Recruitment (3)
"Your Excellency. There are no abnormalities in your health."
"Of course not! I was the fucking mascot for those parasites! You ever seen anyone torture or bully a mascot? Huh?"
"Ah, no, Your Excellency. However, you still need to see a psychiatrist..."
"Psychiatrist? No time for that shit! We're smack in the middle of a war—what kind of weak-ass nonsense is that! Get the department heads in here now and have them brief me on the current status by sector!"
Florida, Jacksonville—United States Rebel Federation Temporary Government. The president stormed into the conference room of the government building, his nerves frayed. In just over a month, he looked a full decade older.
"Are you sure you're alright, Your Excellency? The White House is still—"
"Worried about the family I left behind? Don't be. My wife, my daughter—they're all just aliens pretending to be my family. No regrets, no leverage for those bastards to blackmail me with."
"Your Excellency..."
"You still don't believe me? My mind's sharp as ever, you goddamn fools!"
The president slammed the table and bellowed. His aides shut their eyes without a word. He clearly wasn't entirely right in the head. But he wasn't irrational, either. The president was one of the rebels' greatest symbols of legitimacy for the federation forces. They'd rescued him, only for his mental state to be a bit shaky—they couldn't exactly keep him hidden from the public over that. The acting chiefs exchanged glances and reached a silent consensus. If they reverted to a presidential system now— It was a necessary choice to win the war.
"This war. Can we win it? Cut to the chase."
"We will win, Your Excellency. Absolutely. The federation forces are already showing cracks in their stability. They've blocked all the news about the parasites swarming from outside, dismissed every global public broadcast as rebel propaganda—and now the public is starting to question it. With you defecting on top of that, if you issue a statement from our side, we might even spark a mutiny within their ranks."
"What, you think they'll believe me? Anyone still with the federation is too far gone. They might not be infected, but they've already outsourced their brains to the parasites. Even their own mothers couldn't talk sense into them. If I make a statement, they'll just scream the president's been brainwashed by the rebels. I was the idiot trying to run the country with those dumb rednecks and rust-belt hicks. After this war, the Republicans won't see the presidency for the next thirty years."
"W-well, we've already started drafting the statement, so if you could just wait a moment..."
The federation forces, completely cut off from the outside, were already teetering on collapse. Anyone with doubts had already peeled off. What remained were fanatics with heads hardened by conviction. In their minds, the deep state had conquered the world, and they were the last free fighters on Earth. No talking sense into them—force was the only option.
"Isn't the federation still superior militarily? By now, the West Coast should've been wiped out, right?"
"No, Your Excellency. The entire West is in rebel hands. We've seized all air bases, fortresses, and missile sites and shifted to defense. Even if the federation main force comes, they won't retake it."
"What the hell does that mean? Doesn't John Friedman have his ability user unit out West? Did they retreat?"
"John Friedman is dead, Your Excellency. The ability user division he led has surrendered to the rebels en masse and been disbanded."
"...What?"
The president's eyes widened. John Friedman's ability user division—defeated? How? It made no sense. Black dust had blanketed the entire West, forcing regular troops on both sides to pull back. Even aircraft couldn't fly. The West should've been the ability users' playground. The last he'd heard, the rebels' ability unit had been crushed, trapped at the LA base. How had a finished fight flipped so fast?
"Australian expeditionary forces arrived. A mercenary from their Secret Intelligence Agency made a big impact—"
"Name! What's his name! No—never mind! No time to hesitate! We're going to LA right now! I need to meet him!"
No need to hear more—the president shot to his feet. Whoever turned the tide, they had to be secured. Before leaving the States...
***
"President's visiting the LA base."
"When?"
"In two hours."
"..."
The rescue success report had just come in. Already coming here? Cheol-woo felt dazed. Straight from rescue to the fresh battlefield in the West. Surely they hadn't sniffed out his radar ability user? It felt too close for comfort.
"Understood. Then, can I head back to Las Vegas?"
"No can do. His Excellency specifically named David Min—said he has to meet you. Orders are to hold you no matter what."
"Ugh..."
No dodging this—Cheol-woo gave up. The US president personally scouting? A bit intimidating. If that was the intent, it was working perfectly.
Soon, a transport plane appeared over LA skies.
"Airplanes flying already?"
"No. High altitude's clear of black dust, so they fly up on engines, then glide down with them off."
"Engines survive?"
"They get trashed."
"..."
So, one plane sacrificed per LA trip? Scale was different in the land of the free.
The transport glided in and touched down. LA base officers lined up before a red carpet. Australians stood proudly beside them.
"Sis. Take the kid inside."
"Why?"
"Someone might spot her ability. Like that punk from before."
"Oh. Right."
If the president or an aide could distinguish ability users from normals? Radar girl exposed, and the extraction plan went up in smoke.
The transport door opened. The president bounded out with surprising energy.
"Your Excellency. Congratulations on your safe ret—"
"Where's David Min! David Min! Callsign SteelRain! I need to see him now!"
"..."
Well, shit—Cheol-woo chuckled from afar. Guy was in a real hurry.
All scheduled events got scrapped. President met Cheol-woo first. A wide command room became the venue, furnished with one small table and two chairs.
Sitting across, Cheol-woo's stomach churned. Intensely burdensome gaze.
"I want to buy you out. What's your price?"
"...Pardon?"
"Payment's not just cash—name anything. If the United States can provide it, consider it yours."
Blank check from the jump. Cheol-woo was impressed by the scale.
"Could you support building a large bunker? Deep enough to withstand nukes or precision strikes."
"Of course. We can hand over existing ones or fund new construction."
"I'd like a small reactor for power. Permits?"
"No issue. Anything Australia gives you, we can match—and exceed. Our national power's on another level."
"I see."
"Under the premise of faithfully answering your nation's call, I promise you top-tier treatment no country can match."
"..."
Tempted for a second—Australia-level or better. But that "premise of faithfully answering your nation's call" cooled his head fast. What was the US? Hegemon, world police. Rifts everywhere, chaos reigning—would they drop that role? Unlikely. Civil war ends, they'd poke into every global hotspot. Each time, the "nation's call"—endless dragging into fights. That's the deal.
Australia? No wars, no meddling hobby. Backup forces clause existed, but "emergencies" way rarer than US. Mostly bunker life, pension drawing, chilling. Decision made.
"Sorry. Thought it over—I'm staying with Australian Secret Intelligence."
"Serious? Rejecting a US on the verge of winning its civil war?"
"Let's stay allies. Australia and the US will keep friendly, right?"
"Heh..."
President's eyes bulged at the unexpected refusal. He'd offered beyond presidential authority—everything possible. Translation: unless the US flipped upside down, they couldn't satisfy him. No room to haggle—the president gave a wry smile and conceded.
"And this is a gift from some mercenary in a weird disguise. I'm just the delivery boy."
"...?"
Cheol-woo pulled a pen, scribbled numbers and letters on a napkin. President's eyes went wide. Mysterious code filled it. Cheol-woo set the pen down and stood.
"What the—"
"Nuclear launch codes in active status."
"What!?"
"Only I've seen the cipher. Trust me or not—that's your call, Your Excellency."
"..."
Cheol-woo turned and left. The president clutched the napkin, speechless.