[FoF18] [Maeby's Cannon] Children of Ragnablok

[Colette]

Planet Cancun, El Imperio Mexicano

"What's taking so long?".

Dr. Varsha Singh exhaled as she set down her iPhone, attempting to balance the thousand-dollar glimmering stainless steel and glass slab on the narrow armrest next to her. She teetered at the very edge of the seat, as if she were afraid of its squeaking cheap leather somehow tainting her pale ocean-colored Hawaiian shirt and beige miniskirt. Her tropical patterned blouse from Valentino, actually - she had decried several people today who had complimented her "Hawaiian shirt" as fashion illiterati.

"And they call this a lounge? Truly this Imperio Mexicano is pathetic. They don't even have an attendant for champagne," Dr. Singh continued her carping.

A suited man turned from the spaceport's windows and view of sandy Mexicano coastline, shoes ruffling against cheap carpet. All spaceports throughout the galaxy looked the same, he noticed, barring a few small cultural accoutrements on top. Hands behind his back, he leaned in her direction.

"I would be more than happy to provide you with anything you need, Dr. Singh," he declared, the shape of his mouth indicating anything but.

"Ah, yes, what was your name again? Doctor..." Dr. Singh trailed off, not even looking up as she gesticulated with one hand.

"...Dr. Sheu, your honor," he finished for her, his teeth gritted.

Dr. Singh glanced at him, adjusting her glasses and wiping away a lock of her long black hair from her view. She had wanted to take a break from all of the stress of serving as the homeworld's junior Legislator before the upcoming vote, after expending so much energy on lobbying her colleagues in the Trattorian Legislature. But Speaker Fonténe had insisted that she bring along a subject matter aide, just in case. She had cared so little for the decision that she had left it to her chief of staff, who randomly picked somebody she didn't even know worked for her economic policy staff. Now he stood as a reminder, along with the PDF documents on her phone, that there were some aspects of her job from which she could never run away - no matter how far of a backworld world she retired to.

And now she realized the awful timing of her vacation.

No, she never made such mistakes. After all, she would have been on Trattoria several hours ago if only things had gone to plan. Instead, here she sat watching through the spaceport window as a bare-chested, oil-stained Mexicano mechanik sat cross-legged on the tarmac and chomped on a burrito next to the half-disassembled innards of one of her private shuttle's engines. The bumbling imbecile had earlier dropped a wrench on some of the gold plating, scratching it - she would make sure to file for compensation from the spaceport later.

"What is that Gödel-damned dolt doing instead of fixing my shuttle?" Dr. Singh expressed. Her tone and volume remained calm but her emphasis on the swear betrayed her frustration. "And can't he put on a shirt, for decency's sake?"

"Looks like a union break to me," Dr. Sheu replied. "At least we're lucky they caught the engine issue before we took off."

"I'm not!" Dr. Singh retorted, banging an armrest for punctuation. "If I miss this vote on the financial deregulation bill, it might as well be life or death. I'm the lead co-sponsor! I would never live it down. Maybe death would be preferable in that case."

"I didn't decide this time was a good time to take a last-minute vacation," Dr. Sheu noted.

"If you were under as much as pressure as I am, maybe you would think differently," she asserted. "In any case, that's water under the bridge. Why don't you go out there and tell that imbecile to get back to work?".

"Like I said, looks like a union break. Not much we can do."

Dr. Singh picked up her phone, stood up, and looked down at him - Dr. Sheu noticed that with her heels, she actually stood taller than him.

"I am the junior Legislator for the capital district of the most teknologically advanced nation in all the known galaxies. And you're telling me that I can't override this stupid union of uneducated addlepates in this backwater so-called country?".

"Pretty much."

Dr. Singh glared at her aide.

"You must not care about your job very much."

"Look, I want to get out of here as much as you do. But if you want to make this go faster, then pretty much the only way I can think of is your going out there and fixing the engine yourself. Or you could buy a commercial ticket, I guess."

Dr. Singh crossed her arms and looked away with a hmph. "As if I would ever degrade myself to such an extent, to perform manual labor or travel with backwater uneducated commoners."

Dr. Sheu pointed to the mechanik outside, who had packed away his lunch and once again buried his head and a wrench into the inner workings of the shuttle engine.

"If he's so unintelligent and uneducated, then why can't you just go do it yourself?".

He found it harder to discern on her caramel skin, but Dr. Sheu felt sure that he had made Dr. Singh blush.

"My Ph.D. was on dynamic stochastic differential systems, this sort of demeaning physical instrumentality is beneath me," Dr. Singh declared. "What did you specialize in, anyway?".

"Economics," Dr. Sheu replied.

"See, that's not even a real science!"

"Coming from a former Goldman Sucks investment banker, you really have the high ground on this one."

Dr. Singh pretended to ignore him. "In any case - if we cannot speed up our departure, perhaps we could delay the vote for later and buy us some more time. Let me call Speaker Fonténe - he might chastise me, but I'm sure he'll do this for me."

She brought the shining iPhone up, inclining it down so the speakers faced her. "Hey Siri, call Dr. Fonténe."

"I'm sorry, the number you have called is not in service."

"Excuse me?" she replied to the AI assistant. "Hey Siri, try again."

"I'm sorry, the number you have called is not in service."

"What the entropy?" Dr. Singh thought to herself. "This never happens, Trattoria has the most reliable network in the galaxy. Misaka Analytics will have to answer for this when I return."

Dr. Sheu gestured towards her from the doorway, frowning. "Come over here, there's something you'll want to see."

She had tuned out the din of the crowd outside in the terminal, but she had to admit it had become louder. Walking over, she peeked her head out and, over the growing crowd of panicked travelers, glanced at the television screens mounted in a circle in the center of the terminal.

"...reports that planets Wash-a-ton DC, New York, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Seattle have been destroyed..."

"Wir haben den kontakt zu den planeten Bavaria, Trion, Neo-Prussia und Germania verloren. Herr Direktor Alec wird vermisst..."

"Robo-Lenin погиб, вместе с остальными Politburo и Moskau..."

"...Admirał Dudek pociesza naród w związku z utratą Nowa Warzsawa..."

"La tragedia ha colpito Venezia e la Sicilia..."

"...en memoria de nuestros hermanos y hermanas en Emeriadad..."

"...mantošanas krīze pēc Assyrian ķeizvaldnieku nāves pēc planētas Austere iznīcināšanas..."

"...New London confirmed destroyed, and contact lost with planets Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow, and Belfast..."

"...confirmed and unconfirmed reports of almost 100 major worlds across the galaxy destroyed, with initial casualty estimates on the order of a trillion minifigs..."

Dr. Singh fell to her knees.

