On January 18th, as I was preparing breakfast, I heard a knock on my door. I quickly turned off the stove and moved the pan to a different burner. When I opened the door, I was met by a police officer from the Island Patrol.

"Are you Mackenzie Waterson?" the officer inquired.

"Yes, I am. What's this about?" I responded.

"It's about your mother," the officer explained. "We were contacted by the U.S. Embassy to inform you that your mother is in the hospital and she wants you to come and visit her."

After the officers left, I couldn't contain my excitement and threw my fists up in celebration. But I then went back to making breakfast in which I ate a bacon and scrambled egg sandwich. But after I got done eating and doing the dishes I just called the airport to book a flight back to the United States in a couple of days and even called HQ to request time off due to a so-called family emergency before going to work.

But I couldn’t believe I said that it was a family emergency because I and my so-called mother aren’t close and I don’t call her “mother” but rather call her “The woman who gave birth to me” because we don't have a loving mother-daughter relationship.

_______________

At the Squad 769 firehouse, the team convened around a table to participate in a question-and-answer session led by Captain Harris. An example query pertained to the nature of the emergency that would ensue in the event of a fire at the port. Responses were documented on small whiteboards.

Amidst contemplation regarding my forthcoming visit to my biological mother in the United States, Captain Harris posed the question, "In the event of a fire at the port, what type of emergency would it be?"

Upon reviewing the responses, Captain Harris conveyed that, except for my own, the answers provided by Squad 769 needed to be corrected. I had accurately inscribed "HAZMAT Level 1/2," considering the presence of hazardous materials within the port. But he did give them points for saying that it would be treated as a fire though.

“The fact that you five are getting beaten by a Probie,” said Captain Harris. “It’s well in my 38 years in the Fire Department I've never seen anything like it. It’s usually the ones who aren’t probationary firefighters who have more knowledge.”

I replied, “Well my girlfriend is the Lieutenant over on Squad Company 141 and when I was over at the Academy my girlfriend she quizzed me regardless of when she wasn’t working or if we were preoccupied with something like showering or bathing. But cooking, cleaning, driving or anytime else she would ask me and I would answer. But she would let me have an hour to study in the books they give you at the Academy to study in the classrooms and off hours.”

Captain Harris chuckled when I said about having books to study when not training off hours because he and a lot of the veterans of the department came on at a time when they were assigned books. But they only could read them when in the classroom and had to leave them there, not keep them, only give them back when the training was over. Not adding that they had to pay for the books and supplies and pay for their uniforms and bunker gear. Since 1995 the city provides the books, notebooks, pencils/pens, uniform, and bunker gear but from 1710 to 1994 that those who signed up had to pay out of pocket not adding that they spend 80% of their training out doing physical training and put into a trailer that’s a maze with no light so they can get a taste of being in a dark environment, crawling only relying on their sense of touch or being put in a specialized building that’s filled with smoke and fire. But I just told them that the instructor I had just complained about how the city hasn’t had a “real firefighter” since the 1960s and 70s due to the advancement of technology like thermal imaging cameras. He also talked about how we’re going to have to suppress a lot of things because the last thing we need to do is go home and tell our families what we see.

Captain Harris then had us go find a fake bomb that his friend over in the police department bomb squad rig up. As a SOC Company in the fire department we’re trained in that field as well but Captain Harris told us to go find it and report it.

I searched the lockers and the rest of the company started to search while Captain Harris just had a clipboard and stopwatch.

Another member used his radio to radio it into the rest of us but there was an explosion in which when we got to his location he was covered in a white powder.

“And you’re dead,” I said. “Some explosives can be triggered by radio frequency energy or by static energy.”

When he looked at Captain Harris.

“Don’t look at me, she's right,” said Captain Harris. “Training 101 of not to do something that would cause it to go off like using something that has static energy or a radio frequency.”

We used a booster hose to spray him down outside to get the baby powder off of him. He had to go change.

The moment he stepped through the door, a chill ran down my spine. Not him, I thought, my heart sinking like a stone in a deep, dark well.

There he was, Jack, the man who couldn’t grasp the word ‘no’ if it were spelled out in neon lights. My gaze must have betrayed a flicker of recognition, for I knew him all too well. After graduating and returning to Alabama, my mother, bless her misguided heart, had set us up on a date. Unlike the respectful gentlemen I’d encountered before, Jack was persistent to a fault. He’d even managed to get himself into a car accident en route to see me while I was in basic training.

His obsession didn’t end there. Whenever the USS Bunker Hill docked for repairs or a port visit, Jack would find his way there, boarding a plane as if drawn by some twisted sense of destiny. It was my nightmare. Although military protocol often barred him from setting foot on base, the times I ventured off base were haunted by his unwelcome shadow.

“Hello Mackenzie,” he greeted, a smirk playing on his lips as if we shared some private joke.

I rolled my eyes, exasperation boiling over. “Jack hit the road. I’ve turned you down more times than I care to count. For nearly four years, my answer has been a resounding no. I’m not marrying you. It’s time you got that through your thick skull. And you know what? I’ll do exactly what I did back in Hamburg in '09—I’ll file a police report for stalking and harassment.”

With swift determination, I reached for my phone. Instead of dialing the local equivalent of 911, I called directly to the 9th Precinct. Eastside was their territory, and I knew they’d send an officer posthaste. But as Jack lunged for my phone in a desperate attempt to silence me, I acted on instinct. My training kicked in, and before I knew it, his arm was bent at an unnatural angle, a clear snap echoing in the tense air.

His arm, momentarily caught in my firm grip, must have throbbed with the onset of pain. Yet, within moments, I released him, and he staggered back, just out of reach. There was a brief pause, a silent standoff before he did something utterly unexpected—yet predictably Jack. He knelt on one knee, his gesture grandiose, as if we were actors on a stage rather than two people in a stark reality.

Before me was the 77th ring, each more elaborate than the last, a crescendo of diamonds and promises that I had no intention of accepting. It was as if with each rejection, the rings grew in grandeur, as though he believed that a fancier band could sway my steadfast heart.

But I am not a woman swayed by the sparkle of gemstones or the weight of gold. My resolve is not for sale, not for all the jewels in the world. So, with a sigh that carried the weight of all our history, I looked into his hopeful eyes and said, “Jack, this isn’t about the rings or the grand gestures. It’s about respect, understanding, and accepting a person’s choice. For the seventy-seventh time, my answer is no. It has always been no.” With that, I turned away, leaving the ring—and Jack’s unyielding proposal—behind me.

Jack’s inability to accept a ‘no’ was not just stubbornness; it was a refusal to acknowledge my autonomy. His belief that ‘no’ simply meant ‘not now, but later’ was a dangerous misconception, one that I could no longer tolerate. The police arrived after some time, and I filed a report detailing the harassment and stalking, a necessary step to reclaim my peace.

The officer informed me that to obtain a restraining order, I would need to visit either the precinct or the courthouse. However, the only available option was a Domestic Abuse Restraining Order (DARO), a consequence of a 1942 bill passed in Little Bird under the Violence Against Women Act. This act facilitated the investigation and prosecution of violent crimes against women, mandated restitution for those convicted, and provided civil redress in cases the District Attorney opted not to pursue.

I resolved to handle the paperwork after work, determined to put an end to this ordeal. Yet, when I inquired about the specificity of the restraining order, the officer explained that in Little Bird, stalking and harassment were categorized under domestic abuse, regardless of the relationship status between the involved parties. This classification, they claimed, simplified the legal process, though I remained skeptical of its efficacy.

In a world where ‘no’ should be respected unequivocally, I found myself navigating a system that seemed to blur the lines, but I was resolute. I would walk into that precinct, fill out the forms, and stand firm against the tide, for my ‘no’ was not a whisper in the wind—it was a declaration, loud and clear.

Of course, the officer also said that if I do go for a restraining order then if Jack violates it even once it’s a felony. I know that if Jack does violate it just once then he can be charged with a felony. But I know that when my shift ends I’m heading down to the police precinct to get one. But I just know that the moment that Jack breaks it, she then has him arrested and charged with a felony.

My father is loving and caring, but he was tough on me because he wanted me to grow up strong and resilient. The Waterson family is not known for being smooth-talking charmers or cold-blooded manipulators; we just get right to the point and don't manipulate others. As for Jack, he will never become a part of this family through marriage or any other means because the women in the Waterson family aren't easily won over by smooth charmers and manipulators. The last man who tried to manipulate or charm his way into a Waterson woman's life ended up in the hospital with broken legs and a broken arm. I have a strong feeling that my girlfriend wants to join my family through marriage. However, if we get married, she will be more inclined to accept a courthouse wedding instead of a traditional wedding at a church or venue due to her being Agnostic and Atheist.

It wasn’t long until the fire bell rang for a fire investigation so we went. and checked it out even though it was within Firehouse 23’s district but they were preoccupied with a car fire call. But we had done our investigation while it was put out before we got there we had to double-check check the owner of the restaurant was abusing his son for it which was a breaking point for me so without hesitation, I went at him but it took the entire company to get me off of the guy but we left after that.

When we arrived at the station, Captain Harris confronted me aggressively. I told him that he should have reviewed my file to understand my background and the reasons behind my actions. I explained that officers should be familiar with their members' backgrounds to better understand their behavior. I also shared with him that my so-called mother had similarly treated me and that it was a sensitive issue for me. I conveyed to him that I felt unfairly punished by my mother for things that were beyond my control. She used to burden me with her chores on top of my responsibilities, including school, personal life, and later, when I had a part-time job. But that was only if my dad wasn’t there. If he was, then she had to do her own chores while I did mine. However, if he wasn’t there, then she would throw all of her chores onto mine.

But for some reason, I decided to go back to the United States to help my so-called mother but if she needs help I might just throw her into an assisted living home or a place that would treat her as badly as she treated me. But if she has to come and live with me then I’ll make her life a living hell like she has done to me.

If fate decrees that she must reside under my roof, I am torn between the desire for retribution and the hope that perhaps, in this autumn of her life, we might find a semblance of peace.

In a bid to protect what little I have carved out for myself, I resolve to take a pragmatic approach. Tomorrow, before my departure, I will have the local police meticulously catalog my possessions. Each item will be assigned a number and recorded in the police database. This way, should my mother succumb to the temptation of selling or pawning my belongings, the authorities will have a clear trail to recover them.

Captain Harris went on blast for an hour in which I just tuned him out because I’m used to being yelled at by my mother but I’m just used to being yelled at so I just ignored it. But I didn’t care that he was giving me both barrels of his argument. That I’m in my probationary period that I can be fired for any reason. But he was just going to write me up for it but I don’t care how he feels about me nor what kind of write-up he will give me.

But we just waited for the next call to come in but I just kept an eye on my car but the day went by fast.

______________________________________________________

The next day

I went to the 9th Precinct and got a few officers to come out and register everything in my house to see if it gets stolen or pawned then they can easily recover it.

But after that I went to the airport. At first I got a bite to eat before boarding my plane back to the United States.

_______________________________

At a rehab center

The doctor asked, "So you're going to be the one taking your mother to come and live with you?"

