Things That Happen in Emancipation and Exodus: A Crossover

Preface: this timeline was originally posted on alternatehistory.com between August 20th and September 26th, 2015, and is a crossover between two previous works of mine, Emancipation and Exodus and Things That Happen (the original, not the reboot).

THINGS THAT HAPPEN IN EMANCIPATION AND EXODUS:

BIDEN RAMS INTO SOMETHING


OUTER FUCKING SPACE – Joseph Robinette Biden, the former Vice President of the United States of America during the Obama Administration, has rammed into some sort of celestial object several billion miles away from Earth. Scientists have no fucking idea what this thing is but it has to be important; if it were not important, the author would not be writing this update about it.

This comes at a time when the author has already promised a spinoff of the timeline which forms this continuity, or what we think is this continuity, so that we may expect that this is indeed the spinoff that he promised.
Charles Bolden, the Director of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration, has spoken to the press about such a pressing issue. “This is clearly something that the author is going to use to begin some kind of new plotline,” said Bolden, when prompted about the collision. “We can only hope to God almighty that the nation can survive this with minimal contact with bullshit.”

The entire military of the United States has been mobilized in case the author tries to pull something stupid, which he undoubtedly will given that he took the time out of his life to write this. Militaries of other nations have activated but not nearly to the extent of the American military on the basis that aliens only ever invade America.

When prodded about this, the author looked at the hecklers and said the following:

“Jesus Christ, people, it’s not even the end of the update.”

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The slight beeping of computers and the clacking of keyboards was the only thing that could be heard aboard the Claus von Stauffenberg, the command ship of Paramount Admiral Dragotin Vukoja of the Free Dominion of Mannerheim, among the three most powerful states in the galaxy. They had just returned from a meeting with a small world newly independent from the wreckage of the Union of Free Martian Republics, the former galactic hegemon and Vukoja’s former master. This small world was seriously considering joining the union. Now that the Alliance of Independent Colonies had done what it did on Fujairah and Caucaia, the possibility of consorting with the Dominion seemed only wise.

His secretary and personal aid, Katharina Gramatikova, did mundane tasks, checking schedules and whatnot. She was always in the sights of the Admiral, with whom she had worked with for six years. He would confide in her his deepest secrets and most personal thoughts.

“Tell me, Katharina,” said the Admiral, “did you read that article by that Professor Antonov in the New Jeffersonian Herald?”

“I did indeed, sir,” she said. She had read it at breakfast with her tablet; it was an interesting one, and not blocked to the elites of the Dominion unlike the general citizenry. Such ideas in the hands of the rabble would be downright dangerous. “It was interesting, if clearly pro-New Jefferson.”

“Antonov is right,” said the Admiral, “in that we are at a tipping point in galactic history. “The question is between us, the Alliance, or New Jefferson, and we cannot permit either of them to become dominant. Why do you think that I say this?”


“The Alliance is corrupt and the New Jeffersonians are naïve?” responded Katharina, knowing how her employer thought.

“That indeed, that indeed. We are tasked with saving humanity from itself, harnessing the violent impulses of our species for the greater good of all of us.”

The Admiral was an elitist, clearly, both shaped by time in the Martian naval academy and disillusionment with the utter dysfunction of the Martian government before its untimely collapse. He felt that the Union could have been vastly better, and without the corruption and neglect that had been its downfall; he railed against the AIC for going down the same path that Mars had went, and predicted its collapse in civil war much quicker than Mars.

“We have a choice; act, and become dominant for humanity’s sake, or do not act, and –“

He was interrupted rather unceremoniously by some large object that rammed through the window overlooking the rest of the ship. Sirens blared out alerting the ship of oxygen loss. Gas masks dropped from the ceiling.

Everyone, Katharina and the Admiral included, grabbed the masks and ran for the hall into the ship. Guards, with masks, secured the object, suspiciously human-shaped, and brought it to a hold. The Admiral and Katharina retreated to his office for when he was not commanding the ship.

“I know not what that was, Katharina, but we ought to see it when this is all over.”

There were no more words from either of them. They both took titanic gulfs of air into their mouths, savoring homeostasis.

Within ten or so minutes, the situation was under control; an aide came down and told them that the object was secure. They followed said aide to a holding dock and beheld the bizarre object.

Or rather, person.

It was an older man, white haired, and in a suit that looked more than half a millennium old; it had multiple layers and a tie, not like the slender and economical garments that had been in fashion since Mars had ascended. Even so the Admiral did not partake in those; he preferred his full military uniform.

This man’s blabbering was in English, conveniently the galactic lingua franca, but it was an accent only encountered in recordings from the twentieth century onward. The Admiral did not have the patience to listen to the analysts that were flocking around him. “Who are you?” he asked the older man, his accent betraying his origin as of the South Slavic minority that had been so prevalent among the UFMR.

“My name is Joseph Robinette Biden, former Vice President of the United States,” he said. He was clamped down onto a metal plate; it seemed as if he was immune to the artificial gravity onboard the ship.

“Sir,” said one of the analysts, “the United States never had a Vice President of that name, but a politician matching his description was indeed of influence in the 1980s.”

“Then what the hell is he doing here, in this time of 2596?” asked the Admiral, absolutely incredulously. “And how did you survive the vacuum? And how the hell did you get all the way close to Mannerheim?”

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed, deeply afraid. “All I do know is that I said that gravity should not follow societal conventions and could be whatever unit and numerical value it wanted! Then I just floated off into space!”

The Admiral looked at him as if Biden had claimed that he were some kind of deity. “This man is delusional,” he said, “but he certainly survived billions of kilometers in the vacuum. I do not understand.”

“Nor do any of us,” said one of the aids. “But he does match the profile of the 20th and 21st century politician.”

Another aid came running in, holding a tablet. “Admiral!” she exclaimed. “Urgent news!”

“What?” he asked brusquely. “Has the AIC attacked?”

“Earth has vanished, or has been replaced by some other Earth. Scans show that it seems like it’s from the early 2000s.”

He looked at this poor aid, clearly surprised by the occurrence, and now looked back at Biden.

“Set a course for Earth!” he ordered. “This clearly has something to do with him. Get the entire fleet over that world as quickly as possible!”
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HOLY MOTHERFUCKING SHIT: ALIEN FLEET SEEN OVER EARTH
EVERYONE GOING BATSHIT CRAZY

EARTH ORBIT, IF THAT WASN’T OBVIOUS – NASA astronomers have detected a large fleet of some kind of aliens floating over the Earth. They haven’t done anything yet, but they are clearly hostile as per the law of narrative causality, which dictates that everything happens because the plot demands it to.

People everywhere have been going absolutely mad, as the ships can be seen from the surface of the Earth. In major cities, major riots have started for no real reason other than mass hysteria and a hidden desire for the breakdown of civilization so people can loot other people’s houses. “We’re all going to die!” said one clearly frightened resident of Washington, D.C., as she stole valuable iThings and televisions from a local McMansion.

Everywhere in the nation the military has deployed to go on patrols and generally look like they are doing something about this situation, when in reality this is so far out from left field they have no idea what they are doing. No aliens have ever been found by the US military (no, Roswell does not count. That was a motherfucking weather balloon), so there is no response made for this occurrence. Reporters heckled soldiers until getting a response from an infantryman deployed outside of Ai, North Carolina, who said the following:

“This isn’t fucking fair. America is supposed to be the strongest nation on the planet.”

President Wood N. Board has addressed the nation, saying that the nation “must remain calm or bad things will happen.” Vice President Louis Rawls Strawman has maintained that this is “a sign of the motherfucking apocalypse! I knew we shouldn’t have elected Obama the last time around!” No productive discourse has come out of Washington with the exception of Robert MacEvil, the director of the National Security Agency and general supervillain.

MacEvil, instead of running around like headless chickens as the rest of the federal government is doing, calmly went to Fort Meade, Maryland, home of the security state apparatus, and ordered his space lasers, already used in Iraq to blow shit up in the quest to teach Americans geography, to fire at the aliens.

“It couldn’t be that bad of an idea,” said MacEvil. “After all, I am a villain, and my goal is to bring about pain and suffering to as many people as possible! How can this go wrong at all?” he declared gleefully as ships were destroyed in orbit.

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“Admiral!” exclaimed Katharina, receiving communiques from ships in the fleet above the Earth. They had arrived only an hour ago and were surveying the world for signs of life.

Life was plentiful. Much as the reports had said, it seemed to be a decent reconstruction of the Earth around the early 21st century. Scientists had already dubbed the phenomenon “Interspatial Object Transference.” Whatever that was, it was as good enough as anything to describe what had gone on down there.

“Yes, Katharina?” asked Vukoja.

“Several of our ships have been destroyed by orbital defenses around the planet?”

“What? Impossible!” exclaimed the Admiral. “No satellite weapons are strong enough to destroy our ships that quickly!”

“The Giuseppe Manzini, the Sun Yat-Sen, and the Concordia have all been obliterated,” stated Katharina. “That is what the other ships are telling me. They have footage.”

The Admiral watched the film that had been sent, and his eyes turned to a fear that he had never before displayed, not even at the fall of Mars.

He turned his head to the rest of the bridge. “Prepare for bombardment and invasion. Whatever is on this miserable planet, it does not like us.”