She turned to Dr. Sheu. "What happened to Trattoria?".

"Tell me what you know, what happened?!" she repeated.

The phone in her hand began to ring, a cheery jingle she had once heard from an advertisement. She had forgotten to silence the damn thing. Putting it to her ear, she began. "Hello?".

"Hello. This is Dr. Sakura Shiina, Stratego of the Sector III fleet."

"Where's the Chief Stratego? What the hell is going on? Is this a prank - "

"Legislator Singh - no, technically President Singh. We have much to discuss."

Spoiler

Show

As Maeby's Cannon, this is non-kanonical.

To be continued...

[Colette]

Fleck system, Bavarian Reich

Sergeant Heinz fought back tears as he stared outside the ship's tiny porthole - after all, there was no way to wipe them off through his opaque vacuum-sealed stahlhelm. Rocky chunks floated in the darkness, illuminated by the faint brightness of the Fleck system's distant sun. The ship would jolt every minute or so as passing debris would hit it, forcing Heinz to grab onto a handrail to avoid tripping in the bulky spacesuit. The advanced blue-painted Krupp steel used in its construction made it less heavy than it could have been, but it remained a bulky encumbrance. He could see that some of the pieces had begun to coalesce into the beginning of a ring, curling around the star's gravity well in new concentric asteroid belts.

This was it. This was all that remained of planet Bavaria, and every other world in the Fleck system.

"Sergeant, prepare to move out," Major Fassbinder ordered through the radio. If the loss of all the family, friends, and people had affected the major, he didn't show it.

"Of course," Heinz choked out.

Major Fassbinder approached the airlock, heaving as he spun the heavy iron wheel sealing the bulkhead. After several grunted turns, the thick metal door gave way. Both of the soldiers entered the airlock chamber, pushing the door shut after them. As they hooked up the provided life-support tethers to their suits, a voice came on their radios.

"This is Mage Fenstermacher of the Magicians Alliance - I am fairly confident from my scrying that the objective is near here somewhere. Our scanners have detected much other wreckage from the Pitz Palu royal fortress here, so this space must have been close to its former location."

"Roger that," Major Fassbinder replied in a matter-of-fact monotone. "Ready, sergeant?"

Sergeant Heinz nodded, before realizing that the major couldn't see. "Of course. After you."

The door out to space opened, sucking the air out. The two Bavarian marines gently drifted out.

On every other spacewalk he had done, Heinz would stare into the dotted blackness, perhaps with the gentle glow of a planet below him.

Instead, a floating menagerie of junk greeted him. Metal pipes, clumps of dirt, sheets of armor plating - he could swear he saw a bicycle frame pass by him. A few chunks of grass and trees that would soon choke out.

"Keep your eye out for the gold thing," Fassbinder reminded him, waking him from his reverie.

"Yes, sir."

The two of them flitted about, guiding their movements with the jumpjets in their backs and boots. A broken cabinet here, a shattered mirror there. He latched onto a floating box, opening it only to find glittering blue gemstones and silver jewelry.

"Nothing here, sir," Heinz reported.

"I've located a long golden spear shaft - I'm going to grab onto it and try to get closer to the end," the major replied. Heinz had to stifle an instinctual giggle, earning an admonishment, before heading over to help the major.

After several minutes of pulling on the spear, they found the impossibly long weapon protruding from a lumpy golden statue, with ill-defined melted features and no discernible face. One might have labelled it an artist's prototype, or perhaps the work of an amateur. Most importantly, it remained as stiff as a statue, despite Heinz's repeated pokes. A good hit produced a solid metallic clang.

"Mage Fenstermacher, I believe we have our hands on the tar - grrrgh!"

Without warning, the gold statue grabbed Major Fassbinder's neck, crunching the latter's thick steel armor with its metal fingers. Fassbinder tried to grab the statue's arms, only to find his own hands passing through the previously solid metal like a stream of water. Gurgling over the radio, the major began to flail his arms around.

"Your highness!" Heinz implored to the golden humanoid lump, only to realize that his radio pleas would fail to reach across space.

The statue continued its relentless assault, until finally with a snap, Fassbinder's steel collar cracked and his head popped like a bloody ballon. Chunks of skull and bits of pink brain splattered across what appeared to be the gold statue's belly, before the latter began to shift and undulate, as if heated in a furnace. The spear retracted into the body as lumps gave way to the curves of bulging rolls of muscle and a six pack formed on its formerly featureless belly, absorbing the detritus splashed across it. Its fat murderous fingers became slender, and the top of its head began to fray into individual strands of golden lace hair. The only remaining untransformed region remained its flat, featureless face. As the rigid modern art sculpture flexed, it resembled more a faceless minifig painted in gold, a bright yellow aura radiating from it.

"Your highness, have you lost your mind? That was a fellow Bavarian soldier!" Heinz pleaded in futility.

The awakened Prinz Klaus Jr., now the ascendent Kaiser Klaus II, turned its blank head to face him, and screamed directly into Sergeant Heinz's mind.

"VENGEANCE"

[Silverdream]

[Colette]

Interstellar space

Dr. Shiina explained the Trattorian line of succession to Dr. Singh with the blandness of reciting a cake-baking recipe.

The destruction of planet Trattoria had wiped out the entire Legislature - except for Dr. Singh - as well as the President, the Vice President, the Chief Comptroller, the Chief Attorney, the Chief Chancellor, and the Chief Stratego.

The destruction of planet Soledad a few minutes later killed the Chief Scientist.

The destruction of planet New York a few minutes after that killed the Chief Ambassador, in attendance at an Allied Nations summit.

With all principal officers in the line of succession eliminated, it looped to the start again. As the last remaining Legislator, Dr. Singh automatically became the Speaker in the first pass, and thus succeeded to the presidency on the second pass around.

Dr. Singh shook as a massive Trattorian fleet blotted out the sky of planet Cancun and whisked her away. She refused to talk to anyone, her company consisting largely of humorless combat droids anyway and a silent Dr. Sheu. In the private silence of the shuttle's interior, she gripped her arms and curled up on the provided couch.

Responsibility. The overburdened luggage dragged on her mind. The Trattorian government, a meritocratic bureaucracy, had always dissipated it amongst the ranks of hundreds of ranked and elected officials. Others always existed from whom one had to obtain input and consensus, yes, but also advice and liability. They all shared the duty and blame for turning the wheels of politics.

Who would receive it now?

---

Planet Unicité, Meritocratic Republic of Trattoria

The shuttle descended onto the gleaming steel landing pad, a jutting protrusion from one of Unicité's skyscrapers. Rotated VTOL fusion engines whined and blasted nuclear fury onto it. The air beneath the ship wavered like a mirage from the heat, although the shuttle itself gently glided without a tremor, a testament to Virgin's engineering prowess.