I replied confidently, "Yes, I will. My mother and I have a lot of catching up to do."

The doctor commented, "Well, she's been a pain in the neck for us."

I responded firmly, "Yes, my mom has been known to be a little wild."

What I just said was an understatement. The doctor then led me to his office and gave me the release forms I signed. One important notice was that my mother has to check in with her rehab doctor at 8 AM Central Time until her rehab is complete. However, she won't like that it’s 6 AM Central Pacific Time. If my mom fails to check in once, then she has to come back until they deem that she can be either released back into the general public or into a housing project with other members in rehab. This was not how I was planning on spending my day in Kansas City, but I chose to do this because my dad changed his phone number.

“Can she get a part-time job?” I asked.

The doctor replied, “She can but if she gets paid in cash keep a close eye on it. Oh, she also has to do a bimonthly drug test but if she fails once she has to come back. Alright Ms. Waterson, your mother is now in your hands.”

I then met my mother in the lobby of the rehab place. The doctor then left to let me and my so-called mother alone for a quick moment.

“Get up without my permission, I’ll blast your ass so far through your head it’ll turn the moon well technically the sun into nothing but red,” I explicitly informed my mother that I will be setting up specific ground rules for her. Any violation will result in her return to the United States, either to the hospital or an assisted living facility. The first rule mandates mandatory drug tests, with failure or refusal leading to eviction. Second, my job as a firefighter is off-limits for personal interruptions. Third, she must accompany me on shopping days to select her items. No alcohol or unapproved drugs are permitted. While she may work part-time, 18% of her paycheck will go towards rent. Furthermore, she must adhere to a daily schedule, allowing her out between 9 AM and 5 PM, with mandatory doctor check-ins at 8 AM. Missing a check-in will result in her departure.

I soon decided to walk down the hallway. I called my mother and told her to gather her things and leave. Before she could respond, I informed her that I had already taken care of everything for her to be allowed to leave the U.S. and come to Little Bird to live with me.

I made it clear to my mother that my life was "Fine," choosing not to divulge details about my happy relationship with another woman or the return of James, whom I consider to be a stalking parasite. I only discuss the men with whom I went on single dates and who respected my decision not to pursue a romantic relationship. I emphasize their open-mindedness. I don't waste time discussing men like James, who I find to be misogynistic and chauvinistic, living in an outdated world where they believe women should only work during times of war, like the World Wars. The men I don't talk about, like James, hold the belief that women should confine themselves to homemaking, with responsibilities limited to shopping, cooking, cleaning, child-rearing, and serving their husbands.

I also informed my mom that the country I'm living in, Little Bird, has extradition laws. This means that if she fails her drug test or misses a check-in, the Little Bird National Police or the Little Bird Island Patrol (similar to the State Police) can arrest her and extradite her back to the United States. If her rehab doctor suspects that she's using drugs or not following the treatment plan, the doctor can request her to come back as well.

I made it clear to my mother that we would only be purchasing non-GMO food in the future. Our focus will be on obtaining healthy foods grown on a farm. The only modified food permitted will be items with preservatives, such as strawberry jam. I explained to her that this decision is final due to the limited availability of fast food options in the country of Little Bird. Unlike the United States, where there are 210,692 fast food places, fast food in Little Bird is considered a luxury, not an everyday occurrence. It is viewed as a rare treat, to be indulged in occasionally, akin to a blue moon or during road trips. Additionally, I clarified that the limited fast food joints in Little Bird predominantly sell hamburgers, cheeseburgers, fries, sodas, water, coffee, and milkshakes, with only a few offering other items like chicken. However, meals involving chicken in Little Bird are deemed as restaurant meals, not fast food.

I made it clear to my mom that hot dogs are considered children’s food and are also a staple at baseball games. At baseball games, hot dogs sell rapidly and are commonly referred to as "Nickel root beer." This name stems from the tradition of people purchasing food like hot dogs and root beer for nickel during the long break in the 7th inning. Furthermore, hot dogs are frequently consumed by children at parties.

While on the flight, my mother asked if it was okay for her to get something from the cart that was being pushed up and down the aisle. I told her to help herself, and I got some spaghetti and meatballs, a chocolate brownie, a mixed green salad, and a lemon-lime soda (like Sprite). My mother got pasta, ice cream, and hot tea. She commented that it was better than just packaged peanuts. I told her that I rather eat nothing but packaged peanuts for an entire flight than starve.

After a couple more hours, we arrived at Empire International Airport. The airport consists of three terminals. The standard blocky terminal is located at the north, with below-ground entrances. The passenger terminal to the south is more distinctive, with its woven roof and a massive glass wall facing the airport's southern side. The third terminal is the Freight and Cargo Terminal, situated southeast of both passenger terminals.

"They don’t take security lightly here," my mother said, observing the cops in their dark blue uniforms. The city police wore ties, police badges, hats, and body armor, while the national police wore short-sleeve navy blue uniforms with body armor.

"Well, they're the first line of defense to prevent terrorism," I replied, stating the obvious.

_________________________

Stepping into my apartment, the air is thick with the tension of new beginnings and old grudges. I cast a wary eye over the sparse furnishings, each piece cataloged in my mind and marked by the Empire Police Department.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I warned my estranged mother, her eyes scanning the room like a hawk. “Everything here is accounted for. Take something, and it’s not just me you’ll answer to—the EPD will have you in cuffs before you can pawn a single item.”

The knock at the door slices through the unease, and there stands Claire, my rock, her presence a balm to my frayed nerves. She steps in, her gaze questioning the chaos without a word. I’m grateful she’s left her kids out of this mess.

I said, "You may not be concerned about matters of faith, but this is a case where faith and practicality coincide."

As I checked my pistol, I mentioned, "This type of gun, the .45 Automatic pistol, was created by a religious man a century ago," referring to John Browning and the M1911 Pistol.

During our discussion, I emphasized to my girlfriend Claire the importance of preserving the past and the dangers of forgetting history. I also made it clear to her that she should not bring her children around because of my mother's potential to guilt-trip her into helping.

After putting my gun away my girlfriend and I then started to baby-proof my apartment so my mother doesn’t get hurt where she may be an adult but I don’t trust her entirely not to find a way to hurt herself. But I also told my mom that she has to go get a part-time job as well so she decided to go get a part-time job.

“So why are you helping your mother?” Lusty asked.

I replied, “The Holy Bible may preach peace and forgiveness. Screw that an eye for an eye tooth for a tooth is what’s going to happen. She took my money when I was younger including birthday money so an eye for an eye a tooth for a tooth.”

Lusty said that what my mother did by taking my money even my birthday money was messed up. Her parents even poor living on the line of poverty and almost being homeless but every birthday they would give Lusty a few bucks but even when Lusty got a job while she was in high school but they just said “It’s your money Claire you spend it how you want to” instead of taking their only daughter’s money to help pay bills. But Lusty was grateful that her parents let her keep her money while my mother took mine from either birthday money or from my part-time job. Sometimes I wish I had parents like the kind my girlfriend had of a loving and caring kind not have parents who argued a lot and a mother who took my money for her drug addiction and a father who worked 50 or more hours a week to earn extra money to pay the bills and groceries while my mother stayed at home just taking a majority of my dad’s money to do her narcotics.

Soon my mother joined us at the dining room table.

“So Claire, can you tell Mackenzie the wonderful things about having children?” my mother asked the moment she sat down

Lusty just did the opposite instead of talking about how good it can be and all the wonders she just talked about the bad side like how her kids always fight over toys or throw temper tantrums when they don’t get what they want. Lusty tells her children not to get their clothing dirty or that holding their breath is a good lung exercise whenever they throw their temper tantrums. But she has it whenever her children say they don’t want to work for their allowance meaning they don’t want to do their chores she just tells them “No work no allowance” and that whenever they raise their voice to her well she tells them not to raise their voice at her because she’ll pop them in the mouth if they raise their voice or back talk her.

The words hang in the air, a stark delineation of parenting styles. My mother, quick to label, calls it "Authoritarian," her tone dismissive, as if the concept is foreign and distasteful.

Claire's response is swift, her voice steady, "It's Authoritative. There's a difference. It's about being firm yet supportive, setting clear boundaries while keeping the lines of communication of having rules and expectations but giving reason by them. Authoritarian? It’s more or less my way or the highway."

I can't help but interject, the comparison between Claire's methods and my mother's—or lack thereof—too glaring to ignore.

"It's a lot different than you, Mom," I say, the words tasting of bitter truth. "You were neglectful, uninvolved, indifferent. You provided no guidance, no attention. It was a hands-off approach that left me to fend for myself when dad wasn’t around."

In this exchange, the contrast between past and present couldn't be clearer. Claire's approach, rooted in structure and support, offers a glimpse of what could have been, while my mother's neglect serves as a reminder of what was. It's a lesson in the impact of our actions, or inactions, on those we claim to love.

Claire’s narrative unfolds, a tapestry of teenage years caught between the steady hands of Authoritative guidance and the liberating breeze of Permissive freedom. Her parents, understanding the delicate part of life of growing up, loosened the reins as she stepped into the responsibilities of adolescence.

“They knew I was no longer just a kid,” Claire explains, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “With a part-time job at the local fast-food joint, juggling cash registers and customer service, I was learning the ropes of adulthood. They adjusted, you know? Set boundaries that made sense for a teenager with a paycheck.”

It’s a balance, a harmony of trust and expectation, that Claire’s parents mastered—a stark contrast to my own upbringing. They recognized her growth, and rewarded her maturity with autonomy, while still providing a safety net of rules and love. It’s a parenting philosophy that acknowledges the evolving needs of a child becoming an adult, one that I can’t help but admire and wish for in my own past.

Lusty, as she’s known to those close to her, shared with me the stark realities of her upbringing, a testament to resilience in the face of adversity. Her parents, caught in the relentless gears of a system that favored the rich, would leave before dawn’s light graced the sky, entrusting her with the morning’s silence and the weight of independence.

She’d rise with the sun, solitude her only companion, as she prepared for school. The afternoons often greeted her with an empty home, where she’d dutifully complete her chores, transforming the space into a welcoming haven for her weary parents. Dinner simmered on the stove, a simple act of love and reciprocation for their tireless efforts.

Their labor was a Sisyphean task—endless hours for meager pay, serving faceless corporations whose executives reaped fortunes. Bonuses were a rarity, a slice of pizza the only luxury amidst the struggle, except for the sparse cash rewards on Little Bird Unification Day and Christmas.

Claire’s mother, once a therapist, was dispatched by a temp agency to the far corners of the city, earning less than those with permanent positions. Her father, a janitor, had shelved his dreams alongside his wife’s therapist license, a casualty of a fake lawsuit born from a patient’s deluded affection.

Their lives, once comfortably middle-class, were upended, forcing them into a tenement’s cramped quarters—a stark contrast to the suburban home they had known. Yet, in this upheaval, they found a rhythm, a balance that ensured one of them was always there for Lusty. It was a sacrifice, and of unspoken love that shaped the woman she became—a woman of strength, forged in the fires of hardship and hope.