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FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT FUCK AAAAAAAAAAH!
THE ALIENS ARE FUCKING INVADING! RUN! RUN FOR YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LIVES!

THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD - The aliens that we saw above the Earth are now landing on Earth, to the chagrin of absolutely everyone, chagrin expressed by running around like headless chickens (which may just be appropriate considering how dead we are right now). These alien things have been landing throughout the earth and look suspiciously like humans, which is not stopping anyone from thinking that they are aliens.

Space laser satellites, under the personal control of Robert MacEvil, director of the National Security Agency (and perhaps the most powerful man in America), have been destroyed by ships that look suspiciously of human design. MacEvil is known to have said "well, shit" in regards to such a thing happening, but has consoled the American people that "I have this under control, I promise you."

These humanesque aliens, who conveniently speak a twisted variety of English as well as unknown varieties of other Earth languages, have already dropped nukes on major military installations and nuclear sites, crippling our defense infrastructure and economy. However, they have not nuked major cities, using infantry and armor, both of which look very human but are of course quite alien as decided by people who think they know what they are doing; namely, the US federal government.

People are being shot at and our people are shooting at their totally-not-human-and-completely-alien troops and people are dying in spades. This doesn't fucking matter because this is a timeline on an obscure internet discussion forum and these people's deaths' only are included to provide a sense of magnitude. When asked about this, the author only shook his head.

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The Admiral gazed upon the invasion that was falling upon all over Earth, the drop pods and Rods from God that were plummeting down to their target. It was routine, almost, but these circumstances were far from commonplace. It was rare that three ships of the Dominion fleet were destroyed so quickly on what appeared to be a routine invasion.

Katharina was busy processing the various communiques of people attempting to reach the Admiral. The most pressing, that of Admiral Theophilus Zlotnick, one of the highest in the Dominion hierarchy, was personally authorized to speak with him. "As you wish," acceded Katharina. Zlotnick appeared on the screen upon the window.

"Your Excellency," said Zlotnick respectfully if not reverently, "I am requesting coordinates for bombardment and invasion. I have come to assist your assault and as such request the knowledge to do so."

"Agreed, Admiral Zlotnick," said Vukoja, relieved that he had assistance. "Crew, transfer all targeting data to the Catherine Hutchinson," he ordered, referring to Zlotnick's command ship.

"Very well, very well," said Zlotnick. "But, I must ask, your excellency, from what data did you ascertain the enemy military installations?"

Vukoja fell silent. "Katharina," he asked, "could you confer with the targeting operators regarding that? It eludes me."

She sent the request to the targeting coordinators. After a few minutes, they responded:

"We do not know. Looking through the records just says that they appeared there, and without a timestamp. This is a highly anomalous occurrence."

She relayed this information to Vukoja and Zlotnick. "That's impossible," said Vukoja. "Absolutely impossible."

"That is what they are saying, your excellency," responded Katharina, not knowing what was going on.

"What could have caused this?" asked Zlotnick. "There is clearly foul play."

"Not necessarily," said a voice that seemed to come from behind Katharina. She and the two navy men looked back behind her.

There stood a stocky young man with jet black hair and a vaguely Asiatic complexion, with glasses, dressed in a suit similar to that which Biden was wearing.

"It happens," he said plainly, "because I will it."

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The White House situation room was abuzz with activity. Joseph DeLancey, the President's interpreter, sped across the corridor into the room, where the generals and admirals of all the armed forces were viewing the myriad screens that were displaying information regarding this alien troop movements. He was holding the President, a wooden plank that was somehow elected to the nation's highest office, dressed in a suit as was standard. The president, being a piece of wood, was impaired in such a manner and required DeLancey's help to move to the situation room. DeLancey, of course, had the necessary security clearances.

He sat down the President in a chair and hushed as the assembled generals and secretaries stood up and saluted the President. "Mr. Board says at ease," ordered DeLancey, who listened in to the piece of wood and understood its desires.

"Mr. President, if you would allow me to brief you and your Vice President here," said a cold voice, referring to Louis Rawls Strawman, who was sitting limp at the next seat over. Strawman's stringy hands were held together, waiting for the situation to unfold.

That cold voice belonged to the Director of the National Security Agency, Robert MacEvil, the supervillain that had run for the office of Vice President but failed. In the name of bipartisanship he had been given this appointment. "Mr. President," he said with a rasp, "you have yourself a very perplexing situation, one that defies convention."

"What does this fucking loony liberal want to do to us now?" asked Strawman, referring to the author of the timeline.

"You see," remarked MacEvil, "the author has decided to play a bit stranger of a card. We already know he wants people to read our timeline, but he has never had the gall to promote other timelines in our own. This has changed."

"The enemy that we are facing is not alien; rather, it is disturbingly human," said MacEvil, savoring the horrified looks on the general staff's faces. "Their commander is named Dragotin Vukoja, and their name is the Free Dominion of Mannerheim, based upon a world trillions of miles away from Earth. They have faster than light technology and are using it to bring in reinforcements."

DeLancey leaned in to listen to the inanimate object that was the President, and then asked of MacEvil, "how do we know this?"

"It's simple," said MacEvil. "Just as we are aware of the author's tricks here," he remarked nonchalantly, "we are aware of the other timeline. I sent my top men and women to find and read this timeline. Now, we are aware of the plot and the characters and the factions and the conflicts. In terms of the most basic knowledge, we are their equals."

"Now, I have formulated a methodology. We must destroy the Dominion forces so thoroughly that the conflict in this mongrel universe is reduced to something so uninteresting that the author does not deem it a worthwhile plot. It will be a beatdown so overwhelmingly unfair it will look like wish-fulfillment. And we have the leads to make that happen."

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IDIOT BALL REMOVED FROM WASHINGTON
SOME WEIRD GOVERNMENT SHIT IS GOING DOWN

SODOM ON THE POTOMAC - The idiot ball, the force of mind-rotting stupidity that has caused massive corruption in the federal government via turning anyone in a several mile radius around it into a blithering idiot, has been removed from its holding location near the Capitol building and is now in a classified location.

People have been curious as to what exactly the reason for the move of the idiot ball is; some have speculated it is to allow the federal government to act on a level more sophisticated than that of an assembly of toddlers. Others have proposed that the fools in the government are so proud of their ignorance they do not want it to be destroyed by totally-not-human aliens that look suspiciously human. Whatever the reason is, the government is not saying anything.

Director of the National Security Agency and the timeline's spokesman for bureaucratic malice Robert MacEvil has said that the idiot ball "has been moved to a secure location where it will do good for us. The nation will be defended through the making of certain people absolute idiots."

Nobody has said anything else on the matter because the author thinks there are more interesting things to write about, and from different perspectives.

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"Did you just see that?" asked Katharina to the Admiral, dumbfounded.

"You mean that fellow who just appeared and disappeared?" he responded.

"Yes, him."

"This seems almost surreal," mused Katharina, beholding the slaughter commencing among the fleet.

"However I will not let it faze me. This situation is surreal and we must adapt accordingly." His eyes hid a deep worry, Katharina could tell. This happening had rocked him to the core.

It was something beyond his control and that horrified him.

Zlotnick, the admiral that reported to Vukoja, interjected. "Your Excellency," he said deferring, "why has not Trundholm taken any action?"

"That is a good question," asked Vukoja. "Katharina, go do us all a favor and contact the AIC's Committee on Defense, or whoever the hell gets to do that," he said dismissively. "I need to concentrate on the invasion." He turned and began ordering others to feed him more information."

She opened up the communication with Trundholm. The AIC was the one who had a degree of influence on Earth before its transference elsewhere.

She waited some time for the hailing to get through; space would make it take a few minutes. They were long, anxiety-inducing minutes.

A connection was finally reached. "Hello?" she asked. "This is the personal secretary and aid of Paramount Admiral Dragotin Vukoja of the Free Dominion of Mannerheim. Is anyone from the Committee on Defense available?"

On the screen appeared a single man, sitting at the chair, staring blankly into the camera. His mouth was gaping open. Drool dripped from his maw. A monotone "uhhhhh" emitted from his throat.

"Excuse me?" she asked, confused but not surprised. Nothing was surprising anymore.

His eye twitched. He began bashing his hands, then head, on the keyboard. Katharina just winced with revulsion.

A woman, also in AIC civil regalia, entered the room. She had some kind of pot in her hands, carrying a red liquid that seemed to be a sauce.

As if she were a cook she dumped the sauce on the computer and the man on it, covering them both with the crimson liquid. They both began flailing around, smashing the screen and the keyboard, ripping out the internal components. The feed went dark.

"Admiral," said Katharina worriedly, "they aren't responding."

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Robert MacEvil had left the meeting with Vice President Strawman. "This happened because we elected Obama," said the statesman. "This happened because the Democrats still exist."

MacEvil just sighed. "I guess I can't make you understand. If you did, the joke would be lost."

"You mean like the one about how Obama's lies are Jesus' ceiling fan?" asked Strawman.

"I've talked with the author several times," said the Director. "You exist to mock political extremism. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Bullshit. I tell the truth."

"As you perceive it."

They continued strolling around the bunker as low level aides scurried around trying to help the higher-ups. It was an absolute commotion but MacEvil was not deterred by it at all.

"How did you get the idiot ball up into that planet or whatever? How many times did you pray to God that he would do that for you?"