Drs. Miyako and Shiina awaited on the walkway, framed by barred railings on either side interlaced with green vines and hedges. The altitude winds whipped Dr. Miyako's pure labcoat and black shoulder-length hair behind her, threatening to topple her over from her precarious stiletto high heels. With both her hands she gripped a dull metal briefcase in front of her - she griped about the strain of its unfamiliar weight on her lithe theoretical physicist's arms, but she acknowledged the vitality of its contents enough to tolerate it.

Dr. Shiina stood in a wide pose, anchored in no-nonsense combat boots. Dressed in the crisp white uniform of the Trattorian Strategos, she crossed her gloved hands behind her back - partly out of protocol, partly to press down her long blonde hair from blowing with the gusts. The only colors marking the achromatic pair were the red trim on Dr. Miyako's labcoat shoulders and clipped ID card, and the military rank plaque on Dr. Shiina's chest.

"It's so cold up here, couldn't we have picked a different landing pad?" asked Dr. Miyako, shivering.

Dr. Shiina responded by glaring at Dr. Miyako's dress.

A light clang announced the touchdown of the shuttle against the landing pad. The rear ramp opened, revealing a weary Dr. Singh. Dr. Sheu trailed her, carrying her bags. Nobody made eye contact with each other.

"President Kuro - I mean, President Singh" Dr. Shiina began, correcting herself from now-outdated habit. "Dr. Sakura Shiina," she introduced as she pointed at herself, before pointing at her counterpart. "Dr. Priscilla Miyako."

"What's the situation?" Dr. Singh asked. Rubbing her arms, she added, "and did we really have to meet up on a platform this high?".

Dr. Shiina handed a plastic card to Singh, then gestured to Dr. Miyako, who stepped forward. She presented the briefcase to Dr. Singh, eager to offload it. Dr. Singh took it, surprised by the heft and nearly dropping it.

"What is this?" she inquired, although she had a guess.

"The Trattorian football," Dr. Miyako replied. "Within are codes, outlines for retaliatory options, and command-and-control equipment for launching a neutrina bomb attack."

Dr. Singh gulped, glancing down at the burden she now carried.

"You have several choices," Dr. Miyako continued, "ranging from planetary or stellar in scale, to annihilating a designated star empire, or ending the BrikVerse. Per the Neutrina Control Act, you are empowered to unilaterally authorize any use of doomsday devices or regulated superweapons in the event of an attack on Trattoria. Which has occurred."

"Please don't end the BrikVerse," Dr. Sheu whispered behind Dr. Singh.

"Given the deaths of the Council of Scientists, as well as the Legislature, Dr. Singh alone shall decide our retaliatory options as well as the fate of the BrikVerse," Dr. Miyako noted drily. "These are exceptional circumstances, but we Trattorians shall continue to follow proper procedure and protocol and respect proper authority."

Dr. Singh turned to Dr. Sheu. "Stop worrying yourself, you dimwit. I am not going to end the BrikVerse," she declared. She turned to face the two women.

"Something must be done about this situation, however. Have either of you identified the perpetrator of this atrocity?" she asked them.

Dr. Miyako replied, "So far we have identified 98 targeted star systems - 95 of them hit successfully, including our own planets Trattoria and Soledad. Spread all across the galaxy, across star nations of every political alignment and governmental type, it is difficult to discern a motivation for - "

"Trattoria did it," Dr. Shiina cut her off. "Technically speaking, anyway."

[Colette]

Assyrian border planet, Assyrian Star Empire

"Stop!"

It took Major Pedersen all his courage to not wet his own trousers, let alone issue the command in a shaking, squeaky voice to the massive incoming wave of tanks charging at him.

Front and center, an Assyrian Vanquisher Super Death Tank had its turret lopped off and flattened into a stage for the heavy metal band Brikpocalypse played on in its final and eternal concert. Amps and speakers hung off the sides, with the side sponsons ripped out and replaced with more amps, as the tank convoy advanced with the rhythm of the drummer. Even from a distance one could see the flamboyant pink hair of the three guitarists as they rocked on all throughout the journey, and one could certainly hear them. For miles around one could hear the lead singer Rex screeching about the glory of Assyria and gunning down peaches. At a closer distance, the loud metal tunes themselves became a lethal weapon to any fool who stood in their way, the air vibrations kicking up sand and crushing the eardrums and vibrating the organs of anyone nearby.

The drummer and the guitarists tapered their pace, although they continued to play, as the lines of dozens of other Assyrian tanks slowed down with the beat. It was a motley mix ranging from Artemis's and Mars's to White Widow spider tanks and even half a dozen Vanquishers. All of them had rust, bullet holes, and other scars from internecine wars in the desert. Many tank commanders had decorated their vehicles with chains, stringing them with the skulls of their fallen enemies or mounting them on spikes. Other had fashioned bloodstained bulldozer blades and mounted them on the fronts of their tanks, a few still flecked with the leftover rotting intestine or two.

The convoy ground to a halt in front of the base's plain white death wall - the slits over the gate made it resemble a smiling face. Major Pedersen and his underling stood in front, clutching their oversized Assyrian laser rifles, and staring at the massive force.

One of the Mars tanks continued to roll up, revealing the force's commander atop its turret. His sweating bare chest, gifted with a solid six-pack and lined with scars, gleamed in the harsh sunlight and seemed too big to be contained within any standard Assyrian armor. He obscured his visage with a mask fashioned out of the flayed face and scalp of a screaming peach, its last moment memorialized as a trophy. On top of it all he also wore an incongruous headset and microphone, the kind one might find on a call center operator.

The man had ripped off the massive 50-caliber machine gun on top of the turret from its bearings to use as his personal armament, alongside an orange transparent chainsaw. Grabbing both of his weapons, he rose from his gunnery seat and stood on top of the tank - even without the added height from the vehicle, Major Pedersen was sure the hulk would have towered over him.

"I AM VILIS, THE SHOGUN OF SORROW!" the man introduced himself. The microphone was apparently patched into the metal band's speakers, nearly deafening Major Pedersen and prompting him to cover his ears. Even his slow, deep breathing was amplified for all to hear, perhaps deliberately.

"This is Major Pedersen with the Assyrian Space Force," Pedersen responded in a pathetic, lower volume. "This base is under the authority of the Assyrian provisional government under the leadership of Major Natalya."

"FUCK THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT!" Vilis blasted.

"AND FUCK MAJOR NATALYA TOO!" he added after a moment's consideration.

