves on standby—27 Engine Companies, 27 Ladder Companies, 9 Rescues, 7 HAZMAT units, 18 Foam Engines, and a fleet of other fire apparatuses. They’re all waiting for their turn, ready to spring into action when called upon.”

My father opened his mouth to speak, but Dave was on a roll, detailing the craftsmanship of each apparatus, “They’re forged from reinforced steel and aluminum, tailored to the department’s exacting standards. Like Engine Co 47 in Claire’s old Eastside neighborhood—it’s a rare 3000/800 model, a testament to the area’s fiery history while some of the inner city’s companies are the semi-common 2000/750 due to all of the high-rises and skyscrapers.”

Wandering back to our table, pager in hand, I caught the tail end of Dave’s musings. “They’re not entirely doing this for free,” he noted, a hint of realism in his voice.

I couldn’t help but agree. “Of course, businesses need to turn a profit. Giving away products doesn’t exactly pay the bills or the employees,” I said, thinking about the economic dance of supply and demand.

Dave’s guess about my order brought a smile to my face. “Chicken strips? You know the kids too well. They devour them like there’s no tomorrow. And my homemade version must be something special, straight from my mother’s family cookbook,” he said

“Have you ever been to a restaurant because they have kids menus and that tendies are usually on their,” I said.

Dave replied, “I don’t know we really don’t go out to restaurants a lot and when I was a kid every other Friday when my dad was off of work he just got three cheeseburgers, and two sides of fries, one cheeseburger for him and two for me. Now when he was married three different times then he would go get his wife a box of chicken gizzards. I take that back because in 1983 he got three chicken dinner boxes which came with two chicken thighs, two chicken legs, two chicken breasts, and potato wedges. One box for my mom, one box for him and one box for me. Those were the days.''

His question about the kids’ menus had me chuckling. “Every family-friendly restaurant has that go-to option. It’s a classic,” I said, recalling countless menus dotted with pictures of chicken tenders and fries.

Dave’s trip down memory lane was a cozy detour. “Those simple family meals are the ones that stick with you, aren’t they?” I mused, thinking of my own childhood favorites.

“When my dad was deployed for Just Cause, Desert Shield and Desert Storm the family members. I had to stay with the usual chicken tenders of course. Part of that so-called deal was that I had to eat what they made though,” I said.

My dad replied, “You could’ve just said the Gulf War and save like five seconds. Also I remember coming to get you from great-granddad in Upstate New York. You were going to say something but I shut your pie hole by saying that he has been through more Hell than you ever would go through in your life.”

The conversation flowed easily, filled with laughter and light-hearted banter, until the pager’s beep signaled it was time to gather our feast. Dad and I teamed up to collect the bounty of food, while Dave fetched his drink. Our timing was impeccable, converging at the table in a symphony of motion.

“What’s that you’ve got?” I asked Dave, eyeing the fizzy drink in his hand.

“A cream soda,” he replied, the bubbles catching the light.

I laid out the spread, upgrading the orders to full meals. Handing over the cardboard containers to Dave for the kids, I watched him dash off to find them. Dad’s meal—a hearty footlong with chili and fries—was next, followed by a box for Dave, packed with a double cheeseburger and curly fries. My own feast was a mix of favorites: chicken tenders with fries, another hot dog, and a cheeseburger.

I attacked the hot dog without mercy, savoring each bite before moving on to the cheeseburger. Then, with a flourish, I drenched the chicken tenders and fries in honey mustard, the tangy sauce a perfect complement to the crispy, golden treats.

As we ate, the festival continued around us, a backdrop of joy and community spirit. It was moments like these—shared meals, shared stories, and shared laughter—that made life rich and full.

As the festival’s energy swirled around us, I watched Dave’s kids, their faces sticky with satisfaction, dash off to conquer more carnival games. Their return was swift, their eyes wide with the universal language of children’s desires: snow cones.

“Snow Cones?” Dave echoed, his surprise evident. “You’ve just eaten, but alright, how much?”

“A quarter,” Bobby piped up, the eldest and now appointed treasurer of this sugary venture. Dave handed over a dollar with a trusting nod, and off they scampered, a colorful quartet on a mission for icy treats.

The mention of Linda cast a shadow over the conversation. “Sad that Linda couldn’t make it,” I remarked, the weight of her absence palpable.

Dave’s response was tinged with a deep-seated sorrow. “She’s haunted by the memories of 2003—the day that left thousands of children orphaned. Her company was there, in the heart of the chaos, fighting a battle that would scar the city forever. She hears the echoes of those lost, the PASS alarms that still ring in her dreams. She’s a fighter, though, relentless in the face of despair. But today, she chose to honor the memory of those who can’t be here.”

Dave’s narrative shifted, painting a picture of Little Bird’s spirit through the lens of its animal motifs. “If we were represented by animals, we’d be wolves—patient, cunning, united. Or perhaps falcons, for our swiftness and precision,” he mused, recalling a childhood encounter that left him with a respect for the avian hunters.

With our meal concluded, I felt the pull of the games. Strike Out beckoned, a test of skill and timing. I took my stance, the weight of the baseballs familiar in my hand. The targets moved, taunting, but I was undeterred. Ball after ball, I aimed for the catchers, the bonus glove tempting me with the promise of extra throws.

Victory was sweet, and I claimed my prize—an oversized teddy bear, a soft trophy of my triumph. The festival was alive with the laughter of children, each one vying for tickets, for the chance to claim their own piece of joy. Unlike some fairs on Little Bird, where tickets fade with the carnival lights, these tickets held the promise of future fun, a currency of happiness without an expiration date.