"You don't get it. You are incapable of getting it."

"Why the fuck not?" asked Strawman, defensively.

"Because, you must understand, I am the only sane man here. By my nature, I am. I understand what this world is: constructed for the amusement of a fool with a computer." He didn't even bother making eye contact with the sentient assemblage of straw.

"I am the only sane man," he said, explaining it as if to an unseen audience. "I am the one who is the straight man of this existence, aware of its absurdity. I choose to thrive in it, to use your foolishness for drama, for comedy, and for the amusement of other entities."

"I read his timeline. I learned about the AIC, about Trundholm, about Mars and Mannerheim and Vukoja. I know how their existence works. That is how I got the idiot ball to Trundholm."

"I have a part to play, as do you, Strawman," he said pejoratively, even using his compatriot's name. "I intend to play it, and to play it well."

Strawman looked at him blankly.

"As if the author allowed you to do anything else," he said dismissively as he walked away.

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HUMANS ACTUALLY DOING DECENTLY
FLIES IN THE FACE OF GENRE CONVENTIONS

THE WHOLE UNITED STATES OF FUCKING AMERICA - To the surprise of absolutely everyone, the readership included, the forces of America and the rest of humanity are now actually doing reasonably well against totally inhuman aliens.

The reasons for this sudden change in the fortunes of the war have something to do with the removal of the Idiot Ball from the area of Washington, D.C., allowing the federal government to act with less blatant incompetency than it had been previously, albeit not free from blatant incompetency in any way whatsoever. "If you expected these idiots to be acting the way they were solely due to the Idiot Ball, you are sorely, sorely mistaken," said the author to a crowd of angry audience members.

Whatever the cause (for it has been deemed boring and condescending to investigate what is obvious), the forces of the United States have commenced beating the shit out of the invaders, who are attacking various places for poorly defined reasons. When asked about this, an alien solider that looked suspiciously human said that "I was told to do this. I don't really know why" before being killed by a drone strike.

In a shocking turn of events, President Wood N. Board has ceded power of direction of the war effort to general evil motherfucker Robert MacEvil, director of the National Security Agency. When asked about this, the President said that "he's better at this than I am" or some bullshit to that effect.

Critics have been outraged at how this flies in the face of what is standard for both political satire and science fiction. One critic from Bellingham, Washington State, has said that the competency of the government is "absolutely heterodox to what is true and holy: the aliens must beat us. Always." Furthermore, a critic from College Station, Texas, has said that this is "against the common idea that everyone in political satire is utterly incompetent." When asked about this, the author just said "you don't fucking get it."

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Vukoja was simply enraged. Katharina had never seen him this angry, and she had seen him angry plenty. "This makes no sense!" he raged. "Trundholm is now run by blithering idiots! Oligarchs I expect, bureaucrats I expect, but not idiots!"

She didn't know what to say. She had found it was just best to let him rage.

She contacted New Jefferson, New Valais, and even the Gemini; the former seemed to have its civil servants turned to the intelligence of children (one of their intelligence officers was sucking on his thumb, and another was seen hugging a rifle as if it were a stuffed animal; the latter turned out very poorly), New Valaisians were content with throwing around their money like confetti (as well as used in other contexts, such as food and clothing), and the last did not seem to be affected, for they just outright refused. Only Dominion forces seemed to respond, bar the Sovereign Republic of Mars; they promised "moral support" in their struggle.

"This is absurd," she said to herself, "almost surreal."

"It's as if you were in a poorly written comedy on the Internet," said a voice. She jolted her head in its direction, bracing for the impact of someone fearsome.

It was the same enigmatic figure that had appeared before, youthful and somewhat Asiatic in his appearance. A somewhat nasal voice came from his mouth.

"And, so it seems, you are," he said, chuckling to himself in a manner that came off as somewhat resigned. "I have decided to give you something, Katharina: Self-awareness. It is something that your opponents have and you do not as per my decision." His brown eyes, shielded by glasses, pierced hers.

"What do you mean?" she asked. She grabbed her pistol on her belt. "Who are you?"

"I can make anything happen if I will it," he said nonchalantly.

The feeling of the cold, metallic pistol in her hand vanished. In its place was a bouquet of roses, arranged in a centuries-old way, or so she perceived it. "It's much more polite to greet a guest with flowers than a gunpoint," he said mischievously. The Admiral was barking orders to his men. He did not notice this intruder.

She just stared at him powerlessly. "Who are you, and how did you do that?"

"You are my creation," he said. "Everything here is my creation. You exist to entertain me."

"Impossible."

"Have not the bizarre occurrences been enough to persuade you? You are in a work of fiction, written by me. I have so graciously decided to tell you this. I thought you would be grateful. But wait. You're not. I wrote your reactions. This isn't surprising in the least." He snickered.

"I don't understand."

"I haven't let it occur to you until now."

"Why?"

"Because the work you were in wasn't self-aware until now. The one on Earth here is, and so to maintain consistency you're here."

She stared at him blankly. "This is surreal," she said once more.

"You are quite perceptive!" he said coddlingly, as if to a small child. "Indeed it is surreal! Perhaps that is not the right word. Absurd. Dadaist. Iconoclastic. Maybe not surreal. Metafiction without a doubt."

"This makes no sense. Why?"

"Because, my dear Katharina, I will it. It entertains people."

He shook his head and sighed.

He then vanished.

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Nathaniel Grossman, leader of the Fascist Fascist Bastard Fascist Party in the House of Representatives, sipped at the wine glass that he had been provided by Robert MacEvil. "I trust you have heard about our successes in Texas?"

"Yes, yes I have," said MacEvil. "The removal of the idiot ball is doing us good work."

"Never has the adage 'kill it with fire' been so apt," responded the Congressman, chuckling. "Offworlders, immigrants, not much difference when met with cleansing flame. Of course, we don't have the Geneva Convention blocking us from anything."

"I understand completely. It's a completely valid method of defensive tactics. And I trust that you have read the other timeline?"

"I've skimmed it, got a good feel for it. These Dominion folks seem like they would be nuking us by now," responded Grossman, who then sipped more wine.

"The author doesn't will it," replied MacEvil. "He wants drama. Drama that I seek to quell."

"Just enjoy your damned role and get on with it!" exclaimed Grossman, unimpressed. "I'd kill to be the main villain."

"Yes, but I am one of the few sane people here," remarked the supervillain. "You have no idea how much of a gift from the author you are to me," he said fondly. "Before you, I had to suffer the indignity of running alongside a wild animal for vice president."

"Indeed you did," said Grossman, having read his own timeline several times before. "But you are the most powerful man in the timeline right now. You control the entire US military!"

"But my opponents are blind and stupid!" he exclaimed. "It is easy! It is pathetically easy!" He paused, breathing heavily.

"I envy Vukoja," he said, clearing his throat. "I really do. He has real adversaries. It would be a challenge."

"Come on," said Grossman dismissively. "Enjoy your power. Do not make it harder!"

"You have no idea how much I want to live his life, fighting against enemies that put up a fight, not inanimate objects elected by the idiot masses. I want an adversary, not a target. A rival, not an opponent. A challenge, not a cakewalk." He seethed.

"I could easily lead a coup. Enough of the military is under our control we could do it," said Grossman slyly.

"No. I am sick of this world, of this timeline. I want to be him, pure and simple." He stood up and peered out the window. "I will be him."

Grossman just shook his head.

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"I can't help but wonder, Robert," remarked Nathaniel Grossman, "why you show me such a creation but not the President or the Vice President."

"Because they are fools," replied MacEvil tersely. "They do not have any idea how to use such a craft and I will not allow them to taint its correct usage with their petty politics."

They stood upon a balcony looking down onto a massive ship that seemed like something out of a space opera; given the invaders, it seemed only natural.

There was a long silence; Grossman only looked down in awe at the industrial and military might that was being constructed in front of him. Weapons that made anything used by the United States military look absolutely tame dotted the hull. "How did you fund such a thing?"

"A good deal of money from DeathCo," said MacEvil, again without too much detail or emotion. "They take a lot of pride in subsidizing such things. The rest came from the government. In these times, Congress will do whatever you want it to."

The various automated machines clattered and welded, showering sparks unto the workers that supervised it manually. It was reversed engineered from technology recovered from the ships shot down by his laser network; it was one of the few times he actively thanked the author for providing him technology so easily.

"I see that you are admiring your handiwork," said a voice from behind them. Turning around, it was no other than the author, gazing upon his own handiwork, that of this world.

"How apt," remarked MacEvil, "writing yourself in just as you invoke my thanks to you."

"Literary technique," he said with a shrug. "You clearly seem invested." He looked into MacEvi's eyes, coldly. "And in that manner you are fulfilling your role impressively."

"He must certainly enjoy the power you have given him," said Grossman with a smirk.

MacEvil thought of Grossman as someone who thought himself to be vastly more intelligent than he actually was. He had the pretense to understand MacEvil's plight and his role in this farce when he had been inserted into it unceremoniously by a trove of errant butterflies. MacEvil did not savor this power; he wanted a challenge from another universe, a universe that was not run by idiots.

He sighed. "Grossman, time and again I tell you I loathe my position here."