"THE HEAVENLY EMPRESS IS DEAD! HER MAJESTY WAS THE ONLY ALLEGIANCE TO WHICH ALL ASSYRIANS - "

"Perhaps you could turn off the mike so we could understand you bett-"

" - SWORE! NOW IT IS TIME FOR A NEW MASTER TO ARISE IN ASSYRIA!"

"I apologize, but the provisional government has instructed me to defend this base against all comers," Major Pedersen replied. He was shouting at the top of his lungs, but in comparison it still came out like a whisper. "I was specifically instructed to deny you entrance, Colonel Vilis - "

"I AM NO LONGER A COLONEL IN THE ASSYRIAN ARMORED DIVISION. I AM NOW THE SHOGUN OF SORROW, RULER OF ALL ASSYRIA!"

Major Pedersen shook his head, before pressing a button on his wrist to alert the base's forces.

"I apologize, Colonel Vilis, but you are simply not the recognized government of - "

"CALL ME THAT DEAD NAME AGAIN. CALL ME THAT ONE MORE TIME, MOTHERFUCKER."

"Very well then, we will have no recourse but to enforce the authority of the provisional government with an armed response. My apologies, Colonel Vilis."

Vilis discarded the machine gun, hopping down from the tank with his OTC in hand. In a flash, he jumped right in front of Major Pedersen, OTC revving into action, and plunged it into him. The look of shock on his face did not even have time to transition to one of pain before he expired, viscera flying everywhere and blood splattering Vilis's face and chest. The liquid was a refreshing coolant in planet's hot desert sun.

Pedersen's comrade raised his gun to avenge his friend, but it was too late, as Vilis threw the OTC and landed it straight into eyes, crashing through his helmet. Vilis strode over with leisure, gently tugging his weapon out of the ruined corpse. Already, some of his White Widow spider tanks were beginning to climb over the base's death wall. He could hear the shuffling of boots on the other side as the base scrambled to ready itself for the assault.

A few of the Vanquishers took aim, blowing apart the meters-thick solid steel gate with their main cannons. Artemis's began to roll in, navigating over the rubble with their thick tracks.

"MY FRIENDS - TODAY WE TAKE ANOTHER STEP TOWARDS AVENGING HER MAJESTY! SOON ALL THE BRIKVERSE SHALL KNOW OUR SORROW!"

[Colette]

Planet Unicité, Meritocratic Republic of Trattoria

"Allow me to elaborate," Dr. Shiina continued to a dumbstruck Dr. Singh. "One of our Lelantos-class orbital defense platforms over the homeworld fired every single one of its Inter-Galactic Ballistic Missiles, armed with planet-busting negative-strangelet warheads, for currently unknown reasons."

"This action was not ordered or known by the Trattorian government?" Dr. Singh asked.

"Of course," Dr. Shiina clarified. "We still do not know why this event occurred."

"Regardless, every nation in the local galactic group will now have reason to think that we were responsible," Dr. Miyako noted.

"After the initial attack, several dozen retaliatory superweapons and doomsday devices automatically targeted what used to be the homeworld," Dr. Shiina added. "In the unlikely event of any survivors of the initial planet-buster, they surely perished in the subsequent counterattack."

"So what you're telling me, is that we still do not know who is responsible for the greatest crime in the BrikVerse?".

"Not only that, but we're going to be blamed for it," Dr. Miyako replied.

Dr. Singh buried her head in her hands.

"Are there perhaps any governments we could reach out to, for explanations or alliances?" Dr. Sheu offered with some timidity.

"We lost all of our diplomatic hotlines with the homeworld, and further almost every capital and homeworld and government in the galaxy has just been obliterated," Dr. Shiina replied. "All of our ambassadors are also dead."

"Not all of them," Dr. Miyako pointed out. "There is still Dr. Hiroharu, and Dr. Koothrapali - "

Dr. Shiina turned to Dr. Miyako. "Mere speculation. We've lost contact with them, and I'm fairly certain Dr. Koothrapali has been killed by now."

"As for governments..." Dr. Shiina trailed off. "We lost our command and control of our galactic spy network with the annihilation of Soledad, but we have already heard updates on the political situations of various nations. We have prepared what we know into a briefing for you."

"As for our neighbors, Assyria has fallen into a war of succession since their empress died without issue, while the USA has split into at least four independent nations," Dr. Miyako summarized. "We have no news on the state of Praetoria, they've gone silent."

"Wait," Dr. Singh interjected, recovering somewhat from the shock of all the recent information. "You mentioned that not all missiles hit their targets, and also the survival of Dr. Hiroharu. What was he the ambassador to again?"

"I would not be too optimistic in your situation," Dr. Shiina countered. "Dr. Hiroharu is, probably was at this point, the Trattorian Ambassador to - "

[Colette]

Planet Stearus, Imperial Magikstrate
A few hours earlier…

Ibeus Pendragon rested his arms on the sides of his throne, laying his magical staff across his lap. The throne was a simple cherry-painted thing, unlike the many chairs of pomposity scattered throughout the halls of power in the galaxy, lacking even a seat back. It allowed room for his magnificent wine-colored cape, but also served to remind him never to rest easy while ruling his empire. Tongues of magical eternal blue flame flickered next to him, alongside guards armed with glowing magical spears and bulky medieval armet helmets.

Beneath the shallow steps before him, his sister Azura and his cousin Cecil bent their knees on the red carpet before rising.

"Brother, I am pleased to report good progress in the Imperial Academy's medical research. With continued efforts on Avanzia, we should be able to offer a treatment comparable to that of Trattoria and Assyria, but affordable and accessible to peaches and others," Azura stated with a soft smile on her peach face. Her long red robes swayed with her movements and her golden ponytail, hinting at the figure beneath. She leaned against her long, cross-shaped staff, its center jewel refracting and glimmering with a bit of its own radiant light.

"As am I, Uncle," Cecil added. He was a younger man with a taste in fine clothing and furs and perhaps more etiquette than his more martial relations would have prefered. He kept his arms and legs close together, minimizing the amount of space occupied, and even kept a shorter, cane-like magical staff for convenience. "We have made major headways into finalizing a trade deal with the M-Throne Empire."

Ibeus rose, his boots and his staff echoing against the steps. When he was within reach of the two, he wrapped his staff arm around Azura and ruffled Cecil's hair. He could not help but note how soft the latter felt.

"Hey, I'm not a kid anymore," Cecil protested, trying to duck away. Ibeus smirked while Azura giggled, covering her mouth.

"That never gets old," Ibeus noted, stepping back. "I don't know what I would do without you two."

"I hope you never change," Azura commented.

"That would be boring, wouldn't it?" Ibeus replied. "I just wish I had more time to see you two. Especially you, Cecil, you've been out of the Magenta Sector more than you've been in it lately. Maybe even in this galaxy given the Tharcan trips."