Lusty often reflected on the fabric of her upbringing, woven from the threads of scarcity and self-reliance. To her, the middle-class, rich with the conveniences of instant gratification—televisions flickering with endless shows, phones ringing with distant voices, cars waiting to whisk away their owners—seems a stark contrast to the values she cherishes. She sees a world where many never touch the soil of hard work, their hands unblemished by the toil that forges character.

She earned her driver's license at sixteen, a rite of passage delayed in its consummation until the cusp of her twenty-second year. The underground metro's rhythmic lull was her companion, its carriages bearing witness to her perseverance, each journey a step closer to the independence she craved—a home of her own, a car to call hers.

Lusty's mother, a matriarch of tradition, shunned the allure of convenience. Their meals were labors of love, simmering on the stove, not zapped into existence by microwaves. Conversations weren't digitized exchanges but face-to-face encounters, each word a currency of connection.

Her reputation blossomed early in the neighborhood where Lusty's roots dug deep. As a teenager, she was lauded for her altruism and courage to place others' safety above hers. Yet, when she embraced her bisexuality, the winds of perception shifted. Some whispered of wildness, of caprice, while others saw a demon where there was none. But through the tumult, a core of support remained, those who recognized her as an ally, a beacon of authenticity.

When I stepped out of the closet, declaring my bisexuality, the reactions were a mosaic of acceptance and denial. My father's love never wavered, his support a steadfast beacon. My mother, however, saw it as a mere phase, a cloud passing over the sun of her expectations. But like Lusty, I stand firm in my identity, unyielding to the ebb and flow of others' understanding. In this unwavering stance, we find our truest selves, not as reflections of others' desires, but as architects of our own destiny.

In the world Lusty hails from, microwaves are akin to artifacts of a distant, affluent future. She discovered their existence amidst the counters of Home Economics class, a stark contrast to the antiquated wiring of her childhood tenement, which whispered tales of a bygone era, predating even the Great War. Her family’s pockets, weighed down by the gravity of necessity, couldn’t spare the money for such luxuries as microwaves or cars. Their lives were a tapestry of footsteps and bus tickets, a humble existence far removed from the convenience of instant mobility.

My father, on the other hand, was my chariot driver, ferrying me to destinations far and wide at my behest. That is, until I took the wheel of my own rickety ride, a lemon of a car that carried me to work and school, its groans and sputters a symphony of independence.

As for my mother, she’s slowly peeling back the layers of my life, getting to know Lusty, my girlfriend. Despite her stubborn belief that our bisexuality is but a fleeting phase, Lusty stands firm in her identity. She embodies a Kinsey 3, her affections not tethered to gender, but free to alight where they may. I am a Kinsey 4, my heart leaning more towards women, though not confined by it.

My mother’s views on marriage are as outdated as her opinions on my relationship with Lusty. She clings to the idea that weddings belong in churches or lavish venues, not understanding that a courthouse can be just as meaningful for those who seek simplicity or don’t adhere to religious traditions. Lusty and I are pragmatic—we see the beauty in the straightforward, no-frills commitment of a courthouse ceremony, followed by a communal celebration at a buffet. It’s honest, it’s us.

While my mother may balk at the idea, my father understands the significance of the gesture, the symbolism of walking me down the aisle, even if that aisle is the marbled floor of a government building. He gets that it’s not about the location, but the act of giving away his daughter to a future of her choosing.

As for the guest list, it’s true, the Watersons are a prolific bunch; they breed like rabbits, but Lusty’s family tree is more sparse, with branches that have long since stopped reaching out. Her estranged uncle, her disconnected father’s side—none of them will bear witness to our union. But that’s alright because family isn’t just blood; it’s the people who stand by you, who’ve watched you grow from the stoops and windows of a tight-knit neighborhood. They’re the ones we’ll invite, the ones who matter most.

In the end, it’s not about changing my mother’s mind or conforming to her expectations. It’s about Lusty and me, our love, and the life we’re building together. That’s the heart of it, and no matter where we say our vows, that heart beats strong and true.

Lusty’s recount of Dave and Linda’s wedding is a narrative steeped in tradition and the subtle shifts of familial acceptance. Linda’s father, harboring reservations about Dave’s profession as a firefighter—a role deeply entrenched in their family’s history—nonetheless escorted her down the cathedral aisle. It was an act transcending personal doubts, a silent vow of trust in Linda’s choice, a relinquishment of his protective mantle to the man she chose as her partner.

Their union, now a decade strong, is a testament to their shared strength, a bond forged in the fires they both battle. Despite the initial reluctance, Linda’s decision to marry a fellow firefighter was a declaration of equality and mutual respect, countering her mother’s outdated hopes of domesticity.

In the tapestry of our lives, Lusty and I are weaving a pattern that’s uniquely ours, one that doesn’t necessarily align with my mother’s vision of tradition. She pictures a wedding steeped in the grandeur of a church or cathedral, but for us, it’s not about the backdrop; it’s about the bond we’re affirming. We’re crafting a compromise that honors both our beliefs and desires—whether it’s Lusty picking the venue and me choosing the post-ceremony feast, or vice versa.

Our plan to maintain separate residences even after marriage might raise eyebrows, but we see it as a way to nurture our love, to keep it vibrant and strong, not dulled by the routine of constant proximity. My mother may not understand, calling it foolish, but for us, it’s a thoughtful choice to preserve the spark that brought us together.

Lusty’s recent call to the cathedral, where she and her team performed a daring rooftop rescue, is a stark reminder of the ever-evolving nature of our professions. The outdated safety nets of the past have given way to modern techniques and equipment, like the inflatable airbags that now cushion the perilous descent of those in danger.

Our names, once united in marriage, will reflect our partnership—Johnson-Waterson and Waterson-Johnson—a blending of identities that stands as a testament to our commitment. While the future may hold many unknowns, one thing is certain: we’ll face it together, with the same courage and determination that defines our work and our love.

My mother’s curiosity about my choice of career sparked a conversation that delved into the heart of my passion.

“Why firefighting?” she pondered aloud, her question hanging between us like smoke in the air.

Lusty looked at her, memories flooding back. “Eastside was a crucible of flames from '67 to '95,” she began, her voice steady. “As a kid, I was plucked from the jaws of fire by heroes clad in steel-toed boots and rubber jackets, their helmets reflecting the inferno. They were the ‘Fire breathers,’ as I called them, a nod to my mother’s heritage. They braved the blaze unmasked, long before air masks became the norm.”

Lusty paused, the image of her childhood saviors etched in her mind. “Music was my first love, but the industry’s greed soured the dream. Newspapers were filled with tales of artists robbed by record labels. So, I chose a different path—a path of service, unpredictability, and adrenaline. Firefighting isn’t just a job; it’s a calling.”

My mother, ever the pragmatist, voiced her skepticism. “Breaking windows seems foolish,” she remarked.

I couldn’t help but smile at her simplicity. “We shatter glass not in play, but with purpose. It’s a calculated move to let the beast of heat and smoke escape, to prevent it from overpowering us. This job, is akin to a rollercoaster. The climb instills fear, but at the peak, you embrace it, hands in the air, screaming defiance on the descent. It’s about facing fear, embracing it, and doing what needs to be done.”

My response to my mother’s question about why I chose to become a firefighter was rooted in a deep desire to serve and make a difference. “Public service is more than a job; it’s a commitment to helping others. Sure, it’s dangerous, and the pay—$120 a week here in Empire—isn’t much. But it’s not about the money. It’s about being there for people on their worst days, about doing things that most can’t or won’t.”

I shared with her the breadth of emergencies we handle, far beyond the usual calls. “Lusty and I are part of the Special Operations Command. We tackle tough situations—train accidents, water rescues, hazardous materials, and more. It requires specialized training and gear, and a mindset ready for anything.”

Then, there’s the legacy. “Lusty’s uncle, a man she barely knew, was a firefighter too, post-World War II until 1982. She’s walking in his footsteps without even knowing it, as the lieutenant of the very company he served in. It’s a connection discovered through old photos, a lineage of bravery and service.”

In this profession, it’s about the impact you make, the lives you touch, and the legacy you continue. It’s a calling that demands everything and promises nothing but the satisfaction of knowing you’ve made a difference. That’s why I’m a firefighter, and that’s why Lusty and I wear our badges with pride.

When my mother asked Lusty about her experience as a mother, she shared the complexities and joys with a candid openness.

“It’s a rollercoaster,” Lusty admitted, “especially with seven daughters. The twins are in sixth grade, while the quintuplets are just a step behind in fifth. Sure, they bicker and squabble; it's part of growing up, part of being siblings.”

Lusty’s approach to motherhood is pragmatic yet nurturing. “I let them argue, let them fight their little battles. It teaches them about life, about resolving their own conflicts.” But when it comes to mealtime, Lusty’s stance is firm, mirroring the lessons from her own mother. “They eat what’s on the table. It’s a rule I grew up with and one I’m passing down. My mother used to say, ‘There’s starving people in the world who would gladly take it,’ and that’s stayed with me. It’s about gratitude, about understanding the value of what we have.”

In these moments, Lusty’s love for her children shines through, a beacon of guidance in the tumultuous sea of raising a large family. It’s a testament to the enduring power of the values instilled in us by our parents, and the legacy we hope to leave for our own children.

Lusty's gaze met my mother's, a silent exchange heavy with expectation. It's a look I've come to know well, one that's always hovered over my life like a storm cloud. But Lusty, my rock, faced it head-on with the kind of grace that's become her signature.

"Mackenzie isn't on anyone's schedule but her own," Lusty declared, her voice a fortress against the unspoken demands. "Having children is her choice, and she’ll make it if and when she’s ready."

She gets it, the weight of tradition in Little Bird, where whispers of 'old maid' chase after women like shadows. But we're not ones to chase after milestones just because they're there.

Her words were a balm, soothing the sting of expectation. Together, we're a united front against the push of the past. Marriage, parenthood—these aren't boxes to check off. They're chapters we'll write in our own story, at our own pace.

Here in Little Bird, life's tapestry is woven with threads of complexity. War, service, careers that consume—these are all valid reasons to pause or not go through with the narrative of marriage. And for some, it's about honoring the sanctity of such commitments, not just succumbing to societal pressure.

With Lusty by my side, I'm charting a course that's true to us. Whether our journey includes kids or a tapestry of other adventures, it'll be a life of our choosing—a life rich with love, respect, and shared understanding.

Lusty's own history is a saga of resilience and enduring love. Her parents, from their separate beginnings—her father, a Marine radio commander in Vietnam, and her mother, a therapist—fused their lives together against all odds. Their love story, a testament to the power of love over difference, was symbolized by their simple steel home.

Even when Lusty's mother lost her license, their family's bond didn't waver. They embraced the honor in hard work, instilling in Lusty a pride in self-reliance.

Lusty's father's tales, like the one about the car he earned through sheer determination, are more than just stories. They're the bedrock of our shared values—hard work, perseverance, and the courage to forge our own path.

As for my mother's question, "Did he?" about Lusty's dad and his wartime experiences, Lusty's answer was raw and real. "Yes, he did," she said. "He lived with the echoes of those calls—'Cease Fire! You're shelling Marines!'—haunting his nights. But he never let it break him. He chose us, his family, as his solace."