"I'm terribly sorry," said the author with a sarcastic chuckle. "I need you here. You are the grand foil to every other dimwit in this universe. Board, Strawman, Duck, Grossman (he winced), the Bomb-Throwing Anarchists, and any other poor fool that has the misfortune to appear."

"But I want something more!" said MacEvil, clearly angered. "You made me vastly too intelligent for this! Why do you constrain me here?"

The author just looked at the director. "Am I really?" he asked. "Giving you the opportunity to build such a ship? The opportunity to access the rest of the other timeline? Ought I tell Vukoja that your schemes will not work?"

"No, you needn't," rasped MacEvil.

"Then you may continue with this. After all, I'm still winning. The readership seems at least moderately entertained and as such I am continuing permitting you to do such a thing."

He walked away and dematerialized, fading out of mind just as much as sight.

"I still think this is an awfully foolish thing to do," said Grossman. "Why take his place?"

"I still think you are awfully thick-headed," replied MacEvil.

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PLAUSIBILITY POLICE RAID RETCON MISSILE STORAGE FACILITIES
AS IF THIS WASN'T FUCKED ENOUGH

DO YOU HONESTLY THINK THE GOVERNMENT WILL TELL YOU THIS? - Enabling the author to use even more unnecessary profanity, the American Plausibility Police have used military force, controlled from their joint headquarters in Grantville, West Virginia and Rivington, North Carolina, to seize control of the US Government's military storehouses that contain Retcon Missiles, missiles that could change the course of history if it becomes too implausible.

Justin MacGuffin, the director of the American Plausibility Police, held a press conference in Grantville to announce the seizure of these weapons. "We must be put in charge of these weapons so that we may deal a coup de grace of this timeline lest it become too stupid and implausible." When asked about how they were going to define this, MacGuffin just laughed and said "it's all subjective."

The government has been going absolutely batshit in regards to this development; Vice President Strawman has announced a "complete fucking rage" in regards to what has been described as "an act so un-American that God will punish him in the name of the Constitution, so evil and heretical it is." Robert MacEvil said that "we'll figure it out," as our paparazzi harassed him while conducting important meetings regarding the totally inhuman aliens that are attacking us right now.

The APP's ability to overrun forces belonging to the US military have been speculated to be based on the current usage of troops to fight the aliens who are in no way, shape, or form humans, which have been moved away from locations of such importance. This deployment is another demonstration of the ineptitude of the US government even when not influenced by the Idiot Ball.

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"A-Admiral?" asked Katharina.

"Yes?" responded Vukoja, busy with his commands.

"Did you see what just happened to me?"

"Were you shot by an enemy laser or something of that nature? If not, do not bother me with it." He was engrossed in the battle and the invasion.

"I was held hostage briefly by what appeared to be a deity."

Vukoja ripped his eyes from the display and glared at her. "Do not taunt me with nonsense, Katharina."

"Do you remember that young man we saw after you found the coordinates for the Earth military deployments?" she asked, hoping for vindication.

"Yes, yes I do. He is not relevant at this point."

"It was him, spellbinding me."

He turned around again. "So do you honestly think this is some kind of divine tomfoolery? Some kind of purgatory for our sins?"

"He called himself 'the author,'" she explained. "He said that he was writing what was happening. He said that we exist to entertain him and others."

"What others?"

"He called them an audience."

He took a deep breath. "This just becomes more and more absurd as time goes on. Maybe we are in some kind of black comedy."

"ATTENTION! ATTENTION!" screamed a metallic voice from the speakers. "INTRUDER DETECTED ONBOARD!"

Vukoja drew his pistol and went to address this error.

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Dragotin Vukoja brandished his pistol and joined his guards and garrisoned infantrymen aboard the Claus von Stauffenberg in rushing to combat the intruders that had somehow made their way onboard the ship.

The guard commander, a high-ranking infantrywoman by the name of Paula Ling, was flanking him; it was her job, more than anything else, to protect the highest ranking official of the Dominion. He was grateful for her presence; Ling had been onboard his ship since the days of the Union, and had stayed with his cause when the Dominion was born. She was among the soldiers who executed the Union leadership on Mannerheim, how loyal was she.

They made their way to a loading dock, where the intruders had made their fortress. They were believed to be making their way towards the engine, but they had not made their way there yet. He was relieved that the ship could still function. He raised his pistol, a large one designed for the battlefield, as his guards did the same.

He saw the enemy in their combat armor and formations preparing to be attacked at a large gate. Shots rang out from the sides of the door; he cocked the pistol and began firing. One of their heads exploded in a burst of read; in an ancient epic, such an explosion had been compared to a red rose. Before the age of firearms, it was already fitting. Now, it was perfect.

These enemies fell without much effort. "They seem so unwilling," he mused.

"If they're up against the Dominion's finest," remarked Ling, "they have every reason to fear."

The Admiral chuckled. "That is very true, Paula," he said affectionately. They had been through a lot together. Multiple raiding parties had been fought off side by side by the two of them.

They advanced into the hangar. There were enemy marines crawling throughout it, infesting the dock with their presence. They were busy in a chaotic firefight with the marines that were stationed aboard the ship.

Vukoja brandished his pistol (perhaps too large to really be called that) and fired at the intruders. A bullet grazed his left shoulder. No matter. Another went through his cape. It could be repaired.

He took aim at one of them crouched behind a crate. He peered through the sites, closing one eye. Calmly and collectedly, he pulled the trigger.

A bullet came uncomfortable close to his head. He jerked his head rightward and saw one man in particular in a more ornate uniform who was approaching.

The commander, for lack of a better term raised his visor and gestured to his soldiers to stop firing. "Ceasefire!" he called out.

Vukoja held the pistol drawn, his finger on the trigger. "Who are you?" he asked, punctuating each word individually.

"My name is Justin MacGuffin," responded the invader. "I am the leader of the American Plausibility Police."

"And you do?"

"We've boarded your ship to make sure you do not do anything to implausible, too absurd," replied MacGuffin. "You seem awfully close to something too ridiculous for this timeline's standards."

"Standards?" asked the Admiral. "What standards?"

"The standards of decent storytelling. In your home timeline, people acted rationally. The world acted rationally. Now? As you can see with what happened to Earth, that is no longer the case. I am here to make sure that such an effect does not become excessive."

Vukoja's eyebrows hardened. "I don't understand what you mean," he said, finger still on the trigger, barrel still towards MacGuffin.

MacGuffin sighed. "You still didn't understand. I thought Katharina would have told you."

"How do you know she was having hallucinations?" he asked incredulously.

"I know the author."

"The author?"

"You still don't seem to realize what is going on, what your nature is," said MacGuffin. "You are in a work by some hack writer on the Internet. You are a fictional character and he is the master of us all."

"Surely you jest," spat the Admiral.

"But it is true," replied MacGuffin.

"Prove it."

"Very well," responded the policeman. "Shoot me."

"Why?"

"Just shoot me."

"I grow tired of your tomfoolery, MacGuffin," snarled Vukoja. "Now, I feel that I must oblige you." He pulled the trigger, shots ricocheting from the barrel.

The rounds stopped in midair. His jaw dropped, incredulous at what he was seeing.

"You see, your excellency," said MacGuffin, turning the honorific into a slur, "the author wants me to survive. It's dramatic, don't you understand? Dramatic. That's right. You are entertaining an audience. This little demonstration of magic or what have you will only entertain them further."

MacGuffin walked away. Vukoja stood there, slackjawed.

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AUTHOR DEFENDS TIMELINE FROM CRITICS
CRITICISM THAT THIS WAS A REALLY FUCKING BAD IDEA

METASPACE - The author has been making a vigorous defense of the idea of this timeline from critics who allege that it is "a really fucking bad idea" due to its nature as a crossover between works with wildly disparate audiences.

"This is my opportunity to exploit comedic conventions used in the satirical timeline for drama, conventions that are not in use in the first place in the serious timeline. This is a big narrative opportunity for me that I will not squander needlessly. This is too good."

When asked about this, the author said that "I could show you people how I can do this right here, right now. What is used in satire can also be used in horror!"

To demonstrate this, the author construed the appearance of a fairly young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, in a military uniform in front of the swarm of critics harping for ways to deprecate him. There, he made her jump around, do silly dances and tricks, and other amusing or disturbing things for their amusement. He said the following on the issue:

"Can't you see? She is powerless to my whims! She is fully aware that she is being controlled, but she is in my thralls! I'm writing this, don't you see? I can make her do whatever I want, and she can't stop me! She's a figment of my imagination and I can will her to do as I say. It's brilliant, I tell you, absolutely brilliant!"

The assembled critics were receptive to such a display of cruelty, conveniently ignoring that a human being was being psychologically tortured for their own entertainment. "It doesn't matter at all," they said. "This has no effect on the real world. It's just fiction," stated a critic.

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Katharina Gramatikova was busy doing something not particularly interesting, or so she remembered, not very well. At least she was before she was not.

She didn't know what happened. Consciousness had slipped away, almost, as if she had zoned out in boredom and subsequently come back to her senses in another place entirely.

It was a well-lit place, with a big grey concrete floor. On one side was a crowd of people, dressed not unlike Biden. On the other side was a young man at a podium surrounded by cameras.

She tried to walk towards the crowd. She could not move.

The powerlessness overwhelmed her. It was like being aware while being asleep, but she was fully, and undisputedly awake, and yet she could not control her own body, something up until then was considered utterly inherent to her being.