Cecil beamed. "Just work, you know?".

"If only we could come up with a spell to be at two places at once," Azura suggested, "I'm sure a lot of my researchers would appreciate it."

"I don't think your researchers would be the only ones to enjoy it," Ibeus added. "I had to push back an Arhus briefing just to get to spend some quality family time."

"You mean a formal report," Azura clarified in a mock-serious tone.

"Sure, for the record," Ibeus acquiesced.

"Ibeus!"

A figure materialized in a flash of blue, white hair and long beard gently fluttering back down from the sudden apparition spell. A purple cape flowed from the man's otherwise clean white robes: Hieronimus the Warden. His staff still raised from performing the teleportation, he set it down with a thud as its jewel dimmed.

"Ibeus, I bear urgent news!"

Azura and Cecil stepped aside as Ibeus stepped forward towards his most trusted advisor.

"What tidings do you bring, Warden?"

With a swing of his staff, the Warden seemed to rip a hole in the air, revealing a floating magical sphere of some sort with resolution rivaling any of Appel's latest offerings. It depicted the planet Stearus in uncanny clarity, with several lines drawn over it.

"We have detected an Inter-Galactic Ballistic Missile exit FTL in the star system."

"What?" Cecil exclaimed?

"How did our precog mages not catch this?" Azura interrogated. "An event of this magnitude..."

"Well, can we mobilize our mag - "

"About 40 seconds left now," Hieronimus cut off Ibeus.

Ibeus closed his eyes as everyone else in the room began to make a commotion, gripping his staff with both of his hands.

"What are we going to do?"

"What can we do, there isn't even enough time to - "

With perfect focus and his eyes still closed, Ibeus lifted his staff in the air and then swung it around in a circle, blue sparks glittering off its end. Azura, Cecil, Hieronimus, and the two guards began to dissolve into the air, shimmering with blue teleportation magic.

"Wait, Ibeus, this isn't fair!" Azura protested when he saw Ibeus, solid as ever, kneeling onto the carpet. "Come with us!".

"I will share the fate of my people," Ibeus declared, as he watched the missile split into ten unstoppable multiple independent reentry vehicles on Hieronimus's projection. It was too late to intercept any of them, even using magic, and there were too many of them anyway. "As atonement for my failure to protect them."

"Ibeus, please - " Azura's plea was interrupted by her, and everyone else's, disappearance to a place Ibeus knew was safe. Uascari had fallen before. They could rebuild it again, even without him or planet Stearus.

Ten seconds remained.

Ibeus counted down in his head in the now silent and empty throne room. There was nothing he could have done to prevent this, so there was no point in regretting it. But he still mourned the imminent tragedy - that he could allow himself.

He saw the planet-busting MIRVs descend into Stearus's atmosphere on the magical hologram, which persisted despite its caster's absence.

Three.

Two.

One.

Zero?

Minus one.

Wait, that wasn't supposed to happen.

[RedRover]

Oye! This is amazing!

[Colette]

Planet Unicité, Meritocratic Republic of Trattoria

Knock, knock.

Dr. Shiina tapped on the metal door with her knuckles, before probing the round handle with a twist of her other hand. Finding it loose, she turned it and gave it a push.

The office, in its spartanness, appeared larger than it actually was. A wooden bureau, engraved with abstract designs, was framed with empty shelves on either side and a drooping Trattorian flag. Dr. Singh sat in the very center, curled up with her feet on the chair, staring out the window wordlessly. The Unicité skyline, though jutted with many high-rises and greenery, was still a much less impressive than Trattoria's.

Dr. Shiina closed the distance, only the sound of her steps echoing through the bare room. Even as she approached Dr. Singh, the latter refused to turn. Finally within reach of the desk, Dr. Shiina produced an iPad and laid it on the empty desk.

"Doctor President, our team has assembled a brief on the developing situation on the USA."

No response.

Sighing, Dr. Shiina stepped aside and began to walk around the desk, dragging her fingers along its grained surface, until she was directly facing Dr. Singh. That invasion of her personal space finally got her attention.

"What do you want?" Dr. Singh inquired, still staring out into the view.

Dr. Shiina paused for a moment to consider her response, before settling on one. "For you to be a responsible leader."

"I don't really know what to do," Dr. Singh confessed. "I thought about it sure, but I never really expected it. And I had a platform based around the economy and financial regulations and tax reforms. None of that - " She waved towards the city outside. "None of that, well, really matters anymore. I'm not even sure what to -"

"You are not the most qualified person for the job."

"Excuse me?".

"Excuse me," Dr. Shiina declared in her constant, lifeless monotone. "With apologies to our great meritocracy, but you should have never become President. You are not the most qualified candidate for the job, because all the other qualified people are dead."

"Is that supposed to be encouragement?" Dr. Singh whined. "I don't even want this job - well, I did, but not anymore. Why don't you have it? You're always the calm one who knows everything."

Dr. Shiina looked away at the window with Dr. Singh for a moment, before summoning the courage to make direct eye contact with her. She considered slapping her, but determined this action to be enough, conveying her abortive thought by narrowing her eyes.

"Are you suggesting that I conduct a military coup?".

Neither said anything for a minute, as Dr. Singh shrank into her chair under the laserlike gaze of Dr. Shiina. Finally, Dr. Shiina leaned in towards Dr. Singh, hands behind her back.

"You are unqualified for the position. Perhaps you are right and I am indeed better suited. Perhaps not. But regardless, you have the job now. Learn how to do it."

Turning brusquely, Dr. Shiina marched out of the room when Dr. Singh called out to her.

"Um, Dr. Shiina, this is an awkward question, but I didn't pack any black dresses, and the rest of my clothes were on Trattoria, um, and I think might need one tomorrow for the - "

"Just borrow one of mine and get back to work," Dr. Shiina replied as she continued and closed the door behind her.

[Colette]

Planet Alamo, the Republik of Texas

Captain Holder peeked over the town's outer barricade, poking the air with his M16 rifle before ducking down again. The enemy forces, though distant, were now visible as specks and fast approaching.

Several civilians, clutching onto a variety of personal hunting shotguns and semiautomatic assault rifles, also laid against the barricade, breathes ragged with anticipation. They had fashioned the makeshift wall out of cars, concrete roadblocks, steel sheets ripped off a rusting factory, and whatever other refuse could be spared. They had an armored vehicle from the police department, and the few guns from the armory that the Texas National Guard could ration out, but the town's defense forces mostly consisted of its inhabitants led by a single National Guard squad.

"Attention residents. Step outside and lay down your arms peaceably, and there will be no casualties. Cease your insurrection against the legitimate government of the United Systems Alliance at once."