When my mother confessed her confusion over the term 'blue on blue,' I explained, "It means friendly fire."

Lusty added, "And it wasn't just metaphorical fire. The artillery used White Phosphorus and Incendiary shells that day."

My mother doesn't know the full extent of Lusty's loss—how fire claimed her parents and shaped her into the firefighter she is today. Lusty's strength, born from tragedy, taught her the harsh truth of our limits. We save lives, but sometimes, despite our best efforts, we face the unbearable task of recovery instead of rescue.

Lusty shared her story with me when she was ready, and in her courage, I found a reflection of my own resolve. Together, we face the flames of life, saving what we can and accepting what we cannot change. Whether or not children are part of our future, the legacy of Lusty's family and the lessons they've taught us will guide us through whatever challenges and opportunities lie ahead.

Lusty stood up, ready to leave after one of her regular check-ins. She’s always been vigilant about us, about me. Before she walked out, she turned to my mother with a resolve that’s as much a part of her as the badge she wears.

“You can try all the scare tactics you want,” she said, her voice steady, “but I’m not going anywhere. We’ve been through this before, Mackenzie and I. We’re strong, and we’re together.”

She’s right. My mother’s attempts to intimidate, to set me on a path she deems ‘correct,’ won’t work. Not anymore. The days when she could chase away someone I cared for, label my feelings as a ‘phase,’ are long gone. Lusty isn’t like anyone I’ve ever known; she’s unshakeable, a force unto herself.

I can almost predict the next move in my mother’s playbook—random dates with men I don’t know, like some twisted game of matchmaking. It happened once, leading to a stalker named James who couldn’t grasp the meaning of ‘no.’ Despite the restraining order, I wouldn’t put it past him to show up again. He’s just that predictable.

After Lusty left, I took my mother out to help her with job applications. It’s part of the deal, part of the rules I’ve set since she moved in. I made sure the applications had my apartment’s landline for contact. It’s a small measure of control, but it’s mine, and in this life I’ve built, that means everything.

In this dance with my mother, with the world, I’m leading now. With Lusty by my side, I’m not just strong—I’m invincible.

We had barely settled back into my apartment when a knock rattled the door. I knew before I opened it—it was James. Without hesitation, I dialed the Empire Police Department on my cell phone. They arrived swiftly, arresting James for violating the restraining order. I stood firm, telling the officer I wanted to press charges for harassment and stalking.

As they took statements, it came to light that James’s obsession wasn’t new; he had followed me from Alabama to across Europe—Germany, Belgium, France, Italy, and the United Kingdom. The Empire Police Department officers seemed baffled, unsure how to categorize such a persistent pursuit. In the end, they labeled James as an Incompetent suitor, Intimacy seeker, a Rejected Stalker, and a Predatory stalker.

It was a small victory, but it was mine. It reaffirmed to live life on my terms, to protect the peace I’ve built with Lusty, and to never let anyone—James, my mother, or society—dictate my path.

“Hope you’re happy mom that a man who can’t take no for an answer is being arrested because you decided to play matchmaker,” I said. “Because of you, a guy probably a nice guy before you set us up on an unwanted date four years ago back in 2006. Well now he’s going to jail and probably a prison here if successfully convicted. Well on our first and only date he told me how I’ll be a wonderful mother to an unknown amount of children and how I’ll be a wonderful housewife but I told him to kiss my butt.”

My mother replied, “I wasn’t expecting him to get arrested.”

I couldn’t hide the frustration in my voice as I turned to my mother. “I hope you’re satisfied,” I said sharply. “Because of your meddling, a man who can’t understand the word ‘no’ is now in handcuffs. He might have been decent once, but after that setup four years ago, in 2006, he’s spiraled down. Now, he’s facing jail time, maybe even prison if the conviction sticks. On our one and only date, he had the nerve to fantasize about me as some subservient mother and housewife. I made it clear that wasn’t my future when I told him exactly where he could go.”

My mother’s response was feeble, almost naive. “I wasn’t expecting him to get arrested,” she murmured.

“I’m craving some pizza,” I announced, reaching for the landline. The familiar jingle of the nearby pizza joint greeted me as I ordered my favorite: a sausage-stuffed crust pizza.

Handing over a crisp ten-dollar bill to my mother, I laid down the law. “This is for the pizza pickup. And listen, if you even think about trading this for narcotics, you’re on the first flight back to that rehab center in Kansas City. They’re giving you a shot at freedom here, not round-the-clock babysitting. Remember, you’ve got mandatory meetings back there, and if you mess this up, I’m out. You’ll have to find another Waterson or another family member of yours to put up with you.”

She grumbled about my refusal to drive her, or worse, let her behind the wheel of my prized '60s Muscle car license or no license. But when she returned, both pizzas in hand, it was a small step. A very tiny crack in the wall I’ve built around my trust. She’s got a long road ahead before she earns it back, but it’s a start. Right now, that’s enough.

The phone’s ring cut through the quiet of our dinner, a call from the supermarket about my mother’s job application. They wanted her for an interview, and I didn’t hesitate to secure the earliest slot for her—tomorrow at 11 AM. I couldn’t be there to take her due to my shift, but I made it clear she’d be there by 10:50 AM.

After hanging up, I turned to my mother. “You’ve got an interview tomorrow at the supermarket,” I informed her. Her eyes flickered with anxiety as she asked about transportation. I laid out the facts: “Half a million people in Empire take the bus. It’s 25 cents one-way, 50 cents round-trip, and fifteen bucks for a monthly pass.” I offered to cover her fare for now, but if she landed the job, she’d be on her own. Rent wasn’t negotiable—18% of her paycheck, even if it was just an entry-level wage.

She agreed to the bus, despite her complaints about taxis and their inflated fares. It was non-negotiable; she could take the bus or miss her chance. The job paid $1.25 an hour, totaling $50 a week. I expected $39.06 next month for rent, half the median house cost in Empire. It was tough love, but necessary. She had to learn to stand on her own, and I wasn’t about to let her mooch off me. It was time for her to take steps towards independence, and this job interview was just the beginning.

“Supermarkets, like many places, are willing to give people a second chance,” I explained to my mother. “They often hire those who’ve had run-ins with the law because these jobs are about starting fresh, about proving you can stand on your own two feet again.”

I laid it out for her, clear as day. “In a way, I’m like your parole officer. I signed off on your supervised release, and that means you’re still in rehab under my roof. You step out of line, break any rule, and it’s straight back to the center for you.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The list of conditions was long, but necessary. Good behavior, no offenses, regular check-ins with her doctor, visits from specialists, and living under my watchful eye—these were the non-negotiable terms of her staying out of rehab.

“And yes, every Monday, you’re back to Kansas City for your meetings. Miss one, and you know the consequences.” It was strict, but it was the structure she needed.

My phone buzzed with a message from my dad, questioning why I’d take in someone who’d caused so much turmoil. I replied with a truth that was as much for me as it was for him, “There’s bad blood, sure. But this—what I’m doing—it’s not about changing the past. It’s about the possibility of a better tomorrow.” It was a hope, a faint glimmer, but it was there, and I was holding onto it even though I usually call my mother “the woman who gave birth to me.”

My mother’s question hung in the air, a fragile hope that was long past its time.

“Do you think your father and I can get back together?” she asked, her voice tinged with a nostalgia for what could have been.

I had to be honest, firm in the reality we lived in. “No, the divorce was finalized back in 2006, and it was clear-cut because of the narcotics. Dad kept the house, and you… you started a new chapter elsewhere. He’s moving on, looking for someone who can be there for him, someone his age.”

She sighed, a soft sound of resignation. “Well, that’s a shame."

I couldn’t help but reflect on the dreams of my younger self, the wishful thinking that we could be like those picture-perfect families on TV— the Taylors, the Wilders, the Ingalls, the Cleavers, or the Petries.

“I used to imagine us as a normal family, like the ones from those old shows,” I confessed. “But our reality was far from those idealized scenes.”

After the quiet dinner, I traded my usual jeans and shirt for a dress, embracing the softer side of me that often stays hidden beneath the tomboy exterior. I nudged my mom to shower too, setting an early bedtime to ensure we’d both be ready for the day ahead.

Morning light spilled into the kitchen as I crafted breakfast from what little we had—two hash browns, two fried eggs, and bacon. I improvised, slicing and stacking them into makeshift sandwiches on hot dog buns, the only bread in the pantry. It was a simple meal, seasoned with black pepper.

I laid it out for my mom, clear as the morning itself. “This isn’t a diner,” I said, “You’ll eat what’s made, or wait to cook for yourself.”

But more pressing was the job interview. I briefed her on the Orange line bus schedule, stressing the importance of punctuality and handed her a dollar in quarters for the fare.

As I prepared to leave for work, I reiterated the house rules. They were non-negotiable—a framework to keep us both on track. Mandatory drug tests, no personal interruptions at my job, shopping together, no alcohol or unapproved drugs, and 18% of her paycheck for rent. Her daily schedule was set, with a strict 9 AM to 5 PM window and doctor check-ins at 8 AM. Any slip-up, and she’d be on her way back to the rehab center. It was tough love, but it was the only way I knew how to help her—and maybe, just maybe, it would lead us to a better place.

_________________________

As the dawn light filtered through the firehouse, I found myself reflecting on the lessons my father instilled in me. He taught me that presence isn’t just physical—it’s about provision, care, and setting a sterling example. His teachings were the bedrock of my strength and independence.

Our morning routine at the station was methodical, checking every tool and equipment, ensuring our readiness. But today’s tranquility was shattered by the urgent crackle of the radio: a person was stranded atop the city’s lone cathedral, a towering structure of faith now a beacon of distress.

The police had already cordoned off the area when we arrived. The sky, a brooding canvas, began to rain with a fine drizzle, complicating the rescue ahead. Captain Harris’s voice was steady over the radio, requesting Ladder Co 71 for its bucket, a valuable asset in such a precarious situation. But fate wasn’t on our side; they were already fighting with another fire elsewhere.

With no platform truck coming, the team deployed the rapid air cushion, a safety net against the unforgiving concrete. Weighing the options, Captain Harris’s gaze landed on me. I was the lightest, the most agile. My heart raced as I ascended the cathedral’s ancient tower, the stone cold and slick beneath my gloves.

Captain Harris put in a request for a 105ft or 110 ft ladder company, but hope was distant, the nearest one too far to make a difference. It was down to me, tethered to both a rope and a safety line, to traverse the expanse between salvation and peril.

Rain slicked the tiles beneath my boots, each step a precarious dance with gravity.

"Oh Shoot," I whispered, a futile attempt to steady my nerves as I clung to the rope, my lifeline against the yawning abyss below.

Captain Harris's voice crackled through the radio, a distant anchor in the storm. "Come on Mackenzie. Today let's go." His words, meant to spur me on, only tightened the knot in my stomach.

"Mother of God," I breathed, the prayer a silent chant in rhythm with my heartbeat. "Pray for us sinners and in the hour of our death. Amen." It was a plea for divine intervention, a hope that the saints might guide my hands.