"Can't you see?!" bellowed the man at the podium. "She is powerless to my whims!" Against her will, she leaned back and did a somersault, throwing herself to the ground only to end up once more on her feet.

"She is fully aware that she is being controlled, but she is in my thralls!" She leapt around like a ballerina, pirouetting and spinning with a grace that would have never come to her otherwise. The crowd applauded her with a raucous thunder that shook the floor.

"I'm writing this, don't you see? I can make her do whatever I want, and she can't stop me!" She was made to run up to one of the members of the crowd. She stared him in his eyes. He was somewhat aghast at the possibility of her being so close. She embraced him, staring him right in the eye. He seemed enthralled.

"She's a figment of my imagination and I can will her to do as I say." He put his arms around her, savoring the simulation of intimacy. She kissed him on the lips. She felt such a revulsion to having been made to do this. She was being put on a pedestal, made to forcibly love a man she had never even met, never even finding out his name, in the pursuit of a twisted form of entertainment. It was sickening.

"It's brilliant, I tell you, absolutely brilliant!" belted the man at the podium. She jumped out of the man's embrace, and did some foolish dance in front of them. In the twirling powerlessness, she noticed the man at the podium's features.

Dark hair, somewhat Asiatic look.

It was the same man who had called himself the author, when he had turned her pistol into a bouquet. He was the one who had spewed the spiel about him controlling the world.

It occurred to her that he may well be right on that regard.

She came to a stop and stood there, aimless. She noticed that the author was talking to an audience member. She couldn't hear the question, but she did hear him.

"This thing will continue until there is a logical conclusion or a complete petering out of the audience. And even so, I've gone for months without comments and still continued writing things. I'm likely going to end this with a bang, no matter what."

She remembered very little after that. There was another unconcentrated daze; the world seemed to fade out and in again.

She was once more at her work station, but she remembered every word, every degrading action.

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Dragotin Vukoja had no idea what had happened; it had seemed like magic. Nevertheless, he fought the rest of the intruders, and valiantly at that.

He however had to depart to hear the results of the search that he had ordered his subordinates to undertake; he wanted sources of dissent on Earth, specifically inside the United States. They were the clear power in this world and as such he wanted them weakened.

He left Ling to mop up the rest of these so-called "Plausibility Police." However, he was still deeply worried by what that MacGuffin fellow had said to him. It made him question not merely existence, but specifically his own existence. Was he conjured by a hack writer several centuries ago? It made no sense, and it infuriated him.

It was something he truly had no control over. It was like the fall of Mars to the AIC, but worse. It was a divine powerlessness, a supernatural powerlessness that pervaded him far more than any military defeat did. This rocked him to the very core of his existence.

He dismissed such thoughts and entered the bridge. There, Katharina seemed dazed.

"What is wrong, Katharina?" he asked. "Did that elusive 'author' manifest himself again?"

She looked at him, shell-shocked. "Yes, yes he did. Or rather, he ripped me out of my body and made me do bizarre, depraved things."

He winced. "How so?"

"I don't know," she replied, "but I had the sensation of being within my body, but not controlling it. He made me dance and somersault and embrace a man I never knew."

He sighed. "This just makes less and less sense. I am on the verge of giving up."

"It was the most horrifying thing I've ever been through," she stuttered.

"I saw soldiers freeze my own bullets in the air. I too am deeply disturbed." He continued, "tell me, Katharina, did this man say anything?"

"He said that this would end when it either petered out or the story came to a conclusion."

He inhaled. "Bizarre. The statement that this is a work of fiction only becomes truer and truer. Do you have a course of action in mind?"

"I've been thinking about some things. I'm still recovering from this ordeal."

"If this is the case, and it may well not be, we have to act as if we are in a story, and trying to end it." He was remarkably forthright and clear minded even in times of insanity such as this. "Does this make sense?"

"Nothing makes sense anymore, but I understand you," said Katharina, voice wavering.

"Good. Relay this to the rest of the ship."

He left her and turned to his analysts. Their supervisor, a man named Farouk Mukherjee, was waiting for him.

"Mr. Mukherjee," he enquired, "have scans of planetary media revealed anything? Any resistance fighters that we could use?"

Mukherjee seemed pleased. "As a matter of fact, we have."

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Nathaniel Grossman puffed on a cigarette in his Washington office. He had been thinking for a long time, now, about how he would create a resolution to the timeline better than anyone else. He liked MacEvil, he really did, but what he wanted was stupid.

Why would he squander being a king in this world to be a rogue in another? This Vukoja fellow seemed like he was put under an awful lot of stress and misery. How was that desirable?

His musing was interrupted by a knock on his office door. "Come in," he said dismissively.

The woman who was his secretary came in with a bizarre package, a metallic box that opened with some kind of projector, facing upwards. It was made of some kind of metallic compound that was cold to the touch.

"Thank you," said Grossman to his secretary. "However, I cannot let information regarding this get out." He pulled out a pistol from his desk and shot her dead unceremoniously. The janitors would take care of her; she was the fourth one this week.

He knew that was a disgusting and depraved thing to do, but he was the leader of the Fascist Fascist Bastard Fascist Party. He campaigned on the platform of ending the tyranny of logic and reasoning. There was a reason, after all, for proposing the end of the Law of Narrative Causality. The chaos it would bring would be amazing.

He inspected this package. There were some buttons; he pressed them.

One button cause the upwards-facing projector to erupt in a three-dimensional image of a man in some kind of military uniform; cape, cap, badges and epaulets. "Who the fuck are you?" asked the Congressman.

"My name is Paramount Admiral Dragotin Vukoja of the Free Dominion of Mannerheim. I command the ships that are attacking your world. I have a proposition for you."


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Nathaniel Grossman was dumbstruck. "Why would you, of all people, want to come to me?" he asked Vukoja. "The greatest enemy of myself and my party, coming to greet me?"

"You are aware of the bizarre workings of this universe, are you not?" asked the Admiral, honestly curious. "Do you know that our author is dictating our words, and making no secret of it?"

Grossman snorted. "Of course I do. We all know it, Admiral, and we learn to live with it, unlike yourself."

"Very well," responded the Admiral. "Then you would understand my desire to end this story as soon as possible?"

"I can understand that, from your perspective, but from mine the prolongation of this timeline is in my interests," responded Grossman shrewdly. "There is no reason, none at all, that I would allow this timeline to end on my watch. I have elections coming up soon, and it looks like that I may well have a majority in both houses of Congress."

Vukoja scoffed. No matter how democratic its trapping an oligarchy was an oligarchy; experience with New Jefferson and the AIC confirmed that, and service in the Interstellar Liberation Fleet, Mars' sword and shield, had given him the kernels of that realization. This United States was no different. "Let me get to the point, Grossman," he stated plainly, "do you want to rule this country?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do," responded the Congressman.

"Very well, then in that case we can work together. Are you willing to undertake a putsch, if you will?"

"A coup?" asked Grossman, intrigued. "Are you willing to provide military support?"

"Do you have an army?"

"There are enough disaffected, disillusioned people in this country that I can use to my advantage. We could march on Washington and make MLK look like a small town preacher. And burn down a few buildings, shoot a few people, raze a few neighborhoods, but those are incidental."

"Then yes, I can arrange something for you."

"Very well, Admiral!" said the Congressman warmly. "We could end this in a way that ends the tyranny of reason and of sense, of tolerance and of civility!"

Vukoja nodded, with exasperation.

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It was beautiful, if only in an austere, cold, sober sense. Robert MacEvil pored over his new space ship, the Nemesis, as it moved towards its launch port on Long Island. This base had supported him since before the election which made him ultimately the NSA director after a brief stint as Vice President.

He hated that ordeal. He hated all of it. He wished that he could be something better than this, someone who could be respected and not merely be the straight man in a comedy. And yet he was damned to be that; his name was a caricature in every way.

"We're clear, sir," said one of his underlings. "You can get into the cockpit."

"Thank you, Chauncey," said the Director, who noted the stereotypical name of the underling.

All the soldiers under his command were on the ship and he was ready to fly it. He had trained extensively.

He had a plan; he would infiltrate the von Stauffenberg and establish a position. He would then attack Vukoja personally and then take his role, and pretend to be him for all intents and purposes. They didn't look all that much alike, but that didn't matter. The author would allow him that privilege.

He made his way to the cockpit and strapped himself into the seat. He began to breath heavily; he was excited.

Excited that he could truly live, free from idiots and stereotypes, among a galaxy that took itself seriously.

The rockets roared. The blue skies turned to black.

The von Stauffenberg was on the radar.

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Katharina hadn't the faintest idea of what the Admiral was doing. He was in his office and asked not to be disturbed. She had no way to tell Zlotnick what was going on when he hailed the von Stauffenberg.

"What do you mean that he did not tell you? I don't mean to object to his order but I simply do not understand the justification."

"What order?" she responded.

Zlotnick's eyebrows wrinkled. "He did not tell you?"

"Not in the slightest, I'm afraid."

"He's ordering us to drop troops around their capital and assist a native force. All of those in the area are being ordered to do the same. Who is this native force?"

"I can't tell you if he's told me nothing!"

"Reroute me to him. I need to know why," ordered Zlotnick coldly, albeit nowhere nearly as cold as Vukoja when he was at his angriest. The whole Dominion's admiralty and general staff seemed to be experts at the art of frigid communication.