They could hear the megaphoned announcement even now, albeit as almost a slight buzz. Holder gripped his rifle and made a calming motion to the townsfolk gathered around him - they would exploit the USA remnant force's abeyance for as long as possible until they entered within range of their weapons.

Now the low rumble of an engine and tank treads trampling dirt became audible. Captain Holder could sense the unease among the townspeople.

"How could we win?".

"Perhaps it would be better to give in."

Captain Holder knew these were weak people. He and his squad had found them looting stores and at each other's throats when they arrived to bring order to the town. But he also knew each of them had a deep sense of duty and patriotism, when called on appropriately.

He stood up, kicking up some sand as he did so. In the loudest whisper he could muster, he announced to the townspeople.

"People of Alamo - a forlorn and bloody battle lies before us. I do not blame you for fearing it. But! We have an order from the Governor of Texas to stand our ground with all means available to us. This great state was once a republic, and it shall be once more. The pretender government on planet Philadelphia wishes to impose its far-off rule as Wash-a-ton DC once did, to steal our riches and steamroll our values, but no more! This is an opportunity for the Texan people to determine their own destiny!"

Anticipating that a few of the townspeople might fire into the air in agreement, he immediately made a gesture afterwards requesting silence.

Without warning, Jim clambered over the barricade, his AR-15 rifle in hand and a cowboy hat on his head. The metal spurs on his heels would spark against the metal of the barricade when they contacted.

"Jim, stick to the plan!" Captain Holder ordered, to no avail.

The USA forces were now distinct and visible. Jim, careful to balance himself on the unstable junk pile, stood up and towered over them. He clutched his rifle with both hands, his finger on the trigger.

"Attention residents. Step outside and lay down your arms peaceably, and there will be no casualties. Cease your insurrection at once."

"Oh that again," Jim dismissed.

"So you intend to peaceably surrender? You will not be harmed if you choose to do," the USA megaphone voice asked.

"No! You are the foreign gubmint invading my home, and I will defend it to the death. I will never lay down my arms!" Jim declared in his Texas drawl. "For the right to bear arms, shall not be infringed! Yee-haw!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Jim squeezed his finger, spraying the USA remnant with bullets. The USA soldiers scattered as they returned fire. Though disorganized, a few of the bullets streaked through Jim, spurting red through his shirt. His lifeless body tumbled down the barricade, surprising the townsmen.

"Now, now!" Captain Holder ordered, as the town's militia climbed onto the barricade and poked their rifles over the top. "Weep not for Jim, as he gave his life in service of the republik! Let him be an example for us all!"

The hail of bullets laid down a rain of suppressive fire, preventing the USA forces from approaching any closer and killing the ones who tried. In turn, the USA soldiers tried to return fire, although the Texans ducked beneath their cover.

Suddenly, the USA fire stopped. Poking his eyes over the barricade briefly, Captain Holder could see the USA soldiers retreating. The black monster, lined with dashes of sand green and ironically named the Diplomat Main Battle Tank, rolled into position, rolling its turret towards the barricade and leveling its main gun.

"Everyone, get ou - "

It was too late, as the entire battlefield shook with tremendous thunder and clouded with smoke. An instant later, the barricade burst apart, men and debris flying everywhere.

Captain Holder found himself lying on the ground in a red pool, ears ringing. He tried to stand, but found his left leg would not obey his commands, and he flopped over. Glancing down, he could see several chunks of shrapnel embedded in it.

He had dropped his rifle somewhere. He had to find it, that at least he could do. Clawing the ground, he could feel the sand getting in under his fingernails, but it was the best locomotion he was capable of.

He could see a figure approaching through the smoke. Coughing, Holder pulled out his sidearm and aimed it at the stranger before recognizing him as one of the town's schoolchildren.

"Hey Mike," Holder greeted, coughing from the particulate debris entering his lungs, "go back to the shelter with the rest of the kids."

Mike approached closer, in his denim overalls and kid-sized cowboy hat. He pointed to something on Holder's belt.

"Mike, you really should go back to the shelter."

"We need to do something about the tank," Mike commented. "There's still smoke o'er the battlefield, and I'm a smaller target."

Before Holder could react, Mike had unclipped a grenade from his belt.

"No, no, Mike, war's no place for a boy. What would your parents think?"

Holder reached out to the boy, but he was already running out beyond the shattered hole in the barricade, and Holder was too weak to follow.

The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was a blazing explosion through the distant mists.

[RedRover]

Texass*

[AnnoyedZebra]

rekt

[Colette]

Planet Philadelphia, United Systems Alliance Remnant

Steven Munchkin climbed the small stage, settling himself into the singular wooden chair at the head of the room. Looking down at the other rows of tables empowered him, endowing his own seat with a regal sensibility. The irony that it had once been that of George Wash-a-ton, the furniture in the room undisturbed from when the USA's Continental Congress had declared its independence from the Britannian League and its monarch centuries ago. Back then, extraordinary men had risen against extraordinary circumstances to defend their country. If only any remained now.

In his wealth and stature, Mr. Munchkin was hardly ordinary, he would insist. A billionaire former Partner at Goldman Sucks in its mortgages division, he went on to become the former Secretary of the Treasury - and current President of the United Systems Alliance.

A designated survivor, he would argue to himself. A stroke of luck that he was away from any of the USA's major population centers. Of course, his press staff did not trouble themselves with detailing his contumely, his snorting cocaine off the derrières of hookers with rolled up, freshly printed dollar bills in the Hamptons. As far as anyone alive cared, he was as much on state business as the expense forms for his use of a government jet attested. Not that anyone would process those anymore - such caviling auditors and press perished with Wash-a-ton DC and New York. Along with his vain and scandalous and prodigal wife - a nice piece of meat, from his perspective, but one that proved far too troublesome in the late days of the former administration. He probably should have felt more bereaved by her loss.

Rising, he planted his hands on the desk in an aggressive stance and inspected the map of the now-fractured United Systems Alliance unrolled on his desk. How dare rebels splotch his kingdom with their own colors. The United Systems Confederacy to the south, the Republik of Texas and the Central Systems Alliance in the midwest, and the Republik of Kaskadia in the west. Angry red thumbtacks tore through the paper over the planets Atlanta, Austin, Denver, and Portland. Enemies surrounded him on all sides and threatened to steal his rightful land and country out from under him. Carpetbaggers exploiting a national tragedy.

He possessed something they did not, however. He still possessed the legitimacy of the United Systems Alliance government behind him and all the cachet, however much squandered by his predecessor, it nonetheless retained. Many of its former NATO allies had collapsed into anarchy, but the Trattorians, those orderly fellows, he could always rely on them to uphold the tentpole of bureaucracy and order even if only out of duct tape.