The urge to lash out at Captain Harris bubbled within me. He couldn't see the treacherous path I trod, the twin ropes that were all that stood between me and a 100ft plunge from the cathedral's Gothic spires to the unforgiving concrete. I wanted to scream into the radio, to make him understand the delicate balance I was forced to maintain.

But instead, I turned off the radio, cutting off his urgent calls. I needed focus, not haste. Each movement was measured, and deliberate. The rain was a relentless adversary, but I would not be rushed. I would not become a cautionary tale whispered among the pews below. Today, I would not fall.

Amid the rain storm, as the cathedral’s roof threatened to claim me, my body pitched at a 45-degree angle, a force beyond my reckoning intervened. My hand was seized, my fall arrested, and yet, when I scanned the rain-drenched expanse, no savior stood in sight. Was it a celestial being, an angel of the faith this grand edifice represented? Or perhaps my own guardian angel, manifesting in the direst of moments? I'm not a full believer and I’m skeptical of archangels’ intercessions, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling of a divine presence.

Once my boots found solid ground again, the rhythm of the rescue resumed. That’s when the cavalry arrived—not the tower ladder the city of Empire lacked, but a 110’ tractor-drawn aerial ladder, a rare sight towering over the common 100-footers. It reminded me of a conversation with my cousin Dave, a veritable encyclopedia of firefighting lore. He’d argued for more diverse ladder companies, and as I watched the ladder extend skyward, I knew he was right.

Dave, like his late father, possessed a breadth of knowledge that even our superiors sought. In Empire, we firefighters are versed in crafts from wood to metal, engines to electricity—skills honed since middle school. Yet, only a select few, like Dave, delve into the arcane realms of explosive ordnance disposal or intricate mechanical and electrical systems.

With the ladder in place, I secured the victim, passing them to the safety of my fellow firefighter. As I navigated the spire’s descent, my heart thundered against my ribs, not just from the brush with mortality, but from the profound gratitude for my unseen protector—my guardian angel, who, on this day, chose to guard two lives on the precipice.

The air cushion and ropes were barely stowed when the radio crackled to life again, pulling us into the chaos of another emergency. Arriving at the scene, a patrol officer painted a picture of domestic fury turned violent—a man’s car shoved down an embankment by his wife’s vehicle. I could only shake my head; such scenarios were not in the textbooks, yet here it was, unfolding before us.

In the company, seasoned veterans with decades of service moved with a well-oiled precision that I, still green as a probationary firefighter, watched with a mix of awe and determination. For them, this dance with danger was second nature; for me, it was a rapid education in the unpredictable nature of our calling.

The team divided, a practiced maneuver, as the company chauffeur readied the attack line—a precaution against the threat of fire. I descended the embankment, heart racing, as my comrades expertly removed the windshield. With hydraulic tools in hand, I sliced through the car’s beams, peeling back the roof like the lid of a sardine can.

We worked in concert, allowing the paramedics to stabilize the man before we carefully extricated him, securing his battered form onto a stretcher. As the ambulance lights faded into the distance, I stood there, the weight of the rescue heavy on my shoulders, yet bolstered by the knowledge that today, we were the difference between life and despair.

The weight of my dual burdens—the struggle of being a woman in the fire service and the sole caretaker of a mother who’s as much a fire to manage as any blaze—never leaves my shoulders. Yet, as we crested the embankment, the scene before us was already transforming back to normalcy, the remnants of chaos being swept away.

Hollywood might romanticize our work, showing doors being flung open with a flick of a Halligan bar, but reality is far more stubborn. Those doors are made to safety standards, not to be trifled with, and our hydraulic tools are worth their weight in gold for the lives they help us pry from the jaws of steel.

My crew, each bearing scars from battles past, moves with a resilience born of their trials. The academy drilled into us a singular focus: the job, the community, our duty above all else. We were taught to never tempt fate with idle words of a quiet shift—superstition or not, the jinx is real. I’ve seen it happen, the bell tolling its mocking call in the final minutes, as if waiting for the proclamation of peace to shatter it.

As the tow trucks hauled away the twisted metal remnants of the day’s calamity, we made our way back to the station, the engine’s hum a familiar comfort. I couldn’t help but vent my frustrations about the misconceptions bred by the silver screen. “You know what I hate about the Hollywood machine?” I began, my words echoing the weariness I felt. “It’s how they always glorify us firefighters as miracle workers, not as people who have problems, backaches, bills, and families of our own.”

The crew listened, their faces a mirror of understanding. I spoke of the societal ills that plague the United States—obesity, unequal opportunity, homelessness, unemployment, crime, and the inaccessibility of healthcare. These were not just headlines; they were the stark realities that contrasted sharply with the utopia of Little Bird, a place where even felons found a second chance, and healthcare is a right, not a privilege.

As I listed the progressive policies of Little Bird, from the Right to Bear Arms to the Housing for All Decree, I saw nods of recognition. They were well-versed in the Festival of Feathers, the Wealth Contribution Tax, and the Universal Healthcare Act. They knew of the Agricultural Support Initiative and the Social Security Covenant, the Nationwide Literacy Mission, and the Immunization for All Drive. They understood the importance of the Organic First Policy, the Equality in Marriage Proclamation, and the Green Commute Plan. They appreciated the Pure Food Mandate, the Wi-Fi for All Decree, and the Nestling Program. They respected the HomeFirst Initiative, the Community Reintegration Project, and the Emergency Shelter Network. They valued the Affordable Housing Construction Act, the Rent Control Regulation, and the Youth Empowerment Scheme. They honored the Veterans’ Housing Guarantee and the Landlord-Tenant Mediation Board.

Our conversation was interrupted as we passed a monolithic structure.

“What’s that?” I inquired, curiosity piqued.

“A large Emergency Shelter,” another firefighter replied. “The city has 30 of them, each holding 10,000 people. We’ve also got tall radio masts for emergency broadcasts, a weather radar station, a disaster response unit, and an air base. There are earthquake sensors and a Deep Space Radar too. The Disaster Response Unit is similar to your American Civil Defense.”

I shared that the country of Little Bird had a Civil Defense Administration, to which he nodded in acknowledgment. It was clear that Little Bird was not just a place, but a vision brought to life—a testament to what society could achieve when it prioritized the well-being of its citizens over all else.

The dispatch call was a familiar tune, a prelude to the unknown challenges that lay ahead. As we headed to Twin Rivers, I couldn’t help but ponder the town’s unique division—half in Blister Canyon, half in Little Bird—each side a mirror reflecting the political contrasts of their respective nations.

In Blister Canyon, the leaders, though well-intentioned, often fall prey to corruption and incompetence, placing unqualified individuals in positions of power for personal gain. In stark contrast, Little Bird’s governance is a disciplined affair, with military leaders elected to serve, held accountable by a populace that does not forget or forgive political missteps.

The presence of the Little Bird Army Rangers, especially the Veteran Rangers, is a testament to the country’s military prowess. They are the shield and sword, capable of overwhelming odds, a force that commands respect and fear. Blister Canyon, on the other hand, seems to treat warfare as a distant concern, their best forces guarding the heartland or pursuing elusive threats.

Arriving at the firehouse in Twin River, the disparity in technological advancements between the two nations was evident. Passersby marveled at what seemed mundane to me—a mere 2 GB of RAM—while my own device boasts double that capacity. It’s a reminder of Little Bird’s selective embrace of technology, reserving such modern luxuries for those in the echelons of power, leaving the public with glimpses of the future through the windows of luxury vehicles.

Standing in the apparatus bay, the conversation of the pedestrians lingered in my mind, a stark reminder of the different worlds that coexist within the borders of Twin Rivers, where technology and governance dance to the tune of necessity and ideology.

Watching the rain cascade down, each droplet a shimmering echo of the past, I shared with the nozzleman tales of Midnight, my cousin with the spirit of a warrior and the mind of a tactician. Her '57 Bel Air, more than just a car, was a symbol of defiance against the slow crawl of time and the ever-changing tides of society.

I recounted the stark differences between Blister Canyon and Little Bird, how one sought to assimilate and erase, while the other embraced diversity and coexistence. The history of these lands, marked by conflict and resolution, was etched into the very identity of its people, from the Nightingale Tribe’s fierce resistance to the settlers’ diplomatic approach to avoid war.

Midnight, part Aurora, embodies the intellectual prowess and strategic aggression of her heritage. She’s a force of nature, unyielding in her convictions, a reflection of the tumultuous history that shaped her beliefs. Her “shoot first, ask questions never” philosophy, while extreme, is a testament to the survival instincts honed over centuries of cultural clashes and reconciliations.

As the conversation shifted to the 2008 recession, I admitted my detachment from the economic turmoil during my service in the Navy. Yet, the aftermath was clear—the fall of the “bling” culture, the predatory lending, and the reckless financial gambles that led to the collapse. It was a storm of a different kind, one that uprooted lives and reshaped the economic landscape, leaving behind a cautionary tale of excess and the fragility of prosperity.

In the quiet moments between lightning strikes, I pondered the cyclical nature of history and economy, how each generation faces its own battles and recessions, and how, like the rain, these events wash over us, shaping who we become and how every generation before and after had to find new ways to combat challenges of their time like how in the past people use rafts to go down rivers until the invention of steam paddle boats or messengers to the telegraph to the radio.

Just being in the town it was quiet in which we had one fire we responded too in which it was just a small fire caused by a lightning strike on our side of town.

_______________________________________________

January 21st, 2010.

In my apartment the next day.

“So I assume you got the job,” I said, seeing my mother in a uniform.

My mother was about to say something but I said. “Don’t complain because it’s not that hard to stock produce.”

My mother replied, “I was going to ask why the store is closed on Sundays.”

"Little Bird, like some places, still honors Blue laws," I began, locking the door behind us. "They're old regulations, initially rooted in religion, meant to encourage rest and reflection, especially for those who aren't religious. On Sundays, these laws limit a lot of activities—business operations, certain sales, and even some forms of entertainment."

I watched her process this, the gears turning as she considered the implications. "It's about balance," I continued. "Stores close so people can have a day with family or just to unwind. It's part of the secular fabric here, respecting all beliefs by providing a common day of rest."

It was a simple explanation, but it seemed to satisfy her curiosity. As she hung up her uniform, ready for her new routine, I felt a twinge of pride. Maybe, just maybe, we were both starting to find our footing in this new chapter.

“Mom, stacking produce is straightforward,” I said, cutting off any brewing complaints. “It’s just a couple of pounds of fruits and veggies. It’s not just about the task—it’s about the work ethic here in Little Bird. People value their jobs, they’re proud of their earnings and the bonuses that come with hard work.”

I wanted her to understand the bigger picture. “You’re American, sure, but here, even the entry-level jobs are respected. They’re stepping stones for students and anyone starting anew. The pay starts at $1.25 after taxes, or $1.50 before taxes, but it adds up. With dedication, after a year, you could afford a car, or even make a down payment on a house.”