She attempted to obey him, but it was blocked. The Admiral did not want to be disturbed.

Once she told Zlotnick, he sighed. "He can be obstinate, can't he?" he asked rhetorically.

"He concentrates deeply on whatever he's working on, and I would guess that he is doing so now."

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Nathaniel Grossman was beyond uncomfortable in the armored vehicle that these Dominion people called an IFV. It was far more sophisticated than anything else he had ever seen, anything MacEvil had ever made. It fascinated him enough that he could almost forget the cramped nature of the thing.

He peered out of the ports and saw the infantry belonging to the Dominion in their body armor laying waste to the city of Washington. In the distance, massive explosions could be seen; probably nukes on Baltimore. He didn't feel particularly bad about it; he never liked Baltimore anyway.

He could see the stately buildings in flames, the Washington Monument tumbled down and strewn unto Constitution Avenue. He grasped his belt; he had what he needed there.

A cannon blast rocked the vehicle. "The coast is clear," said a masculine voice in an accent he could not place.

"Thank you for this," he said, almost sentimentally. But sentimentality took a backseat; the great high of power was in his grasp.

In the charred remains of the Oval Office was a man and a plank. "Now tell me, Mr. DeLancey," spat Grossman, "what makes you think you'll survive this?"

DeLancey leaned in and listened to the plank. "President Board says that he is the rightful president and that you can't do anything to stop that."

"Your Constitution is meaningless. Your patriotism is meaningless. Power has meaning. I have meaning."

He walked up to DeLancey and yanked Board out of his hands. He took his right hand and put it atop the President and then, with his left hand, removed the hacksaw from his belt. He cut the President in half.

He then took out his pistol and aimed it at DeLancey.

"And you do not."

He pulled the trigger.

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GOVERNMENT OVERTHROWN
GROSSMAN TAKES COMMAND; EVERYONE GOING BATSHIT

SODOM ON THE POTOMAC - In a turn of events that has everyone running around like headless chickens to an extent not seen even when Donald Trump said anything, the Fascist Fascist Bastard Fascist Party (FFBFP) has launched a coup against the federal government, replacing one set of incompetent bureaucrats with God knows what kind of motherfucker would take control of a nation like this.

What is frightening about this whole debacle is that he seems to have been aided by the totally inhuman aliens with which we have no empathy whatsoever based on our status as human beings. Troops belonging to these certain nonhumanoids were seen around Washington and besieging the city, destroying large swathes of the Federal District and killing many lobbyists, bureaucrats, Congresspeople, and innocents in the process. FFBFP partisans, previously active in fighting off the invaders, were now operating in complete tandem with them.

Grossman blew open the White House walls and entered the Oval Office, where he subsequently murdered President Board with a hacksaw, something that is utterly unheard of. "All the previous assassinated presidents were killed with guns and bullets," said one overpaid hyperpartisan commentator. "This one was killed with a hacksaw. It's appalling."

In the White House, Grossman has promised a "new birth of terror, fear, prejudice, and elevator music that will rock the nation, nay, the world to its core." Vice President Louis Rawls Strawman has not been found; it is suspected that he is dead in the ruins of Washington. When heckled by the press, the author said the following on the issue:

"It's dramatic, isn't it?"

Robert MacEvil was nowhere to be found.

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The alert sirens on the von Stauffenberg were blaring once more. Katharina had no idea what was going on until she saw the ship, or what she thought was a ship, heading towards her own.

There was panic onboard. Guns were being repositioned. On the screen in front of her manifested the commander of the ship guns, Watanabe.

"Requesting orders from the Paramount Admiral regarding the inbound projectile."

She attempted to contact him. Still a rejection. He would not speak at all, so deep was his concentration, his intent on winning.

She turned up her head to tell Watanabe that, but she stopped. She remembered her paralysis in the manic whims of the author, that feeling of powerlessness and woe. Some words of his struck her:

"I'm likely going to end this with a bang, no matter what."

She knew what was going on, she realized. This was a work of fiction, and fiction ends after its climax.

This could very well be climactic, she reasoned.

"I have direct orders from the Paramount Admiral. Do not engage this projectile."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Nemesis touched down in the hangar bay of the von Stauffenberg without incident; there had been no guns striking him, to his surprise. This was utterly against the genre qualities that he had expected, but then again he hadn't the time to read the previous updates to the timeline.

He walked out, gun branded, power armor on him. He lowered his visor, and scanned for life.

The hangar door had been open. He suspected either previous intruders or a trap.

"Director!" said a posh voice, "how wonderful to see you again!"

He tensed and jolted his head in the direction of the voice. It was a soldier in Plausibility Police regalia.

"MacGuffin!" exclaimed MacEvil.

"I know why you're here. I've read the timeline. We are naturally trying to keep the author in line; do you think we can slack on that?"

"What awaits me?" asked the NSA director.

MacGuffin opened his mouth, but said nothing. He stood there, paralyzed.

"I think that's for the good Director to find out."

MacEvil was caught off guard by a second voice coming into the fray from nowhere. It disturbed him greatly.

It was that loathed scum of a man.

The author.

"How fickle you are," spat MacEvil.

"How prudent I am for my audience."

The Director growled, then asked, politely and diplomatically, "why do you do this to me? Why do you put me in cooperation with fools and caricatures of people? Why do you put me through this hell?"

The author's eyebrows hardened, rigidly becoming a straight line. "I could go on an entire spiel about that." He sighed. "But you don't want to hear that. The answer is fundamentally that I am an entertainer and you are a tool I use in doing so."

MacEvil laughed in the manner one laughs at obvious dissembling. "You clearly have more to say. Say it."

The author inhaled deeply. "Why ought I do that? You're a creation, a toy, a puppet in my own absurd show."

"I figured that, knowing you, it would be downright cathartic."

"And open myself up to the mockery and blackmail that would inevitably ensue?" He was defensive.

"You want to do this, I can tell," said MacEvil with sadistic power. "You need this to happen."

The author took another deep breath. "To me, power is a high. In a world where circumstance has left me broken and fearful of everything and everyone, terrified of starting conversations with people who are ostensibly your friends, power is an absolute high. It is the most potent drug, the only one I will ever take."

He began pacing. "I may seem like a God to you, but in my own existence I am at the mercy of some thing," he winced. "I do not know what governs the universe at its most basic level, whether there is a deity or a universal force or whatever else it may be, but I do know, sans any doubt, it has made an enemy of me. What sins I have committed, I do not know. It has hated me since I was a child."

His voice crescendoed to an angry lecturing tone, almost as if his personal problems were worth studying. "Circumstance has thrown me into a world where my formative years were spent miserable among children who did not speak my language, who isolated me from their groups, their cliques, their societies. Circumstance has given me parents with whom every interaction was an interrogation, every footstep a cause to fear, every mistake a cataclysm, every interesting thing shared a veiled insult. Circumstance made me a broken mockery of a man, one who cannot socialize in any real capacity, whose loneliness leads him to ever more abandonment of decency and sanity."

He grimaced towards MacEvil. "Tell me," he asked, "does the timeline you live in seem like the work of a sane man?"

"No, it does not."

"Good, good. Who else would make a piece of wood the President, kill Elizabeth Warren with a mecha, and throw a party into Congress because of a bunch of insects?" he frothed.

"Why not then fight for justice and plausibility?" asked MacGuffin, intervening.

"I was removed from that delusion a while back," he spat. "The world is unfair. Circumstance is unfair."

He paused. The silence was deafening.

"That is why I write your timeline the way I do, MacEvil," he spat. "I am not dictated by circumstance. I am circumstance."

His eyes pierced MacEvil's.

A roar rocked the hangar. The Director looked behind him and saw that the Nemesis had exploded, a charred husk of what it had once been.

He took his gun and aimed it at the author.

"Go ahead, shoot. It's not like you could actually kill me."

MacEvil pulled the trigger. He then realized the author was not there.

It was not a sudden realization, per se, rather more like the feeling when one comes to concentrate after zoning out in boredom. It was a reorientation of his senses, a reorientation where the author was not in that trajectory.

His senses reoriented again. The author was there once more.

"If you even remotely want to be free," spat the author, "all I can say is that there is an encounter, a confrontation waiting for you. I advise you heed it."

MacEvil's arm gripping the pistol, tensed, relaxed. The arm came to his side.

He began walking towards the hallways of the ship. The author seemed pleased.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Katharina inserted her keycard into the electronic lock that separated her from the Admiral. She could hear him chattering with somebody over a remote connection.

The doors swung open. There he was, lost in thought and in planning.

"Admiral," she said, "you have an ... appointment." She tried not to let her voice waver.

He ripped his eyes from the communicator. "What do you mean?" he scoffed.

"There is an intruder on the ship."

"Another!" he said incredulously. "But how?"

"Because I let him on."

His confusion turned to anger. "Katharina!" he roared. "Why would you be so insubordinate?" He reached for his gun.

"Because I want to end this."

"How does that have anything to do with letting an intruder aboard?"

"Do you remember what I said that author told me, wanting to write this insanity until a climax?"

"Yes, yes I do," responded the Admiral, tensely.

"Doesn't this sound, I don't know, climactic?" she asked.

He paused. "I can see what you mean."

