The United Nations in downtown LA was packed. Diplomats of the hundreds of small countries, city-states, and autonomous regions ran down the halls, making deals with each other, foreign powers, and anyone who would listen. Jade Mercator got out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked briskly inside. She waited patiently in line for the security screening, passed through the metal detector, and walked to the second story of the large building, where conferences of local LAAZ matters were held.

Despite herself, Jade found herself itching to get to the conference fast and get help to Scarborough. She knew he was jerk and a lout, a drunken soldier who seduced her with talk of patriotism, then ran away as the worst atrocities of the war happened in his wake. But Scarborough sounded different now. He had sounded a little like a robot when he told her why he signed on for the US Army, but when we was talking about the little Greenie, Trotsky, his affection seemed genuine.

Jade walked into the main conference, ignoring the cries of the security guards. The doors opened with a creak as she walked inside. Everyone stared at her, which was exactly what she intended.

At a table in the middle of the room, the three leaders of the big LAAZy sat together before an audience of international diplomats and ambassadors. There was Jamal, leader of the Bloody Crips. The miniature televisions in each of his teeth were playing a particularly violent climax to some late 1980’s action movie. Rojo sat in the middle, his hair slicked and his piercings polished. Tucker, the chief of the LAPD sat on the far left. He was a burly middle aged man, his moustache and hair dyed bright green.

“Ms. Mercator!” the moderator said, turning around and fiddling with his notes. He was a large bellied German by the name of Heinz, a kindly fellow that Jade had worked well with before. “I’m sorry but the meeting on the resettlement of indigenous peoples in urban settings is not until next month.”

“I’m well aware of that, Heinz, thank you.” Jade walked to the table and passed out the folders, one to each of the gang leaders. “And I do apologlize for this break of procedure and for interrupting your negotiations, but I have information that I think can lead to a peace in this city.”

“How you be saying that?” Jamal asked. “My boys just went toe-to-toe with them pig cops this morning!”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree, ma’am,” Police Chief Tucker said, stroking his moustache. “A ceasefire is the only thing we’re discussing here.”

“That’s what I want to talk about.” Jade forced herself to speak slowly. “A few days after the end of the Secession Wars, this city was plunged into conflict. Local government became powerless as organized crime and law enforcement turned Los Angeles into a battleground. But few asked themselves the simple question-who benefits the most from this situation?”

She let the question hang in the air. “Well, Chica?” Rojo asked. “Who does?”

“Private corporations. With no local government, there was no one to examine their activities, no one for the watch dog groups and whistle blowers to alert, no one to regulate industries. Private companies could pollute the environment, abuse their workers, even amass tremendous political power and private armies without being stopped. And the conflict itself proved a wonderful source of income for mercenaries, arms dealers, and all those that profit off of suffering.”

“Never thought of it that way,” Tucker admitted.

“I have done the research.” Jade tapped Rojo’s file with a fingernail. “In these portfolios, you’ll see several years worth of studies and transactions. I have lists of all those who have involved in profiting and prolonging this conflict. Chief amongst them is Islington Corp.”

“Son of a-“ Jamal flipped through the folder. “Those money men sold me my weapons! I’ve hired their shooters a ton of times!”

“Through a series of arms sales, false flag operations, media manipulation and outright bribery, the Islington Corporation has prolonged this war.” Jade crossed her arms. “What do you boys thinks of that?”

“They were the ones did the attack on the convention center?” Rojo asked. “I thought that was the pigs?”

“I told you it wasn’t us!” Tucker said. “And it says you Spics didn’t break the New Year’s Truce, it was Islington mercs wearing your colors!”

All three of the gang leaders read over the folders, examining them with their associates, checking them out with their personal organizers, and getting more and more outraged. Jade took a step back, next to Heinz’s desk. The German smiled at her.

“A common foe, eh?” he whispered. “Very good. How much of those portfolios are true?”