I laid out the numbers for her, hoping to inspire some motivation. “An average vehicle here costs $2,600. A house? You’re looking at around $7,354. And if you’re eyeing a smaller place, a two-bedroom house goes for about $5,515. It’s all within reach if you’re willing to put in the effort.”

It was a pep talk, a reality check, and a lesson in independence all rolled into one. I hoped it would resonate with her, spark that drive to rebuild her life here, on her own terms, in Little Bird.

“Little Bird is different from what you’re used to,” I explained to my mother, emphasizing the community’s ethos. “Here, corporations don’t dictate our lives. Housing and living costs are fair because people believe in hard work, not handouts. If you want something, you earn it—like everyone else.”

I continued, outlining the local housing market. “Corporate landlords exist, but they’re transparent about rent, which is usually around $100 to $125 a month. Private landlords, like myself, might charge $70 to $80. It’s affordable because we value community over profit.”

I own an apartment building, thanks to my savings and hard work, where I charged a modest $80 per month. But I lived elsewhere, and despite owning property, I couldn’t offer her a unit. “I signed a supervised release for you,” I reminded her. “That means you live with me, under my watch. Renting you a separate place would breach that agreement.”

She needed to understand the gravity of the situation. “You’re here because I agreed to supervise your recovery. My address is on the release forms, not an apartment in my building. And yes, you still need to return to rehab weekly. It’s all part of the process, part of your journey back to independence.” It was a firm stance, but necessary for both her recovery and my peace of mind.

I've always been clear with my mother about the rules of staying with me. She knew the stakes: one misstep, and she'd be on the next flight back to rehab in Kansas City, with her doctor and the Empire PD on speed dial. She promised to stay clean, and a sweep of my apartment confirmed it—everything was untouched, just as I left it.

After escorting her to the bus stop and watching the Orange Line disappear around the corner, I turned back, only to be ambushed. Rough hands shoved me into an armored truck, strapping me down as if I were some kind of high-value cargo. Panic didn't have a chance to set in before chaos erupted inside the truck. A guard turned rogue, neutralizing the others with a shock baton and precise shots. Moments later, I was free, tumbling out onto the pavement, the back doors of the truck swinging closed behind me.

The 'guard' shed their disguise, revealing my cousin Midnight Waterson. Thirteen years my senior, Midnight's military record was as impressive as it was intimidating. From the Marines to the Army Rangers, she'd been serving since '87, a testament to her iron will and lethal skills.

"You're welcome, Mac," she quipped, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Thanks," I shot back, dusting myself off. "But you can dial down the Ranger attitude. How'd you even know I was in trouble?"

Midnight's grin told me everything. The Watersons have eyes and ears everywhere; we're never in the dark, especially when danger lurks.

"I know who's behind this," she said, her tone turning serious. "We've got a rendezvous with two more of our own."

We met up with our cousins, who were already in the loop about Carter's shady dealings. They briefed us on his meeting with high-profile cronies at a local hotel. Midnight had a plan to take them down before they even knew what hit them. No, there would be no disguises or cliched mustaches—especially not for us Waterson women. We play it smart, not silly.

Midnight's reputation precedes her; she's a war hawk through and through, fiercely advocating for the generals' campaign to conquer warzones. Her unwavering support has earned her considerable clout, and she's a firm believer that decisive action is the key to maintaining Little Bird's supremacy in conflict zones. She's relentless in her pursuit to undermine any opposition to the BCLBLFDF, driven by both strategic interests and personal vendettas.

"You've shown remarkable prowess, and I'm in dire need of someone with your skills," Midnight addressed me with a tone that brokered no argument. "Politicians are tasked with trivial missions—the ones nobody else wants. But when there's a critical task at hand, they come knocking on my door. I typically send out rangers for such assignments, but our ranks are thin right now. Are you ready to take on a genuine challenge?"

Without hesitation, I responded, "A Waterson never shies away from a battle. Count me in."

"Spoken like a true Waterson," she affirmed, a hint of pride in her voice.

Midnight is the epitome of toughness, a true force to be reckoned with. The Little Bird Army Rangers, with their primary mission to tackle threats beyond the capabilities of regular forces, are the guardians of our borders. Their elite training, advanced weaponry, and cutting-edge technology give them the edge in any conflict, even when outnumbered. They're not just soldiers; they're the embodiment of bravery and skill, a volunteer force that's as adept in reconnaissance as they are in combat.

Originally formed as an independent group committed to eradicating slavery, the Rangers have evolved into a multifaceted organization. They're scouts, commandos, and law enforcers rolled into one. Their track record is nearly flawless, with successful missions being the norm rather than the exception.

To others, especially rival nations, the sight of a Little Bird Ranger in their signature black armor is a signal to flee. Our military adversaries respect and fear the Rangers above all else, regarding them as the most formidable component of the BCLBLFDF. They're the stuff of legends, said to "chew nails and spit napalm." As elite commandos and infantry, their role is to secure objectives and conduct specialist operations, paving the way for the main army. Their versatility and reliability are unmatched, and they come heavily armed to take on both infantry and vehicles with ease. The Rangers are the pride of the BCLBLFDF, the silent heroes who ensure our safety and freedom.

“Do we have any eyes and ears inside of the hotel?” I asked.

Midnight replied, “Midnight Junior is in there she's on the eighteenth floor. She's undercover and she kept telling me how much she wants to be like her mama and be a ranger like her so I told her what she needs to do and I'll let her take the ranger introductory training.”

I was about to say something but both Midnight Junior and her Fraternal twin sister Aurora they're both nineteen. But Aurora is a military courier due to Little Bird Army Rangers bases are small, remote and don't have radios or anything that can be tracked or traced so Aurora does her job as a Courier for the military. She brings supplies like food, water, ammo, and mail to any of the 26 Ranger outposts which are encamped at in hard to reach places that provides a defense for the defenders but makes it impossible to attack and that she delivers basic supplies that can't be air dropped without the supplies being hung up in the tall trees.

“You think your daughter Midnight Junior is up for the task?” I asked.

Midnight replied, “She convinced me she was ready and wanted to prove herself that she's Ranger material. I told her that anytime she feels threatened then she should leave but here's a detailed map from what she told us and the blueprint from the eighteenth floor.”

The hotel was and still is famous for hosting glamorous balls attended by movie stars, business moguls, and politicians. It burned to the ground in 1942, 1952 and 1966, and was later rebuilt as a million-dollar development. The hotel has 22 floors, a large underground parking lot, and a conference room. The details that are written down says In the elevators of the hotel there is no button for the 13th floor, referring to people's suspicions of the unlucky number. This would mean that the hotel actually has 21 floors instead of 22, as what is numbered the 14th floor is actually the 13th.

The Blueprints says:

Construction started: October 1938

Opened: April 29, 1941

Height:307 ft (94 m)

Architecture: International Style (rectangular footprint with Windows running in broken horizontal rows forming a grid)

Midnight briefed me on the layout of the 18th floor—mostly hotel suites, but with a lounge area marked by those distinctive square glass blocks and double wooden doors. Beyond that lounge was the conference room, where Carter and his cronies would be conspiring. Junior had done her homework; she reported that the lounge stocked the kind of top-shelf liquor that could bankrupt a small fortune—a hundred bucks a shot, or a grand for a bottle. The sort of extravagance reserved for the rarest of celebrations, like Champagne.

“It’s Champagne, not Champaign,” I corrected her gently.

“This isn’t a region in France,” she retorted, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

“No, not the region. Champagne—the drink,” I clarified. “It’s a sparkling wine from the Champagne region of France, produced under strict appellation guidelines.”

Midnight’s military mindset was always front and center, her education level notwithstanding. She was more accustomed to issuing orders than pronouncing French wines, and I could tell this was her first attempt at the word. But that was alright; we had bigger fish to fry.

The elevator was going up, its steel walls a silent witness to the tension between us. Midnight and I exchanged a glance as we ascended, both aware of the guards stationed at the lounge entrance—stern, imposing figures armed with the Little Bird licensed version of the American M1 Rifle. Unlike the original eight-round capacity, these were modified to boast a sixteen-round magazine, a formidable upgrade for in-game scenarios.

“Kinda wish for a Luger,” I whispered, half to myself.

“Yeah, because it’s the marksman’s pistol of choice,” Midnight responded, her voice low but firm.

She wasn’t wrong. The Luger was renowned for its precision, a weapon that had earned its place in history. But the Little Bird Army Rangers had our own trusted sidearm—the American M1911A1, slightly altered for their needs. Our version came with double-stack magazines, capable of housing both subsonic and match-grade .45 ACP rounds. The Little Bird Armed Forces had an arsenal at their disposal: AP, FMJ, match-grade, soft-point, subsonic, and even non-lethal rubber ammunition. We were prepared for any eventuality, our weapons a silent promise of protection and strength.

I checked my own Phoenix pistol, feeling the familiar weight of it against my side. It was more than a tool.

In Little Bird, there's no equivalent to the Posse Comitatus Act that we have back home in the States. Here, the military's got free rein to police the streets if need be, a thought that sends shivers down my spine. It's a stark contrast to the strict boundaries we're used to, where the military's role is clearly defined and limited.

Midnight's words cut through the nostalgia of those Saturday morning cartoons with Dad.

"These aren't cartoon villains, Mac," she said, her voice a low growl. "They don't care that you're a woman. They're trigger-happy or worse, hardened criminals. They won't hesitate to pull the trigger." I'm 28, not a kid anymore, but her words hit hard, grounding me in the grim reality of our situation.

This country might romanticize chivalry, teaching boys to be knights in shining armor, but it's all a facade. Beneath the surface, there's no shortage of men who think gallantry gives them a license to patronize, to see women as less than equal.

Slipping into the janitorial closet, Midnight and I donned our jumpsuits in silence, a mutual respect for privacy in the cramped space.

"Watch out for Carter," I warned her as we geared up. "He's the type to give us trouble just because we're women."

"I've dealt with his kind before," Midnight shot back, her voice hard as the steel-toed boots she mentioned. "And I've never been one to back down."

The guards waved us through to the conference room, oblivious to the ruse. I couldn't help but hope our simple janitorial disguises would hold up. To them, we were invisible, just part of the scenery. But Midnight, she's something else—a Veteran Ranger since 2000, fearless and formidable. To cross paths with a Ranger is to meet a legend, and even the toughest Little Bird soldiers whisper about their prowess.

Midnight keeps the Ranger talk to a minimum, but everyone knows the stats—80% washout rate in the introductory phase alone. It's a brutal selection process designed to weed out all but the most resilient.

Inside the conference room, I avoided eye contact with Carter, who was deep in conversation with a young man. I focused on cleaning, trying to blend in, while Midnight's calm exterior belied the storm brewing within. Carter's misogynistic ramblings about men's roles and women's places grated on us both. Midnight was a hair's breadth from confronting him, her patience worn thin by his ignorance.

Our mission was clear, but the danger was ever-present. In this game of espionage and survival, we had to keep our wits about us and stay one step ahead.