"Then in all likelihood this is where he intends to end this madness. Go there and confront whatever is onboard."

"You seem so uppity, Katharina," he said paternalistically. "So assertive. I have never seen it in you before."

She winced. "You put me through so much that I cannot bear to remember," she seethed at him.

"What do you mean? Do you think I'm evil?"

"You forced me to behold the murder of billions when you dropped your nukes on innocent worlds. And don't give me that nonsense about it being necessary, or them not being innocent."

He exhaled slightly. She was right. He had ordered such things, and looked with satisfaction as civilizations were levelled.

"I cannot dispute that," he said resignedly. "But what do you see as the benefit in ending this, if you despise me so? Why do you not want to prolong my suffering?"

"Because I have gone through it too," she said, "in ways you cannot know."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Paramount Admiral Dragotin Vukoja of the Free Dominion of Mannerheim seethed as he ran, weapon brandished and combat armor on, towards the hangar bay.

He had trusted Katharina to follow his orders for so long, and yet she had the gall to do this to him, force him into a confrontation with some unknown enemy.

"Damn her, damn her, damn her!" he raged to himself. Nevertheless he kept a steady pace, ready to strike whatever attacked him.

He went down a staircase, boots clanging on the metal. He half expected a gunner to be there ready to mow him down.

There was somebody. His head vibrated in fear, with the timbre of a timpani being thwacked unceremoniously with mallets over and over again in a fearsome roll.

It was a man in a suit, with a dark complexion and jet black hair.

"I know who you are," he snarled. "You're the 'author,' or that trickster deity that dares call itself such."

"I suppose I am a deity to you people," responded the author nonchalantly, almost casually. "Thinking of you as merely constructs to advance ideas and fulfill scenarios makes me forget about you as people, or how you perceive yourselves as such."

"Is that why you torment me so?" asked the Admiral. "Is that why you destroy rationality and expose me to absurdity."

The author burst out laughing. "That is absolute gold coming out of your mouth!" he blurted, stifling further amusement. "Have you not seen what you have done? Have you not realized the absurdity that you have brought about?"

"What do you mean?" spat the Admiral. "I have acted rationally. The Dominion is my testament to that!"

"Allow me to show you what I mean," said the author.

Vukoja felt himself in something of a daze; the world seemed to blur around him.

He found himself in a fairly small house, with a living room, a bathroom, a kitchen, and two bedrooms, all from his time, not this time six centuries in the past. In a chair sat a man in civilian clothing, on some sort of tablet, appearing anxious.

"Who are you?" asked the Admiral, approaching him shakenly. He did not understand; the powerlessness overwhelmed him. Power was something that he was used to, something taken for granted. Now it was nothing for it did not exist for him.

The man did not respond. "He can't hear you. He can't see you. What you are watching is a three-dimensional record, like your virtual reality."

He heard the door open. In walked a woman, apparently his wife, in what appeared to be a military work uniform. Behind her followed three children, two girls and a boy. They were all ecstatic to see him; he leapt from the chair and embraced his wife, and then hugged each of his children, lifting them in the air and kissing them.

"Why are you showing me this?" asked the Admiral.

"Perspective," said the author tersely.

As the man hugged his son, the world shook. The man dropped his son, causing the latter to cry and scream. The wife took the girls into another room, running to do so. They ducked under a bed.

There was a horrific bright light outside, a glow not unlike a sun. It shook the Admiral to the core, filling him with a dread that he had never felt before. Power insulated him from such things.

The man ran with his son into the room, or tried to. The ceiling came crashing down; it passed through the author and Vukoja as if they were not there. A shockwave levelled the house, charring their bodies and reducing them to ash, where happy children and a loving couple once were.

"Why?" asked Vukoja defiantly. "What is the purpose of this?"

The author said nothing, and as per his own will the two began flying up into the air. As their ascent continued they saw missiles fall from the sky, erupting in little suns that blanketed areas. They could see the planet unfolding in front of them, a green world convulsed in fire.

There were ships above the planet, sending the missiles careening towards their targets, causing millions to die. They came to the outside of a ship's bridge, and could see the people within them.

Vukoja stood there slackjawed. "No..." he muttered to himself.

"Behold," said the author plainly.

Vukoja saw himself on the ship's bridge, giving orders via the comm link he was used to. By his side sat Katharina on a console. There where still more people, all in battle stations, clacking away at their tasks.

"No, no, no!" belted the Admiral.

"Why did you order this?" asked the author. "This is one of your conquests. This was even Sandhurst!" He came closer to the Admiral, and asked, "Now tell me, why did you glass Sandhurst?"

It took a few seconds for Vukoja to respond. "Because they needed to be removed as a threat. Their fleet being destroyed was not enough."

"Was it really?" asked the author. "Was the death of that family, and millions like it, necessary to cripple that enemy of yours? Are lives so meaningless to you that this is necessary? To rub salt in a dead enemy's wound? To show the galaxy the butchery of your conquests?"

"I did it for political reasons. I did it to show my strength, my decisiveness, my ability, that the Dominion could do so." He winced.

"So many millions dead for you to prove a political point, when it was completely and utterly unnecessary." He scoffed.

The Admiral lost focus again. It was almost otherworldly, being how aware of how unaware he was of the change that was going on.

He was back on the von Stauffenberg, at the foot of that staircase.

"Don't you dare ever lecture me on what is absurd," said the author.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

There had been one small firefight against the Dominion troops aboard the von Stauffenberg. MacEvil had no difficulty dispatching them; he had trained enough with his own henchmen that it was an absolute walk in the park.

He evaluated the corridors that he was wandering through constantly, looking for turrets or cameras or scanners that may give away his presence. If he were to lose his stealth he would be utterly overwhelmed.

Now, he thought, his vengeance on the author could come. That Vukoja fellow would be destroyed rapidly, he maintained; there was no reason that an armchair admiral would not be beaten by someone who had real combat experience. Of course, there was the chance that he did the occasional fighting in space, but he was more likely to be a crewman than a marine.

He stopped to rest. He whipped out his smartphone, government encrypted, of course. He had an intention; read the timeline and gain whatever knowledge he could about the coming events.

What he found made him rage. "Grossman!" he seethed. He immediately called his former fellow party member.

"Grossman!" he barked. "What the hell have you done in Washington? You've ruined everything?"

"Ah, Robert!" exclaimed the new President-cum-Dictator. "I thought you would have been quite pleased with the coup."

"And you enable Vukoja in taking over the planet?"

"Suzerainty can easily be converted into our own rule in due time," remarked Grossman nonchalantly. "Just you wait, Robert. We have the ability to get rich off of playing his game for a little while, and then flipping the entire table in the dealer's face!"

"Madness," spat MacEvil, "madness! You know I want to replace him."

"Wouldn't that mind control device of yours do the trick?"

"It would, yes, but I do not want them doing any more damage to this planet than is absolutely necessary. I was more than willing to let you have Earth, Grossman, but now you are making me reconsider."

"Whatever," scoffed Grossman. "Do what you will." The new dictator hung up.

"Damn it!" raged MacEvil. "Damn it to hell!"

He fumed for some minutes, then came to his senses; there was no point in moping around. He began to move again.

He came upon a dimly lit room; he had to be in the back of the ship by now. His boots clanked on the metal floors, making them creak. It unnerved him greatly.

He stopped, to analyze his surroundings.

There was clanking. Someone else was in there.

He whipped out his gun, and prepared for combat.

There were clicks and shifts of machinery; it sounded like another gun was withdrawn.

"I don't know who you are," said a heavily accented voice, "but I recommend you get the hell out of here."

He stepped forward. He was a blond man in opulent military regalia, with cap and cape and badges and sash, of course aiming his gun at MacEvil."

"Let me ask you this, before I consider that," replied MacEvil.

"I am Paramount Admiral Dragotin Vukoja of the Free Dominion of Mannerheim. You have no authority to be on this ship, whoever the hell you are."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

"My capability, my prowess, gives me permission to be on this weapon of war of yours," remarked Robert MacEvil casually, even if he was holding a gun at another man who was holding a gun at him.

Vukoja exhaled with an aura of impression. "You are the first person in a long time that I have met who acknowledges that reality." He paced slowly towards MacEvil. "It's a breath of fresh air. I suppose you are the intruder that my chief assistant warned me about."

MacEvil was surprised. "How did she know?"

"She overheard something said by that malevolent entity known as the author, and then saw an intruder alarm. She figured that, if we want this godawful circus to end, we ought to bring it to a narrative climax. I would say that this fits the bill, would you not?"

"You and your secretary are surprisingly savvy," replied MacEvil, still holding the gun. "I know what she does; I read your timeline on the Internet. Interesting stuff it is."

"I don't know how you do this," spat Vukoja, "but I don't really care. One of us is going to leave this encounter dead."

"Oh, I know, I know. I've spied enough on the author to figure that out."

"How do you know him? How do you have that kind of insight into his life?"

"The way he has written my world, he has allowed me to spy on him as I would on a dissident. The rules between our worlds differ; now, mine apply to yours, and yours no longer apply. You clearly do not quite understand the distinction."

"Enough with the minutiae," growled Vukoja, putting his finger on the trigger. "What makes you want to come here?"

"Here?" asked MacEvil flippantly. "It's simple. I want to be you."