“You’d be surprised,” Jade whispered back. “Sorry if this gets in the way of your negotiations. Those Islington bastards just took a shot at me, so I figured I owe them.”

“What?” Heinz asked, but the three rulers of the LAAZ came to their feet.

“All right, Jade,” Jamal said. “We’re all gonna be one big happy family now. And those Islington mothers are gonna die. We’ll all get some boys who are down with the new order, head down to their building, and get Peregrine Islington’s head on a stick!”

“I don’t think that’s the best option,” Jade said. “Islington is one of the most powerful forces in the world. They’ll have extreme defenses measures in their place, and I know their not above using nuclear weapons to get what their after. A full frontal assault would be just what Peregrine would want. He could spin it out of control, get international support, and wipe this city off the map.”

“So what should we do?” Rojo asked. “Where do we strike?”

“I’m glad you asked. Right now, Islington has a major military operation going on in the wealthy suburbs. A vast allowance of men and material is deployed there. Islington’s going out of its way to get this job done, and if we cut if off, they’ll have no way to blame it on us.”

“Will there be men to kill?” Tucker asked.

Jade nodded. “Just follow me.”

“Um, Mr. Rhines?” Cramer asked. He was staring at the GPS monitor in the limousine. “I think there’s something you should see.”

T.D. Rhines had the window rolled down. He leaned out of the limousine, smoking and watching the firefight going on in front of him. The lawn was covered with bodies, the front house of the manor was a blackened wreck, and more Islington soldiers in their jet black uniforms were charging through the door and still being pushed back. “Son of a gun. These peckerwoods just ain’t got the grit to take down this fellow.” Rhines drummed his fingers on the arm of his seat. “I tell you, boy, he’s got grit like I don’t believe. Maybe I’ll have to go in myself, teach him a thing or two.”

“Mr. Rhines?”Cramer raised his voice only a little. “I think we’ve got some-“

“Yeah, I’ll go mash his face in and when he’s a pile of pulp and I’ve wrung the Greenie’s neck like a chicken I’ll turn around and help him up and ask him to join me. He’d be a hell of a son.”

“Mr. Rhines-“

“Don’t call me Mr. Rhines. T.D. is fine, boy.” Rhines turned around. “What are you fussing about?”

“Something is coming towards us. A lot of something. Judging by the heat signatures, it’s an army, and judging by the satellite pictures, it’s three. The Bloody Crips, the LAPD, and MS-13 is headed our way and they look they’re going to war.”

“What the hell? Let me see that.” Rhines stared at the pictures, zooming in with his fist on the touch screen. He leaned back and lowered his glasses, showing his mechanical optic implants. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed a memorized number, than waited. “Jamal? What the hell is going on here?”

The phone was on speaker, and Cramer heard the gang leader’s response. “I’m killing yo ass, honkey! You’ve been playing from the start. You Islington creeps have been manipulating and directing us since the beginning of this conflict. Well, I’m my own man now. And you be dead.”

“Hell, Jamal, you don’t know what I’m capable of. You mess with Islington, you’ll be finished.”

“Not just me, man! I’ve got the cops and the spics backing me up. We won’t go after the Islington Corp just yet. But you, my man, are dying today.”

Rhines smashed the phone in his hand. He squeezed down and literally crushed the plastic communicator, then tossed it out of the window. He let out a long whistle and opened a compartment near the drinks machine. He pulled out a pair of bluish cylinders and slid them into his pocket. “This operation is going straight to hell,” Rhines said. “But I can get the job done and get out before those gang-bangers arrive.”

“W-what are you going to do?” Cramer asked.

Rhines cracked his knuckles and opened the door. “Lesson I learned long time ago, boy. If you want something done right, you sure as hell gotta do it yourself.” He walked to the ranks of Islington soldiers, preparing to assault the yard, and grabbed one of their assault rifles, then walked towards the Scarborough Manor.