As the day waned, the festival’s heartbeat was a symphony of playful shouts and the clinking of coins, a reminder that some things—like the joy of a community coming together—are timeless.

But as I looked around some of the people there aren’t family members of the fire department in which while it’s a festival for the fire department but members of the fire department gets first dibs for tickets. But the few business days before the festival begins then random people can enter their closest firehouse and buy a ticket but the people there who aren’t apart of the fire department nor are relatives to the firefighters there but the people there are the city’s hardworking blue class workers who work in dangerous or labor intensive careers in which they came out to support the local first responders who are always there for them 24/7 in which many of the blue collared workers who are there to come out for the day they’re just showing up to give their support because the fire department was always there for them while the police department more or less is a no-show.

The EPD respond more quickly and harsher in middle class and richer neighborhoods while taking their time in predominantly poorer neighborhoods so the fire department had a better reputation in neighborhoods that are poor than the police department because well many of the impoverished people have a saying that they say, “The police department may show up or not and that an ambulance may take 20 minutes but the fire department will respond when the alarm call box is pulled regardless of your wealth, skin color, nationality, religious or gender that they’re going to come when the fire box is pulled.”

Standing beside my dad as he took aim at the dunk tank, the anticipation in the air was almost tangible. The festival’s energy seemed to converge on this point of playful challenge.

“So you like being a firefighter?” he asked, his voice carrying over the sound of splashes and cheers.

I nodded, leaning against the railing. “I love it, despite the unexpected calls that come our way. It’s not just about fighting fires; it’s about being there for the community in any capacity needed. Sure, we get the odd landlord-tenant dispute, which really isn’t in our wheelhouse, but it shows the trust people have in us. The fire department is a pillar of support, no matter the situation.”

I watched as he wound up for another throw. “We’re the first responders to just about everything—fights, childbirth, you name it. And while most of us are CFRs, we’ve got our FF/EMTs and FF/Paramedics making up the ranks too. Just last week, we were called to a bar brawl. We let them sort it out before stepping in—no need to get in the middle of flying fists. But we’re always ready to offer aid or get a refusal waiver signed. It’s all part of the job.”

The ball left his hand, flying straight and true. “And then there’s the fires in places like abandoned warehouses, where sometimes all you can do is contain it. Our captain says it’s about accepting the limits of what we can do.”

I sighed, thinking of Dave’s kids. “I feel for them, with their mom not here. Claire and the other firefighters, Avalanche and Dynamite, understand those limits too. They know that no matter how skilled you are, there’s only so much you can do.”

The splash signaled a hit, and laughter erupted around us. “The academy drills it into us—we’re racing against time, from the moment the call comes in to the second we’re dispatched. Every second counts.”

As I spoke, I could see the pride in my dad’s eyes, a reflection of the respect he had for the service and the sacrifices made by those who serve. It was a moment of connection, a shared understanding of the commitment to help others, no matter the cost.

As the festival’s din swirled around us, my dad’s curiosity about my colleagues piqued. “So, Avalanche and Dynamite? Tell me about them?” he inquired, his gaze following the pair in the distance.

“Mariana ‘Avalanche’ Harmony and Madeleine ‘Dynamite’ Azure,” I began, “Avalanche is a former military mountaineer, and Dynamite, well, she’s a former marine combat engineer. They’re as tough as they come—Dynamite especially. She’s the epitome of marine strength.”

My dad chuckled, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I wasn’t planning on asking either of them out. After what I went through with your mother, I’m not keen on jumping back into the dating pool. But it’s good to know they’re friendly allies, not easily ruffled.”

As we spoke, Avalanche and Dynamite were making their way through the crowd, prizes in tow, a testament to their day’s victories. Their camaraderie was evident, a bond that had once been romantic but had evolved into a steadfast friendship.

Approaching them, I greeted my formidable friends. Avalanche’s arms were laden with winnings, too full for a handshake, but her smile was a warm welcome. They shared tales of their day—starting with a hearty bacon breakfast and powering through with coffee, their energy devoted to the games and the sheer joy of a day spent outside, away from the confines of routine.

“They’ve been here since the opening, fully immersed in the festival spirit,” I told my dad, watching as they recounted their adventures with animated gestures. “It’s days like today that remind us to step out and live a little, even if it means splurging on games and food. It’s about the fun, the memories.”

As Avalanche and Dynamite continued to share their stories, their laughter mingling with the festival’s lively hum, I felt a sense of contentment. Here, among friends and family, with the backdrop of a community united in celebration, was were simple moments became cherished memories.

___________________________________________________

At night in Downtown

The same three guys who beat the hell out of me came out of a bar.

“That’s them,” I said.

Some of my family members including my father attacked them the same way they attacked me. I could’ve attacked them but one against three wasn’t a fair fight neither is twelve against three but to me the three that attacked me really didn’t do that much damage to me. While the beating they gave me felt like it was on par with a papercut but now they’re getting beaten by twelve members who are heavily trained in hand to hand combat and gave them a much more of an beating than what the three gave me. But when the three got beaten up a lot worse than me I just ran and kicked them in the nuts while they were down to add an extra layer of pain for them.

Soon Carter came out of the bar. I tapped him on his shoulder. He turned around which had my foot meet his nuts bringing him down very quickly he just said, “I needed them.”

I replied, “No you do not anymore. Come on, let's go to a bar. I’m buying the first round.”

We all then left to go to another bar.