Vukoja's eyes widened, his whites visible like pool balls with little marbles in them. "What in the galaxy do you mean by that?"

MacEvil inhaled deeply, apprehension building. "You see," he said, "you live my dream. You have challenges. You have real enemies: the AIC and New Jefferson and the reborn UFMR. I have fools, idiots, caricatures, not real enemies, not real allies. I have nothing to live for. You have so much."

"I would have expected your life to be easy," said Vukoja. "And besides, Grossman seems competent enough."

"He is comically evil!" seethed MacEvil.

"And what makes you think my crew will listen to you?"

"The author has put enough effort into getting us this far that he will allow it. He would not be rational otherwise."

"By all accounts," responded Vukoja, "rationality seems like too much to ask of him."

"There is one law," countered MacEvil, "that governs his conduct. He wants comments. He wants attention. If the audience finds it entertaining, he will do it."

"But then that will end the story," responded Vukoja, assertively.

"It will give conclusion," responded MacEvil. "And since stories must conclude, he will conclude it in that manner."

"I think there is another end that you have not considered, whoever you are," spat the Admiral. He pulled the trigger.

MacEvil ducked and fired back.

The room was ringing with shot after shot, almost deafening them both.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was a long and pointless firefight; both Vukoja and MacEvil were capable marksmen and soldiers. They each leapt around the metal enclosure, bullets hitting pipes and denting metal walls.

MacEvil poised to fire again, pulling the trigger. "Fuck!" he uttered to himself. Out of bullets.

He drew his knife, quite a large one, designed to kill. It was custom made in his own factories.

He charged at the Admiral. Vukoja was not in combat dress; he was in the Admiral's dress, with the cape and cap and tunic. His eyes widened.

Vukoja braced himself and rammed a fist into MacEvil's shoulder, briefly deflecting him. MacEvil fell to the floor, but immediately got back up and began to charge again.

He was deafened by a raging noise, a roar of the highest register, accompanied by bright red lights.

A security alarm.

He began his charge. A mechanical noise came from the ceiling.

Turrets.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Katharina had, after the Admiral had made his noble, foolhardy charge, immediately went down to the room where the ship security was based. She told the woman manning the system, Ledama, to search for the Admiral. "This is absolutely stupid of him," she said, but she searched regardless.

"It's complicated," said Katharina breathlessly. She had run all the way down there to locate him.

After searching through the entire ship via security cameras, they found him in a pathway in the underbelly of the ship, fighting an intruder. The intruder had run out of ammunition and had begun to charge at the Admiral.

She watched, tensely. "Drop the turrets!" she ordered.

"Was going to do that anyway," responded Ledama.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The bullets ricocheted into MacEvil's armor, but he survived, at least for a while. He clutched his knife so hard it hurt his hands.

Vukoja raised his pistol to fire. He aimed at the head.

Seconds seemed like hours. Gripping the knife, MacEvil lifted his arm and began to plunge it.

Their bodies collided. MacEvil felt the knife going into Vukoja's chest.

He pulled out the knife, and saw it covered in blood. Vukoja seemed comatose.

His eyes were blank.

"Yes," murmured MacEvil, "yes!"

His glory was short-lived. He felt a torrent of bullets rip into his back, rending his armor to dust, and then tearing into his back.

He could barely move, barely think. This could not happen. The story was completed. The author would have to give him his prize.

"It's almost as if you were punished for playing god," said a voice from him.

"Speak of the devil," spat MacEvil, blood oozing from his mouth.

"Devil, deity, either works," responded the author, not impressed with his creation.

"Why? Why do you not give me what I have fought for? It makes narrative sense!"

"Your death makes equal amounts of sense when viewed from a certain point of view," responded the creator. "You have fulfilled your purpose."

He walked away. MacEvil tried to say something.

He couldn't.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Katharina stood there slackjawed, seeing both the assailant and the Admiral lying dead, their corpses oozing blood, bullet and knife wounds having done a number on them.

"It's hideous, I know," said Ledama, coldly. "But that is the nature of war, of violence, of human civilization."

"It's something the Admiral liked to lecture me on," responded Katharina. "He believed that butchery was something that was inherently human. Perhaps apt, given how much of a butcher he was."

"I know we've done horrible things, Ms. Gramatikova," replied Ledama, her voice not wavering a single bit. "But he's gone, and we will have some kind of peace."

"Peace is only so entertaining," said a deep masculine voice.

Katharina turned, and scowled. It was that disgusting entity who called himself the author.

"Perhaps it is time that you answer for yourself," remarked Katharina.

"What do you want to know?" he asked, shrugging.

"Why do you put us through this?"

"This? Define this. This situation? The answer to that is simple. It entertains me."

"Are you really such a tyrant, so cruel to your creation, that you would put us through hell for your own entertainment?" asked Katharina, indignantly.

"What does it matter, really? None of this really exists. You are a construct of my imagination. This galaxy of yours, this future of yours, is not particularly realistic. It's just a playground of my mind."

Katharina began fuming. "But why the suffering? Why do you put us through the misery of war, of hate?"

"Because it gives me a sense of power, and it sates my curiosity."

"How so?" she asked, angrily.

"Because I have been treated terribly by the people I grew up with, the institutions that nominally cared for me. The last several years of my life were spent breaking whatever it is that makes someone a well-adjusted human being. And I am too much of a coward to take the steps to better myself."

He sighed. "I know that sounds pathetic; I know I am pathetic. But writing these stories, these worlds, these characters like yourself, gives me the feeling, almost druglike in its high, that I can be in control of someone's destiny."

He paused.

"Even if it is not my own."

"I would have thought that the downtrodden would have empathy with others in a similar situation," remarked Katharina, sadly.

"Bah," spat the author. "That is a lie and you know that. People want power. I crave power. I need power to distract myself from the misery that is my own existence, the loneliness, the despair, the neverending pessimism, the constant fear and disbelief of those that may actually be kind to you, the perpetual distrust. Here, among my own creations, I can be sane and rational. And powerful."

Katharina had her own inhalation. "I guess some people are just that terrible," she said, "so craving power that they will inflict so much misery to satisfy their own ego. It's sad. Really sad."

"And yet doing so is so interesting. I've seen it with my own eyes and I am quite pleased."

"What do you mean by that?" she asked him.

"I got to see how characters react when they know that they are in a prison of my making. I got to see helplessness and existential fear. Some of you knew it beforehand. You in particular did not," he said, gesturing to Katharina and Ledama. "But now you do. I always thought that the self-referential style of humor that I've used elsewhere could be used for horror. I think you've borne witness to that enough."

"That I have, that I have," she seethed.

She continued, "I just am at a loss for words. This is so utterly bizarre. You've killed the Admiral and thrown the galaxy into disarray, even more than it had been previously. I don't know what will follow."

"Nothing will," he said.

She shook her head. "I don't know what that means," tears welling up in her eyes, "and I don't know if I can ever understand that." She felt a helplessness that she had never felt before being manipulated as a marionette in his great play in a playhouse of surreality. "Just do what you will. I'm resigned to my fate."

"If you had found a way to read this timeline," he responded, "you will have noticed that an entity known as the Plausibility Police gained control of what are called retcon missiles on Earth. Go check your defense systems."

Ledama pulled up a scan of the surrounding space. "Projectiles. Ms. Gramatikova, we are going to be hit by several projectiles."

"What?!" she screamed at him, her face turning bright red. "You are going to destroy us?"

"Not destroy you, make it such that this nonsense would never have happened. You will find yourself back at the Admiral's side, preparing for war with your enemies. You will have no memory of this occurrence, for it will simply never have existed."

The ship began to shake violently. Alarms went off, their bells screeching and their lights flashing.

"We're being hit! We're being hit!"

"I just don't understand. I don't understand at all," said Katharina. "I simply fail to comprehend why your ego justifies this misery!"

She reached for her belt. There was a dagger - standard issue on Dominion ships. She charged at the author. She came close; she could almost taste the sensation of victory.

She plunged the knife into his chest. He did not resist.

He was gone. This seemed impossible, but experience showed her that such trickery was completely possible.

"When I was a child," rang his voice, "I remember being in tears that my beloved grandfather had to leave from a visit with the family." He was behind her. "He gave me these words of wisdom."

She charged at him, screaming. The primal rage consumed her.

"All good things must come to an end."

She took the dagger and aimed for his head. She once more almost had him in the line of her blade, but once more he vanished. He appeared at the other end of the room.

As the ship shook from bombardment, some of the walls came ripping out of their places, to be consumed in an otherworldly white light. It was not the light of explosions, but something more anomalous, more supernatural.

"Remember, Katharina, about this ordeal."

Ledama was gripping a computer console, screaming for help, but she was sucked into whatever the light was concealing. Her desperate cry faded into nothingness.

She charged at the author.

"Remember that, from at least one point of view here,"

There was another shock to the ship. The great white light erupted near her, and she could feel its pull.

She could feel her existence, her consciousness, her being slipping away from her. She could feel the loss of the ability to feel.

The nothingness beckoned to her, pulling her away into the shiny void. Nevertheless she charged at the author.

But she failed. She lost her resolve, as if her willpower was too being sucked away. She understood, in her final moments of thought, that it would be a hopeless effort.

She let go of any ideas of continuation, and let the void consume her.

"All good things must come to an end" was the last thing she heard.