But instead of getting within range of the house, T.D. Rhines walked to the side. He entered the house to the left of the Scarborough Manor, ripping apart the fence with his bare hands and walking across the yard. He punched his hand through the doorknob, wrenched it open and walked inside. The manor was empty, the house’s residents having fled the moment the fighting started. It was a good thing for them to do. Rhines was in the mood to kill whatever he ran across.

He walked to the left of the house until he found a large window, then shot it out with his assault rifle. He pulled himself up the fence and landed in the side yard of the Scarborough manor. Rhines smiled. “I tell you, the kids these days get dumber with every passing generation.” He looked for a good approach and found one, a large window the provided a good view into the study.

Rhines pulled the mirror sunglasses off of his face, neatly folded them and slid them into his suit pocket. He twisted a small dial on the side of his eyes until thermals appeared. Most of the house was a cool blue, with the occasional red of bodies or firearms. Rhines saw a woman’s figure, huddled in the back. “Why, that must be Scarborough’s momma,” Rhines mused. “Pretty thing. Oh well, no time to do here now.” He gazed across the house and found a smaller figure, a child, sitting on a chair in a room not far from the left wall. “Bingo.” Rhines pulled himself up, punched through the window, and landed in the house.

He clicked another dial and switched back to normal vision, then moved fast. The house would recognize his presence soon enough, and he had to get to a place where it would make any difference. Rhines broke into a run down the hall, kicking open the door where the Greenie was. He stepped inside. “Howdy, Greenie. You want to go hard or you want to go easy?” he asked as he cracked his knuckles.

Trotsky Greenleaf winced as Abuela applied some disinfectant to the cuts in his leg and back. The infirmary was a small cozy room with large cupboards full of medicinal supplies. About a hundred or so tiny metal arms projecting from the counter expertly cleaned and bandaged both of Trotsky’s wounds, causing him small only amounts of pain.

“Sorry!” Abuela said. “Did I hurt you?”

“A little bit, but it’s all right.” Trotsky stared at the tiny metal feelers. “The hospital in my commune was a little like this, but they had a person instead of the tiny arms.”

“People are always best,” Abuela agreed. She finished bandaging the wound, and the arms turned to the fabric of Trotsky’s suit. His clothes were all he had of the commune, and though they were dusty and threadbare, he was committed to wearing them proudly. He was glad when Abuela was finished.

“Thank you, Comrade Abuela,” he said, gingerly touching the bandages. “I feel a lot better now.”

“Oh, de nada, Sweetheart. You try and get some rest now. I’ll see if I can soundproof the room and-“ Abuela stopped. “Dios Mio! Intruder! Teddy, we’ve got an intruder! Trotsky, run! Run to the-”

A powerfully built man in a broad brimmed hat, bolo tie and tan suit, with a pair of glowing black optics instead of eyes appeared in the doorway.

“Howdy, Greenie. Want to do this the hard way, or the easy way?” He cracked his knuckles and pulled a pair of blue metal cylinders from his pocket and tossed them to the walls. They exploded in a shower of sparks.

“Trotsky! Trot…Trot….” Abuela’s voice slurred and fell silent.

“Abuela! Abuela!” Trotsky touched the wall with his palm. “Are you okay?”

“She’ll be fine, you damn Greenie. Them are EMP grenades, just stunned the electronics of the house for a while.” T.D. Rhines walked over to Trotsky and grabbed his chin, forcing the boy to stare into the optics. “You on the other hand are gonna be long dead.”

Trotsky pulled his head away, and Rhines slugged him across the face. Trotsky’s spectacles fell off of his face, his nose bled, and he fell off of the infirmary chair and to the tiled floor. “You capitalist lapdog!” Trotsky whined as his vision went blurry. “You’re a bad man and an oppressor of the poor, and a bourgeoisie pig and—and--“

Rhines put his boot on Trotsky’s back. He stroked his chin and bent low, raising another fist. “Reckon that means you want the hard way.”

A gunshot tore into Rhines’s chest, sending blood and sparks bursting out of his shirt. More gunshots followed, and Rhines swayed on his feet. He turned around and saw Ted Scarborough, both of his autorevolvers smoking in his hands.