He settled back into his seat and began drumming his fingers over the paper representation of his realm. The new Trattorian president would arrive, yes, but when his aide had mentioned that Stratego Dr. Shiina would accompany her, that caught his attention.

He knew both of them - they were all former Partners at Goldman Sucks at one point - although his recollection of Dr. Singh, being in the wrong division, remained hazy beyond a few friendly business meetings and company events.

Dr. Sakura Shiina, on the other hand…

How much he had wanted to grab that ass. He might have, too, if she weren't his boss. That Trattorian prude exercised her authority as galactic co-head of the trading division to expound drivel about inclusive and welcoming work environments. Expound via memos and emails, of course - the lady never inclined herself towards the spoken word, despite her position. The balderdash nearly drove him to take up employment with a rival firm of fewer scruples such as Morgan Studley or Citygroup. In the end, however, salaries and bonuses never lied.

The ancient oak doors creaked open, as a USA and a Trattorian soldier each swung it open. Drs. Singh and Shiina entered, the former in a black dress and white jacket reminiscent of her predecessor. Hands in front, they dipped their heads in a traditional bow.

President Munchkin refused to reciprocate. He had always hated that ritual - he wasn't even sure if Trattoria was still a superpower. They could earn his respect again once they rebuilt their stock market and recollected their money.

"Well hello, girls," he greeted, rising on his dais with open arms. Dr. Shiina shot him a look as the two Trattorians took their seats at a desk below.

"Mr. Munchkin," President Singh began, "it is the hope of the Meritocratic Republic of Trattoria to maintain our longstanding friendship with the United Systems Alliance."

"Of course, of course," President Munchkin replied, waving as he settled down again.

"I was hoping to discuss matters of exigent continuance. For example - this one you may have special competency in - when does the United Systems Treasury plan to resume payments on its bonds? As you are aware, Mr. Munchkin, Trattoria is the larg - "

"Of course, of course," President Munchkin interrupted. "However, before you treat with the United Systems Alliance, you should be aware that we are not whole. We will need to reassemble ourselves before our nations enter formal relations again."

"We are well aware of the situation in the rest of your country, Mr. Munchkin," Dr. Shiina acknowledged. Oh, how he had missed that bored monotone.

"How, good to see you, Sakura."

"It is Dr. Shiina," she corrected.

"Of course, of course," President Munchkin dismissed. "You have something we need. We have something you need. It sounds like we could reach, as we might have said in our previous life, a deal."

President Munchkin rose, leaning in with his hands apelike on the desk. "We need to end this civil war, once and for all."

"And how would you propose to accomplish that?" President Singh asked.

"Well I think you know the answer to that question," President Munchkin responded. "I need planets Atlanta, Austin, Denver, and Portland gone. Your country should be, shall we say, more than experts in that."

"Very well then," President Singh responded. "We can sell you four planet-busters under the standard contract."

"Who said anything about a sale?"

"You couldn't possibly imply - "

"Free of charge, you will launch four planet-busters. Afterwards, the United Systems Alliance will resume debt repayments, its obligations to free trade treaties, and its duties to international military alliances." President Munchkin relaxed back into his chair, crossing his arms and smirking.

"These obligations survive even now! You cannot use them as a pawn for negotiations!" President Singh protested.

"Oh but I am," President Munchkin avowed. "You've already destroyed 95 major planets and star systems across the galaxy, what's another four more?".

"We were not responsible for those attacks, an as-yet unknown third party accessed our systems," President Singh denied. She gritted her teeth - it disgusted her that she even worked for the same firm as this shameless snake. "Meanwhile, you order the deaths and ruin of your own people and cities, by a foreign power no less, with such a cavalier attitude. Was the Ragnablok attack not enough for the USA?"

"Oh, me?" President Munchkin pointed at himself with a facetious gesture, laughing. "I thought you Trattorians didn't have any feelings. Grow a heart all of a sudden? Or perhaps it's just the inherent weakness of women, even in your race."

A wooden chair screeched against the floor as Dr. Shiina rose, boots marching as she advanced on President Munchkin. Ascending the dais, she planted her palms on his desk and leaned over his seated figure.

"We propose the following counter-offer. One planet-buster, for planet Philadelphia," she intoned with a surreal equanimity given her posture and circumstances. Although, in retrospect, President Munchkin thought such nerves would fit a former head of a trading division.

"Did you just threaten to declare war on us?" President Munchkin asked.

"We threatened to wipe out your government," Dr. Shiina clarified.

President Munchkin gulped. Albeit in a tense situation, Dr. Shiina's leaning in so close to him was kind of a turn on.

"Well..."

Dr. Shiina's Apple Watch buzzed with a call, which she killed with a swipe. It then dinged with a new message, which she flicked on her wrist so that only she could glance at it.

"Assyrian forces detected in Trattorian space..."

Spoiler

Show

Of course you should be aware that I don't endorse my characters or their viewpoints (most of whom are intolerable douchebags to begin with), but Mr. Steven Munchkin is a special level of douchebag. It should be fairly obvious I don't endorse him or his behavior. Also any resemblance to any real life figures is actually unintentional (there are other current political officials guilty of far worse if I wanted to go for veracity rather than story).

[Colette]

Planet Miami, United Systems Confederacy

Tyone ran through the deserted streets of Miami. He could feel the grains of sand digging into his feets through his torn sneakers and socks. He could feel the wind stinging against his shredded pants and legs. His shirt whipped behind him as he ran, ran away from the green plasma bolts that would inevitably pass by him, singe him, all but miss him only by the grace of Raptor Jesus.

His mother had once warned him of the dangers of the police, how even obeying their instructions to the letter he could still walk away with a laser hole just for the color of his peach skin.

But these assailants were no police. They wanted him dead, regardless.

All the restaurants and convenience stores he passed had huge windows - no good for hiding. They would just shoot him under a table or behind a Slurpee machine instead. That's when the thought occurred to him.

He sprinted for the nearest restaurant, a fried chicken establishment, jumping through its shattered window and crunching on glass shards underfoot. He winced at the sound, but soon it would not matter. He could hear the men in the orange jumpsuits in pursuit not far away.

Nearly losing his footing on the smooth red and white checkered floor, he grabbed onto a table for balance. Several of them had been upturned, covering against the window, with laser holes and spilled food in front and peach corpses behind. The victims thought ahead, but still one step behind Tyrone. Dashing into the girls' bathroom, he slammed and locked the door behind and hid into one of the stalls. He closed and latched the door so hard he thought it would bang off its hinges, and then crouched onto the toilet seat so that the space beneath the stalls would not expose his legs.