As I swept the floor, my eyes never left Midnight. The tension in the air was palpable, a silent prelude to the chaos that was about to erupt. Carter, with his misplaced bravado, swung at Midnight and missed by a mile. In one fluid motion, Midnight seized his shoulder and with a deft twist, it popped out of its socket. He howled, but his pain was just beginning.

Carter’s attempts at retaliation were pathetic; his heavy punches sliced nothing but air. Midnight, on the other hand, was a force of nature. Her fists were precise, each blow landing with a thud against Carter’s face. He stumbled, dazed, and that’s when she delivered the coup de grâce—two solid punches followed by a knee that sent him crumpling to the ground.

“Time to move, Mac,” Midnight barked, her voice slicing through the tension. She pulled out her handgun, unscrewing the silencer with a sense of finality. As we stepped back into the lounge, she didn’t hesitate. Two shots rang out, and two bodies hit the floor, victims of her deadly aim.

She then scooped up the Little Bird-issued M1 Garand I pronounced it as ‘Garand’ with a hard ‘d,’ just like the inventor’s name, though Midnight always called it ‘Grand.’ Meanwhile, Midnight Junior emerged from behind the bar, shotgun in hand, ready to join the fray.

Suddenly, an assailant lunged at Midnight from behind, hoping to catch her off guard. But Midnight was unshakeable. With a grunt, she hurled him through the window, his body sailing through the glass.

“That’s a short way down,” she quipped, a grim humor in her tone, not realizing we were eighteen stories high. It was a dark reminder of the stakes we were playing for—this was no game, and every move could be lethal. But in this dance of danger, Midnight led, and I followed, ready to face whatever came next.

The plan was two fold-ish: Midnight and her daughter would take the right hallway, and I’d cover the left. But life, or rather, our enemies, had other plans. A Molotov Cocktail arced through the air, shattering against the wall and igniting a fiery barrier. The sprinklers burst to life, dousing the flames and eliciting an obvious observation from Midnight Junior.

“The sprinklers are going off,” she noted, to which I couldn’t help but reply with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “No, I thought it was raining.”

Who brings a Molotov to a hotel? That’s a question for later. For now, we had to move. We reached the elevators, weapons drawn, ready for anything. As one car arrived, the doors slid open to reveal a squad of armed goons. No hesitation—our bullets sang as we cut them down. We piled into the elevator, hit the button for the underground garage, and descended away from the chaos.

The sedan was our escape, our ticket out of this madness. What we did to Carter, it was necessary—survival isn’t pretty. The gunfighting, the thugs—it was all part of the backup plan. They chose the hard way, so we fought hard. Now, as the hotel faded behind us, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of an escalating war. But with Midnight and her daughter by my side, I knew we could face whatever came next.

I was then dropped off at my apartment but had to give the pistol back because it’s the GOV MOD (Government Model) used by the military not the one on the civilian market but Midnight and her daughter with the other two who were with us to safeguard out exit they left to go and do whatever they want.

_______________________________________________

(Carter POV)

Standing there, my pride bruised and my body aching, I replayed the scene over in my mind. There I was, a man who had faced down countless dangers, left utterly humiliated by a woman. Not just any woman—a Veteran Ranger of the LBAR. My son had witnessed the entire debacle, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“I want her gone,” I seethed, the words tasting like venom on my tongue. “That woman who bested me, she can’t be allowed to live.”

The man before me, a loyal ally, hesitated. “Carter, you must understand, she’s no ordinary Ranger. She’s a Veteran, one of the elite. The LBARVR—Little Bird Army Veteran Rangers—epitomizes honor and skill. They don their distinctive black armor as a badge of their unwavering service and valor.”

I clenched my fists, feeling the sting of defeat anew. “Her valor will be her downfall. I don’t care about her reputation; she will pay for this insult.”

He warned me, his voice low, “If we send twenty men after her, not one will return.”

But my resolve was ironclad. The sting of her blows, the shock of defeat—I would not let these go unanswered. “Then so be it. She will face retribution, one way or another.”

He left, only to return shortly with precise intelligence. “She’s stationed at a Ranger outpost, strategically positioned between the rugged terrain of Mt. Doornink Mines to the southwest. The station is a fortress of sorts, with a sandbagged overlook, a sturdy shack, and a weather-beaten tent. A towering radio mast breaks the skyline, a silent sentinel atop the cliff. Approach is possible only from the west; all other routes are sheer drops or impassable terrain.”

With this knowledge, I began to plot. The Ranger had won the battle, but the war was far from over. I would have my vengeance, and the Veteran Ranger would soon learn that Carter never forgets a slight.

He looked at me, his eyes reflecting a mix of concern and disbelief. "Carter, let's be rational for a moment. The Little Bird Army Rangers, especially the Veteran Rangers, they've turned conflicts that dwarf Operation Overlord, the Battle of the Bulge, and even the Battle of Stalingrad into mere child's play."

I cut him off, my voice unwavering. "I don't care. They may be battle-hardened volunteers, willing to lay down their lives for Little Bird, but that doesn't deter me. The woman I'm after is more than just a Ranger; she's a Veteran Ranger and a Lieutenant-Colonel."

He continued, undeterred, "What you're proposing is treason. Attacking a military outpost, one that's vigilant against traffickers and rescues captives with their stealth tactics, is a serious crime."

But I was resolute. "Tell me about the other Ranger Station, the one north of Mt. Doornink."

"It's secluded, nestled at the base of a radio mast in a mountainous dead-end gulch. Accessible only via Cascade State Route 157. Despite its isolation and the monotony that plagues the rangers there, it's a well-run station."

I nodded, absorbing every detail. This was more than a personal vendetta; it was a strategic move. If the Veteran Ranger was as formidable as they said, then I needed every advantage I could get. The battle lines were drawn, and I was ready to cross them.

The man's words were a stark reminder of the firepower we were up against. "You do realize," he began, his tone grave, "that their automatic weapons pack a punch far beyond our civilian-grade arms. The Rangers likely have .50 Cal machine guns spitting out Tracers, Incendiary, and Explosive rounds, not to mention Automatic rifles loaded with 7.62x51mm Armor Piercing, Match-grade, Soft-point, Full Metal Jacket, and Subsonic bullets. Our .308s will hardly compare."

He painted a grim picture of the tactical disadvantage we'd face. "If we strike one station, the Rangers from the other could easily flank us, trapping us on an incline with no escape. Or if we hit the station nestled in the dead-end mountainous area, we'd be sitting ducks in a killzone, with the other station's Rangers, led by that Lieutenant Colonel you're after, pinning us down from above."

I listened intently as he described the Rangers' elite status—commandos and infantry trained for clearing objectives and executing specialist operations ahead of the main army. "They're versatile, reliable, and heavily armed. If even half of what I've heard is true, those Rangers are formidable."

He showed me a photo of the Rangers, clad in their signature armor paired with a black overcoat adorned with green shoulder pads and yellow gauntlets. An ammo belt encircled their torso, topped with a haphazard leather belt.

"Their helmets," he continued, "are designed to withstand gunfire, with lamps for illumination and IR capabilities. The masks, when paired with the helmets, offer enhanced hearing protection, air filtration, and communication systems."

Yet, despite his detailed account of their previous war exploits—how they remained unscathed by Full Metal Jacket, Armor Piercing, and Incendiary rounds, how Molotov Cocktails failed to ignite their armor—I remained unimpressed.

"These Veteran Rangers," he concluded, "are known to take on groups four to seven times their size and emerge victorious. Their historical feats are nothing short of legendary."

I pondered his words, weighing the risks. The challenge was daunting, but my determination was unwavering. If a single Ranger could defy such odds, then so could I. This was more than a mission; it was a test of wills, and I was ready to rise to the occasion. The Veteran Rangers may be legends, but even legends can fall.

As he laid out the structure of the Little Bird Army Rangers, I couldn't help but feel a grudging respect. "The First Ranger Regiment," he explained, "comprises the 1st through 7th Battalions, save for the sixth. The Second Regiment fields the 8th through 15th, excluding the thirteenth. They're the shock troops, the first to breach, the last to retreat. And each battalion is commanded by a Lieutenant-Colonel."

I absorbed every word, my mind racing. "The woman I'm hunting, she leads a Battalion. She sees diplomacy as nothing but a delay, a hindrance to the inevitable clash of war."

He nodded solemnly. "They're the elite, the backbone of Little Bird's military might. You'll hear soldiers say they've seen Rangers chew nails and spit napalm."

I leaned in, intrigued despite myself. "Their roots are tribal, their tactics guerilla. They infiltrate, bypassing the front lines to strike at the heart of the enemy. They're autonomous, choosing when and where to fight, making them unpredictable and deadly."

He continued, "The Rangers, especially the Veterans, they're not just trained to seize objectives—they're trained to hold them. While the main army moves on, the Rangers dig in, turning every captured position into a fortress."

I stood there, processing the daunting task ahead. To take on the Rangers was to challenge a legend. But I was determined. If they were the storm, I was the immovable rock. The battle would be fierce, but I was ready. For in this game of war, it's not just the strong who survive, but the cunning. I had a plan.

His story unfolded like the pages of a history book, each word painting a vivid picture of the past. “Have you heard of the Raid on Twin Rivers?” he asked. I shook my head, prompting him to delve into the tale.

“It was 1704, during the Little Bird-Blister Canyon War,” he began. “A covert group of Rangers landed in Blister Canyon under the veil of night. Their mission was clear: sabotage. They struck at the heart of the enemy, destroying ammunition caches and crippling vital resources.”

He paused, a shadow crossing his face. “Blister Canyon had ambitions, grandiose and twisted. They sought to forge an empire akin to Rome’s, but in the Pacific—a dominion where cultures were erased, and a singular, oppressive identity reigned.”

I listened, captivated by the narrative. “The founder of the Little Bird Rangers, before they were known as the Army Rangers, had a fateful encounter with a Blister Canyon General. He warned him, ‘If you conquer Little Bird, logistics will be your downfall. Your empire will crumble under the weight of attrition warfare.’”

The man’s voice grew somber. “But Blister Canyon’s hunger for conquest was insatiable. They didn’t just want land; they wanted to obliterate identities, to mold the world in their sinister image. Women, seen as less than human, were confined to domesticity—save for the priestesses.”

He continued, his tone shifting to one of pride. “Yet, the Little Bird Rangers stood in defiance. A quarter of them were women, many from native tribes. They fought valiantly in major battles, spearheading nocturnal raids to free slaves and empower tribes to rise against their oppressors.”

I could almost hear the chains breaking as he spoke. “When the Rangers liberated those enslaved, the founder proclaimed, ‘From this day forth, you shall be free.’ And it was this spirit of liberation that tipped the scales in Little Bird’s favor during the war from 1699 to 1705.”

He looked at me, his eyes alight with the fire of history. “The Native Little Birdens, with their voices in government, abolished slavery. And they championed equality, for their tribes knew the value of women in war—over half of the Army were women, alongside a diverse tapestry of cultures.”

As he finished, I felt a surge of understanding. This wasn’t just a history lesson; it was a testament to the indomitable will to fight for freedom and equality. The Little Bird Rangers, past and present, were more than soldiers—they were guardians of liberty.