“Yeah,” Scarborough agreed. “Reckon it does.” He leveled his guns again and fired. Rhines’s hat fluttered off of his head, a bullet hole in the bloody hat band. His collar and neck were blasted open, and his chest was mass of bloody and sparks.

Rhines looked down at the wires and touched them gingerly. “Ah, look what you gone and done!” He raised a fist, but Scarborough shot it. Sparks cracked out of it, not blood, and Rhines winced. He peeled back the skin on his hand, revealing steel and metal under the flesh. “That ought to have killed me, but I ought to have died on some bloody street in Bagdad, long time back. Docs fixed me up, gave me a lot of new things, and I’ve been kicking ever since.” He grinned. “How many bullets you got left in them irons, boy?”

Scarborough pulled the triggers of both autorevolvers. They both clicked empty. He swiftly holstered his guns and drew his tomahawk. “I got this.”

“Then that’ll have to do.” Rhines ran forward and hammered Scarborough’s chest. His fists moved inhumanly fast, slammed into Scarborough hard enough to crack bone, and pulled back to do it again. Scarborough fell backwards and Rhines grabbed his throat. “I’ll squeeze the life out of you, you prick!” Rhines shouted. “You could have been had everything, but you went and threw it away!”

Trotsky reached for his glasses. One lens was missing, but Trotsky closed one eye and looked up at Scarborough. The Alaskan Ranger’s eyes bulged and his knuckles whitened around the tomahawk. Trotsky saw another cylinder, an EMP grenade, peeking out from Rhines’s suit pocket.

“Hang on, Comrade Scarborough!” Trotsky grabbed for the grenade and pulled the pin. He stepped backwards as the grenade went off with a blast of sparks. Rhines howled in pain and his fist opened. Scarborough swung his tomahawk into Rhines’s arm, the blade sticking into the metal. Rhines dropped Scarborough and kicked Trotsky. The boy flew backwards, cracked his head against the wall and sank down to the floor.

“Little brat!” Rhines cried. He pulled the hatchet from his hand tossed it to the ground. Scarborough tried to grab for it, but Rhines punched him in the face, kneed him in the chest and threw him back to the ground. Rhines walked over to Trotsky, his wounded arm sparking and hanging limply at his side. “Good thing them EMP grenades ware off soon, or I’d be a goner!”

“Si, it is a good thing.” Abuela’s voice came from everywhere at once. The tiny arms sprang out from behind the desk and clawed at Rhines’s chest. The Texan’s screams died as the miniature claws cut vital wires, pulled apart his innards, and tore him to pieces. T.D. Rhines shook on his feet and finally collapsed.

“Trotsky?” Scarborough crawled across the floor to where Trotsky Greenleaf lay. “Trotsky? You okay?”

“He’s unconscious,” Abuela said. “A bone or two is broken, I think. Same with you, several ribs. I’ll have to reset them.”

“Okay…” Scarborough pushed past Rhines’s body and walked next to Trotsky. He gathered the little boy into his arms and came to his feet, carrying Trotsky to the small operating table. “But you work on him first…I gotta go back and help Chernobyl hold off the…” He sunk down against the wall, but found himself supported by Chernobyl Chuck.

“Officer! You doing well? Crazy robot-man seems to have knocked you around quite a bit!” Chernobyl Chuck smiled. “I have good news! The siege of Scarborough manor has ended! The gangs of the Big LAAZy have saved our bacons!”

Randall Cramer decided this was a good time to abandon ship. He looked down the road and saw armored vehicles, armed riders in MS-13 white, Bloody Crip red and blue, and LAPD khaki rolling down the street heading straight for the Islington mercs. Some of the Mercs tried to fight it out and were quickly gunned down, others through down their weapons and surrendered, and a few tried to run for it. Cramer was with the latter. But he had something else to do first, as much as he hated it.