He could hear shouting in a foreign language and banging on the bathroom door and prayed he had deterred them enough.

The shouting died down, before giving way to a high pitched whir and a deafening explosion. He could hear bricks hurling, ceramic shattering, and what sounded like a sink being ripped off the wall and the subsequent aimless spout of water.

"Oh, grenades," Tyrone thought to himself, as he finally realized his fate.

Boots ground into the debris outside, as the two soldiers aimed and fired. With a single shot, the entire row of stalls collapsed, molten metal falling onto Tyrone. The burning sheets, a glowing orange around the edge, sliced off his right arm and pinned him down within the rubble.

"Owww!" Tyrone screamed. He did not care that it gave away his location. The pain needed an outlet, and the soldiers could see his body anyway. His head poked out from the collapsed and warped metal, turning just in time to stare down the green effulgence building within the barrel of an Assyrian heavy laser rifle.

He was in so much pain, Tyrone did not regret dying itself at that moment. He only wished he had more time to say goodbye to his mother before the invasion began.

His vision blurring and time slowly, he only just noticed the bedraggled man in an apron sneaking up behind the Assyrians with a sawed-off shotgun. He wore spectacles, and had a brown beard and hair that straddled the border with baldness. The soldiers, so absorbed in their imminent execution of a peach, failed to pay him mind until he cocked his weapon and aimed. At that point, it was too late.

"Git off muh property you damn dirty for-ners!" the man yelled as he fired a blast at the troops. The shots lacerated their bodies and shattered the visors of their helmets, and they dropped dead. Blood splattered onto the man's apron. One tremored for a moment before the man hit him with his gun for good measure. He spat on the corpse, kicking it and bloodying his boot.

"This is 'Murican land, youz Assyrians won't never crush muh spirit. Youz gonna pay for this damage, too?"

"Thank you so much, mister, you saved my life!" Tyrone exclaimed. Even despite the missing limb, he had figured that another chance at life merited appreciation. "What's your name?".

That's when he noticed the man reloading.

"Fuck off, youz damn dirty peach," he declared, before firing another round at Tyrone.

Tyrone's head, the only visible extremity protruding from the rubble, exploded, raining chunks everywhere like a burst-open watermelon. Specks of pink sprinkled themselves throughout the gore. The restaurant owner nudged one of the centipede-like segments of spinal cord that slithered down the collapsed wall with the tip of his boot.

"Figurez he didn't have barely no brains," he quipped.

In a moment, he heard the roar of an Orange Transparent Chainsaw coming to life and then felt it bite into his side. Screeching, the man dropped his shotgun and fell to his knees, his glasses falling off and cracking, as he tried to hold in the sausage-like intestines trying to spill out of his body. The effort just bloodied and slicked his hands, and they slipped through his fingers.

The attacker kicked the man in the jaw with a steel-toed boot, knocking a few tooth loose and rendering him prone on the slick bathroom tiles. As he stared into the light, his assailant came into view over it. The latter wore the stretched, decaying flesh of a screaming peach's face, a modern headset over it.

"You shall have the honor of defeat by a noble warrior," the man declared, "for it is I, Vilis, the Shogun of Sorrow and Ruler of all Assyria, who has bested you on the battlefield today."

With that, Vilis grabbed the man's shotgun and, his muscles bulging, bent it around the victim's neck. The weapon, unable to handle the stress, cracked in two, and Vilis settled for stabbing the jugular vein with its jagged wooden sphincters.

Speaking into the microphone, Vilis announced, "We have secured victory today, my friends! Our armada is now on the final step towards the expression of our sorrow, our sacred pilgrimage of blood, for her majesty."

"Tomorrow we embark for Trattoria!".

[Colette]

Planet Nowy Gdańsk, Unified Republik of Poland

Admiral Dudek stared outside the window with increasing enervation.

He did not delude himself - he had ordered the crew to evacuate fifteen minutes ago. As burning wrecks of Polish ships passed by his bridge, lights flickering on the backup power supply of his flagship OKP Chrząszczyżewoszyce, he could no longer deny it. Unmanned consoles throughout the bridge blared of dying shields and hull breaches and boarding pods that had embedded themselves in what was once the pride of the Polish fleet.

He could not allow it to fall into the enemy's hands.

His eyes searched the wave of white and red wreckage, among the waves of former Space Piltogg battleships decorated with whale carcasses and former Soviet carriers festooned with massive skulls. Ever since the fall of Moskau and Germania, Lord Zoltan had succeeded in uniting the former benighted lands under his tyrannical rule, with the sole design of destroying Space Poland.

Unlike previous heroic campaigns, this one would not have a happy ending. Admiral Dudek pulled at his curly mustache, still scanning for a target worth sacrificing the ship - and himself - in a final kamikaze attack.

The bulkhead opened, and the cries of primates filled the room. Metal clashes against metal as the villainous Robot Monkey walked in on all fours, his steel fists pounding dents into the floor. Streaks of white paint matted through the black fur on his face.

"Admiral Dudek, brave hero of Space Poland!" the hideous ape cried in mechanical growls. "At last, you, and your nation, shall meet an end!".

Admiral Dudek closed his eyes, before drawing his ceremonial staff. He was no warrior, and his equipment, a bar decorated with a skull and set with a gem, was no weapon, but he refused to meet his end with passiveness.

"You have defeated me, servant of Zoltan," Dudek muttered. "But you will never defeat Space Poland!"

"Fool! With your loss, the Polish forces will have no leader," Robot Monkey barked. "We shall end this, here and now!"

Pneumatics whining and muscles groaning, the beast raised one fist into the air and prepared to bring it down on the admiral.

Admiral Dudek brought his staff, bracing for the force, but it never came. When he opened his eyes, he found the ape howling in pain as its fist smoked in a corner, sliced off. A team of five masked troops, each in a different colored uniform, stood aside. The one in red held a beamsaber, its iridescent blue transparent illuminating the dim room. Deactivating it, he huddled with the others, assembling something with celerity.

The Robot Monkey continued to howl in pain, attempting to clutch its burning stump with its good arm. Its eyes narrowed in anger at the strangers, as it kicked and smoke curled from its nostrils.

"Who are you?" Admiral Dudek asked.

"We are the LechRangers," the red one, Witold Morawiec, answered. The team unveiled the combination of all their weapons, the LechBalista, and aimed the enormous and intricate construct at Robot Monkey.

"As for you, villain, you are correct. We shall end this, here and now."

Roaring in rage, Robot Monkey pounced straight into the blue beam, the combined power of all five LechRangers incinerating him into a pile of ash.

"Thank you so - " Admiral Dudek turned to congratulate the engimatic warriors, but they disappeared.