191. Doctor, Martyr, and Terrorist (18)

The tyrant in the White House didn't issue direct orders to suppress ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the Native Americans. There were better options than shouldering official responsibility with explicit commands.

Messages like these flooded the president's SNS, updated every ten or twenty minutes, drawing ecstatic responses from countless supporters.

Of course, the "citizen freedoms" the president emphasized included the right to bear arms and form militias guaranteed by the Second Amendment. That's the first thing most Americans think of when they hear "civil liberties"—not because it's the most important, but because it's the flashpoint where progressives and conservatives clash most fiercely.

Thus, the president's messages were packed with indirect incitements. Get up. Grab your guns and rise against those violent savages.

The supporters acted on his intent. Hunters and militias—thriving in this age of magic—began assembling around the sacred mountain, Stars and Stripes waving high. Leading them were weirdos in skintight spandex.

They called themselves the "All-American Superhero Association"—a gathering of lunatics.

That afternoon, after soothing and sending off Linfei, who clung to us tearfully at the airport, Kyung-tae sprawled on the office sofa, idly watching TV. He let out an "Eh?"

"Hyungnim. Isn't that the woman from back then?"

"Hm?"

"Y'know, the one from the Chief's job hunting those KKK knockoff idiots from the 'White Guard.' The hooker who got us tangled up for no reason. Karen somethin', right...?"

I furrowed my brow, dragging a fading name from memory.

"Karen Williams."

"Ah, yeah, that's it. You remembered."

"..."

Why the hell is she here?

Low-IQ types playing real-life superheroes had existed even before magic's return. America, the birthplace of hero culture, had quite a few. There'd even been minor academic discussions as a social phenomenon—but focused on media influence and manifestations, not their societal role or form.

What filled the screen now was qualitatively different from those old clownish antics.

"Why are we here? Simple. Because we're heroes."

"Oh, sure, the Natives are pitiful. But pity doesn't give them the right to commit crimes, does it? Sadly, they've crossed the line now—the line no one in society should cross."

Karen smiled on her compact-featured face.

"Why don't I mask up like my comrades? Good question."

The reporter faltered as she called herself a "whore" outright. Even "prostitute" or "call girl" would've softened it.

Karen laughed huskily. "Why so embarrassed? I was just honest."

"I want to send a message: even lowlifes like me can be heroes. I don't hide my face so everyone can draw courage from me. Sure, guys mock me for banging that woman, but I don't care. I'm a hero."

She aimed finger-guns at the camera—Bang!—winking, a tiny magical flame sparking at her fingertips. Modest power, but key to her hero fame.

"I'm proud of my past. It was pathetic and miserable, but paradoxically, it let me meet my lifelong muse."

"Yes, my muse. Someone who enlightened me—a true hero executing justice silently in the shadows. Strong, intellectual, utterly selfless and noble. Meeting him changed my life entirely."

Good lord. I grimaced, rubbing my temple. Kyung-tae stifled laughter, fist to mouth.

Karen stared straight at the screen.

"Are you watching, sir? You're my mentor, my hero, my eternal muse!"

"You said we shouldn't meet again for my sake, but I hope we do someday!"

"My comrades would welcome you! Your vault-cracking generosity funded my seed investment in the All-American Hero Association!"

"If you're seeing this, contact us! We're waiting! This chaotic world needs leaders like you in the vigilante squads!"

...Insane. Pure comedy.

The White House madman's incitement met spandex-clad maniacs' cheers. The reporter's long exclusive suggested Karen Williams had real name recognition stateside.

This idiot probably never imagined her "terrorists'" backers included the casino that laundered my money.

"Respect, hyungnim."

"Cut it out."

"For real though."

I glared; Kyung-tae averted his eyes, pretending otherwise.

Office work and briefing had been manageable till now, but focus shattered. Sighing, I shoved the keyboard aside, fixing on the TV.

Movie superheroes wielded transcendent powers; these copycats flaunted oversized custom guns prioritizing showmanship over combat.

Sponsor ads plastered backs and chests—heroes and hunters alike—like sports team uniform sponsorships.

What a fine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠tragedy.

What were those Native youths on the observatory feeling now? Risking lives for their people's future, only facing rainbow-caped morons.

No one would pity their struggle now. Heroes' deaths weren't like cops'—each fallen spandex fool accrued public resentment toward the Natives.

Their idiocy was the ultimate intangible shield. The Natives' fight for dignity was trampled by the White House oppressor.

Military police controlling the site didn't block heroes or militias—respecting "freedom of assembly and protest."

No shots fired yet, so they framed it as peaceful. Plus, legal militias had authority for peacekeeping under state or federal police oversight.

With masses assembled, the lead overseer was a crowd-pleaser: blonde, blue-eyed bombshell in a tight uniform more sexy costume than cop gear.

A honey trap for the masses. If she died, the beauty-worshipping public would erupt.

Hard to explain deploying a rookie over pros otherwise.

Media drones broadcast the amateur persuasion like a sports event.

The response: a guttural "Shut up!"—raw agony mirroring their despair.

A warning shot into the air stirred the heroes and hunters. A man with a thick transparent riot shield stepped before the overseer, his back labeled "Shield Man."

The Natives didn't release hostages. Internal debates raged: Surrender now after this? It'll be a joke.

Trapped in despair, humans fixate on self-tragic extremes—like Alim Shahidi's take on Dia al-Din's uprising, justifying worthless sacrifice for the act itself.

Foolish, no different from suicidal abandon. Zero gain.

Bang!

A sharp gunshot echoed the barren mountains. A Native youth dragged a hostage by the hair, shrugging off another's plea, then blew his head off before millions.

Perfect. No better outcome for me.

I could almost see Mashath wailing in frustration.