“Stupid Texan,” Cramer whispered as he ran out of the limousine. He headed through the yard, careful to step over the countless bodies, and slipped in through the open door in the bloody wreckage of the foyer. He followed the sounds of the voices, headed down a long hallway towards a small room at the rear of the building.

He stepped into the doorway and straightened his tie as several loaded guns were leveled at him. “Hello,” Cramer said. He looked at Rhines’s body, stretched out on the floor. “I’ll just collect him and be on my way. I’m not armed.” He bent down and tried to lift up the body. The feet of Rhines moved by themselves, going where Cramer pointed them.

“You’re that Cramer bastard, from Skagway,” Scarborough said. He leaned against the room’s table and held an autorevolver limply in his hand. “You gonna keep on trying to kill me and this innocent kid?”

“It seems that way, yes.” Cramer looked at Trotsky. He had never seen the Greenie child before. The boy laid there, his eyes shut as hundreds of tiny mechanical hands removed his clothes and applied splints and bandages to his wound, even wiping his brown with a cool rag. The boy had curly brown hair and thick spectacles with a lens missing. Cramer’s son was about a year older. He gulped. “Look, we’ll take some time to gather our dead and heal our wounded. We’ll give you a week or so before we start looking. Get lost and never appear on our radar again.”

“Thanks…Cramer, but you ain’t getting rid of us that easy,” Scarborough said. “Now, you get lost yourself.”

Cramer ran from the manor, dragging T.D. Rhines with him and not daring to look back.

Trotsky Greenleaf, Chernobyl Chuck and Ted Scarborough took some time for goodbyes before they headed out, a few days after the brutal firefight and siege of Scarborough’s house. They stood in the front yard, Nestor the mammoth loaded up with extra, clothes, supplies, and ammunition. Scarborough had decided they would go west, head to where civilization was thin on the ground and it would be easy to lay low and hide from Islington Corp. Abuela had skillfully healed their wounds. Scarborough’s chest ached, but the bandages on his chest were doing their work. Trotsky had recovered as well, and the shattered lens of his glasses had even been replaced.

Mila Scarborough stood on the porch of her house. She hugged Scarborough and smiled at him, her hair a light blue. “You take care of yourself, Teddy. Don’t embarrass me further by failing in this mission of yours.”

“I won’t, mom.”

Mila looked to the side of the house, where Trotsky was saying goodbye to Abuela. “Poor little fellow. Never knew a Greenie would be so damned polite.”

Trotsky touched the house with his palm and gulped. “Well, I guess we’ll be leaving now, Abuela. Thanks for taking good care of me, and Comrade Scarborough and Comrade Chuck.” He reached his other palm and put that on the wall as well. “My mothers never were with me that much, nobody’s parents were, in the commune, but you were always there. Thank you.”

“Don’t cry, little one!” Abuela made the walls bulge. They wrapped around Trotsky in a warm embrace. “I will see you soon. Take care of yourself, Sweetheart, and everything will be okay.”

Scarborough smiled at the heartwarming scene and joined Chuck near the mammoth. “Scarborough?” the Alaskan Ranger turned at the familiar voice. He faced the fence, and saw Jade Mercator there. “Scarborough, are you leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, maybe I could hear the boy’s story before you go and-“

“I don’t think so. Islington’s tried to kill you once already, and it’s on account of me. This is a dangerous road I’m walking, and I don’t know if I want you on it.” He smiled at her. “Besides, we gotta be going now.”

“Where are you going?” Jade asked.

“West, honey. We’re heading west.” Scarborough turned to Trotsky. “Come on, son. I want to pass the borders of the Vegas Sin Palaces by sundown.”

“Okay, Comrade Scarborough.” Trotsky waved goodbye to Abuela and ran to the mammoth. He scampered up the fur and slipped into the small hammock on the side. Scarborough climbed onto the back and Chuck joined him. Abuela opened the gate and Scarborough urged the mammoth through. Jade watched them as the padded feet of the mammoth carried them down the suburban street.

-The End-