"Unlike an average trooper, a Ranger is always ready to fight regardless of the circumstance he/she finds themself in." Said the man

The man also told me how a lot of the Rangers and Veteran Rangers have different helmet models like the:

Up-Armored Helmet

- The Up-Armored helmet is a rugged variant designed for frontline combat. It features reinforced plating to protect against shrapnel, debris, and glancing blows. The additional armor ensures that Rangers can withstand close encounters and explosive blasts.

Hardened Uplink Helmet

- The Hardened Uplink helmet integrates advanced communication technology. It serves as a hub for real-time data exchange, allowing Rangers to receive mission updates, coordinate with teammates, and access tactical maps. The uplink is encrypted and resistant to electronic interference.

CBRN Helmet

- The CBRN (Chemical, Biological, Radiological, Nuclear) helmet is essential for hazardous environments. It provides a sealed, airtight fit to protect against chemical agents, biological contaminants, and radiation. The visor incorporates filters and sensors to detect airborne threats.

Command Model Helmet

- The Command Model helmet is reserved for high-ranking officers and field commanders. It features an integrated heads-up display (HUD) that overlays critical information onto the Ranger's field of view. The HUD displays mission objectives, troop positions, and vital statistics.

Command Network Module Helmet:

- The Command Network Module helmet goes beyond communication. It acts as a mobile command center, allowing the wearer to coordinate operations, analyze data, and issue orders. The helmet interfaces with Little Bird's central command network, providing unparalleled situational awareness.

Hardened Uplink/Remote Sensor Package Helmet:

- The Hardened Uplink/Remote Sensor Package combines communication capabilities with advanced sensors. Rangers can deploy remote drones, access surveillance feeds, and gather intelligence. Whether infiltrating enemy territory or conducting reconnaissance, this helmet is indispensable.

But I was going to be immovable even though when he called me a moron because what I want to do is a suicide mission. The Rangers are entrenched and they're in a non defensible position with no way to retreat but at the same time they’re in an area where they can defend against an attack and that there’s no cover for the attackers so they have a home field advantage. Not adding the Rangers are highly trained to survive in hard to reach areas and that they have the home field advantage because they’re accustomed to the area where they are at in which the Rangers fight like Guerrilla fighters who know their home region terrain and environment and can outmaneuver any kind of attackers.. But the woman that I’m after wasn't a Ranger but a Veteran Ranger who is universally feared by their enemies and respected by their comrades. Not adding that the Rangers have both Strategy and Tactics where their command structure and intelligence allow them to perform impressive strategic maneuvers and their excellent training and equipment also gives them an edge in any battle.

But I wasn’t listening to any of it. I would get my revenge no matter how many hired thugs I would have to send to get my revenge no matter how many hired thugs I needed to hire or how much money it cost I was going to get my revenge.

As the man walked away, his parting words echoed in my ears, a solemn reminder of the warpath I had chosen.

“This will be a war, Carter,” he said, “and one you cannot win.” But his words fell on deaf ears; my mind was a fortress, impervious to his counsel.

I turned to my son, the fire of my resolve reflected in his young eyes. “Son, life’s greatest lessons are often learned in the pursuit of justice,” I told him. “Revenge is not just a desire; it’s a right. The strong carve their path in this world, and might, indeed, make right.”

His gaze never wavered as he absorbed my words. “Never question the necessity of action,” I continued, “for it is through our actions that we shape our destiny and assert our place in this unforgiving world.”

With that, I steeled myself for the battles ahead, ready to face whatever consequences my quest for vengeance might bring. For in my heart, I knew that some slights demand retribution, and I would stop at nothing to see justice served in the name of honor.

As I stood before Junior, my voice was firm, the message clear and unwavering.

“Remember, son, in this world, there are times when seeking justice means standing up for oneself, regardless of the adversary’s strength or status,” I said, ensuring the lesson was etched into his young mind.

“Revenge is a path fraught with peril, and it’s not a journey to be taken lightly. It’s not about gender, background, or wealth; it’s about the balance of right and wrong,” I continued, hoping to instill in him a sense of discernment.

Junior remained silent, his thoughts inscrutable, but I believed he understood. Yet, in the quiet of his gaze, I saw the reflection of countless others who might disagree with my teachings, who might see this as a dangerous precedent, a lesson in hubris rather than justice.

I knew that many would argue that I was teaching my son to ignite wars that could be avoided, to walk through life with a sense of invincibility, to believe he could act without consequence. But as his father, it was my duty to prepare him for the harsh realities of our world, to ensure he knew that sometimes, one must stand firm, even if it means standing alone.

So, I repeated the lesson, not as a mantra of vengeance, but as a declaration of our right to fight for what we believe in, for our dignity, and for our place in this world.

Soon another man came in and told me that the woman I’m after well she earned the nickname of “Monster of Little Bird” during the Allied-Soviet War of 1999-2000 and again in 2005-2008/09 and she got that nickname the first time due to fighting a company of Soviet Spetsnaz soldiers by herself and she won that she took on 30 Spetsnaz soldiers single handedly in hand-to-hand combat and again between 2005-08 she took on Spetsnaz Commandos not 30 but 150 with a six shot .44 Magnum Revolver and a trench knife and that the woman I’m after she considers war to be the entire point of living and she’s not dumb because she gained promotions all the way up to Lieutenant-Colonel by being an excellent fighter and a tactician.

But she has a few fatal flaws in which she cannot afford to look weak and the other fatal flaw is her wrath but at the same time she has hidden depths like that she may be brutal and violent but she’s also intelligent, perceptive, and has a personal code of honor. Not adding the same guy told me that the last guy pointed a gun at Lieutenant-Colonel Midnight Waterson she just said to that guy was "Make your first shot count because you won't get a second" but at the same time the guy told me that she's a hypocrite by saying that she doesn't enjoy killing others but at the same time she'll contradict herself by saying that she views killing as a chore as any other if need be. Not adding that the last person who threatened her Rangers well Midnight told that person was "You hurt any of my Rangers. Make no mistake I will find you" and that report says that she will read direct quotes from the Bible.

The man’s insistence on the prowess of the Little Bird Army Rangers was relentless, a drumbeat that sought to impress upon me the gravity of what I was up against. “They’ve turned the most harrowing battles in history—Operation Overlord, the Battle of the Bulge, even the Battle of Stalingrad—into mere child’s play,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and warning.

He painted a picture of an independent force, the Rangers, who fiercely protect their own and stand unyielding against any foe. “There are three tiers,” he explained. “Civilian Rangers, who serve in a sentry-like capacity in safe zones; the Rangers, better equipped and tasked with the protection of government dignitaries; and the Veteran Rangers, the elite, the best of the best.”

He detailed their arsenal with the precision of an expert. “They wield .44 Magnum lever-action rifles, 7.62x51mm sniper rifles, Assault Rifle Carbines, .357 Magnum revolvers, .44 Magnum revolvers, and a variety of high-caliber semi-automatic pistols. Their firepower is unmatched.”

Then, he recounted a tale of resilience and might, where three Rangers, clad in armor that shrugged off bullets, dismantled a gun trafficking ring of 40 criminals single-handedly. It was a story meant to inspire respect, perhaps even fear.

But my focus was singular, my purpose unwavering. “I hear your tales, I acknowledge their strength, but my path remains unchanged,” I said, my voice steady. “I seek not to challenge the Rangers as a whole, but to settle a score with one—Lieutenant-Colonel Midnight Waterson, the ‘Monster of Little Bird.’ My resolve is not shaken by their legends, for even legends bleed.”

With that, I dismissed the man’s warnings, turning instead to the preparations for my inevitable confrontation with the Veteran Ranger who had become my nemesis. In my heart, I knew that this was a path from which there was no turning back, a vendetta that would be settled, for better or worse.

I watched Junior ascend to the 19th floor, his small hand clutching the money I’d given him. It was better this way; the business at hand was no place for a child, even one as precocious as him. As he disappeared from view, I turned back to the matter at hand.

The man before me was cautious, his words laced with an unspoken warning. “The boss has taken a Marker from you,” he said, implying that my next move was backed by the higher-ups, a favor granted without cost. It was a rare gesture, one that spoke of my standing within the organization.

His next words, however, carried a weight of foreboding. “Hope this ain’t a mistake,” he muttered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?” I inquired, a sense of unease beginning to take hold.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Midnight Waterson, the one you’re after, her grand uncle is Jimmy ‘James’ Richard Waterson the 1st.”

The name didn’t register at first, so I scratched my head, prompting him to elaborate.

“Founder and the don of the Waterson Mafia Family,” he continued. “They’re unique, only dealing in legal rackets. And let’s not forget the 1968-1972 Waterson-Falcon Mafia War right here in Empire. It was a bloodbath, all because the Falcon Don's son was rejected by Jimmy’s eldest daughter. The Watersons fought, like the Viet Cong, while the Falcons… Well, they were less than strategic.”

I felt a chill run down my spine as he finished his tale. “So, since you’re targeting a Waterson, just watch your back. An attack on one is an attack on all of them.”

The room seemed to grow colder, the gravity of the situation settling in. I was not just challenging a formidable individual; I was potentially igniting a conflict with a family known for their unity and strategic prowess. It was a sobering thought, one that would require careful consideration and perhaps a reassessment of my approach. For in this game of power and revenge, one must always be aware of the hidden players and the unseen hands that move the pieces.

“So what are men in three piece suits and Tommy guns going to do?” I asked.

The same guy told me that while the Tommy Gun is iconic with Gangsters and the Mafia of the 1920s and 30s but the Waterson Mafia Family don’t use obsolete weapons and will use any weapon they can get their hands on and how all of the adult even the elderly Watersons have military training so he told me this would be an unwinnable one.

I then left and joined my son on the 19th floor and I sat down next to my son and ordered a hamburger that’s one quarter of a pound. I also talked to my son about school in which he told me that it's been going well and has his eyes on a fellow classmate whom he wants to ask out but I gave him advice that others would call wrong but I told him to go for it.

I won’t let “Macaorni” know that I have a son also to me Macaroni is a dumb nickname. If remembering someone or to help them stand out then maybe her family should have it where there’s only one so and so in the family so they won’t have to come up with nicknames to separate members with the same first name.

I’ve heard how the hotel, the Empire Grandeur Hotel, caught fire several times in 1942, 1952, and 1966 but each time it was rebuilt and like in the past it’ll be rebuilt again. It’ll cost a lot of money for those glass block windows to be fixed and well everything will be fixed but how the 18th floor will now be inaccessible for an indefinite amount of time until they can get someone to come in to fix it all up and what not. But how a guy threw a Molotov to block someone’s advance when Macaroni, Midnight and a third woman advance well one of the three women dealt with him because of him causing a fire that would’ve spread rapidly if it wasn’t for the sprinklers to put it out before the first due Engine company arrived.

I’ve just kept overhearing people in the lounge talking about how the hotel had to upgrade the people who were staying on the 18th floor had to move to another floor and how the gala that was host for tonight was postponed for an indefinite amount of time until the 18th floor is fully fixed, damage repaired, and so on. They were going to have many A list movie stars with some new up and comers in the film industry.