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The Plymouth Deception

-[ The Plymouth Deception ]-

'It was a state of emergency today on the East Coast of the United States of America... as the formerly occupied province of Plymouth was at last abandoned by the invading army of New Britannia. Investigations are still underway, but as the whole province seems to be one charred pit of burning rubble there may be little to be learned from what seems to be the worst disaster since the atomic bombs were dropped on Japan at the end of the Second World War. Many who have gone to the site have never returned, and no survivors of the disaster have yet been found.'

So went the public news reports for October the 13th as a crimson car sped away from the main road leading from the scene of the disaster. Witnesses claimed they say a ghost behind the wheel. 'A ghost, in this crazy modern age! How silly.' Thought Julius Corwin as he steered the vehicle with one hand and laid his pistol on the passenger seat with the other. 'Honestly… do I look like a ghost?' he mused as he looked in the mirror. He was pale as milk, and his hair and lips were crimson red. The type of red that blood is. 'Well, maybe I do look a bit odd after all!' he laughed aloud, although no one else was there to hear his jest. They called him the Scarlet Assassin, and it was not merely for the color of his hair. It was said that, if you could afford his price, anyone could be your target, even the most untouchable criminals or the most secretive terrorists. And, they would be guaranteed as slain, for Julius had never once failed in a mission. It was a mark of pride for him, as well as a mark of shame. For, while his hits were always a success, they sometimes had some unintended consequences. Such is the fickle nature of the game that Julius Corwin plays. 'Always did fancy myself a gambler.' he often would say to folks.

After a good hour’s drive, the red car was stopped by a band of armed soldiers all of whom were wearing the olive green uniforms of the New England Resistance. Julius began to count the men, and realized there would have to be at least ten of them… far to many to shoot, and too densely grouped to allow for him to escape. He calmly concealed his weapon and got out of the car with almost feminine grace. 'Now, boys, perhaps we can come to some kind of agreement…' he began, using all his charm. Someone struck him on the back of his head, and the next thing he knew all was dark. He felt the sensation of movement and heard the large motor of a truck. Wherever he was being taken, it was being done swiftly and with secrecy. That was his last conscious thought… before he passed into a dreamlike, oblivious state. In that state, he dreamed that he was a clown, and that the world lay beneath a massive circus tent. He turned to the audience, only to see that everyone was a clown, just like he himself. 'We all have our parts to play.' Someone said. 'We all hide behind our masks!' He tried to wipe the white paint from his face, but his face was just as white beneath it. He tried to wipe his lips... but they remained scarlet. He longed to splash his face with water, but no water was anywhere to be found.

He awoke to ice cold water being thrown into his face. Immediately after that, a pair of moist lips kissed his mouth sensually. His eyes opened to behold a tall and well-built woman looming over him, dressed in odd satin army fatigues woven all of red, white, and blue colors. Her hair was white even though she was still a young lady, and she had a red tattoo in the shape of a big heart around her right eye. Her voice was almost childlike as she spoke. 'Julius Corwin: a.k.a. the Scarlet Assassin. You’re lucky we found you, and not the British! Otherwise, you’d have ended up in the public stocks in London for certain.' The voice was so childlike that Julius felt as if he were being mocked by those singsong tones. 'Well, well... as I live and as I breathe! It’s the famous resistance leader, Betsy Ross. I hope it was your lips that took advantage of me when I was out. After all… you are the only woman here!' Betsy leaned in close so none of her men could hear, and whispered: 'It was me, Julius… but I heard you like the lads as well as the lasses.' The assassin chuckled merrily and replied: 'Only the pretty ones. You know I’ve ever had a taste for beautiful things. You’ve always been one of them! Happy reunions, dove.'

After two hours bound in Betsy Ross’s tent, while she and her soldiers were having a meeting, Julius decided it was time to free his bonds. The ropes proved stronger than he, and that was when he began to despair. Soon, Betsy came back in… this time by herself. 'You seem to have been the one that was responsible for the Plymouth disaster. Plymouth used to be my home, Julius. I grew up there.' The assassin tried to be as polite as possible, as he tried to come up with a reasonable response. 'Listen, Betsy… I’m going to try and explain to you what happened, but you’re going to need to be patient and listen to every word I say. I am not a mass murderer, whatever else I may be!' Betsy sat on Julius’s lap, running her hands up and down the length of his baggy red suit. 'Very well, my pretty boy… tell me a story!' Julius gave his captor his most innocent look and began by jestingly saying: 'Yes, mum. Do be sure to spank me, if I start misbehaving, too!' Betsy blushed at that, and there was not much that could make a strong woman like Betsy still blush.

'Plymouth had long been under the direct control of the Royal Empire of New Britannia. It was ever since the Deficit War. I am sure you remember that bloody little struggle, Betsy! It came about when America tried to borrow money from the Empire without even once thinking of what the payment in return might entail. The British demanded Plymouth be given over to them, to rule as a colonial province… and so the war started. Eventually, it grew into a global conflict as allies on both sides were drawn into the fray. That’s the war we see on the news every night: the Third World War. That is, on this side of reality anyway! But I digress… although I was born of British blood, I was hired by the President of America to aid in the struggle. Mostly, because I am the best there is... when it comes to more discrete wet-work. No one expected the British to actually succeed at taking Plymouth, but they did. While America was busy fighting petty battles in this county or that for the past few decades, the Royal Empire was growing in strength. The President gave me my orders. I had to aid in the liberation of Plymouth and try to assassinate the British general who was responsible for the occupation. Now you know what it was I was doing there, initially. Now, I'll tell you how things went totally to hell...'

Julius looked through the scope of the custom sniper rifle he was given for this simple assignment. He saw the Welshman, General Pen-Dragon, pacing before his troops in the town square, inspecting them. The general was a tall and gaunt man with a pageboy haircut and a monocle over his left eye. His eyes were cruel, and his jet-black hair made of him a grim, imposing figure as he gazed hatefully as his soldiers. He wore the red uniform as a Royal Guard, and the men before him wore the battle armor of typical infantry grunts. 'I am insulted to have you men under my command!' he screamed, his voice echoing off toward the harbor. 'I did not order you to burn the Mayflower… merely to garrison the old ship and hold it against the Americans. This was supposed to break their spirit… not inflame them to righteous anger! The first rule of occupation is not destruction, nor oppression. It is to win over the people to your cause, and failing that… to break their will to fight you.'
But there it was, smoldering at the docks. 'By now, Washington will have heard of this, and they will call it an atrocity, at best… a war crime, at worst! They will fight us even more fiercely than ever. By my ancestor’s famous blade, I swear heads will roll for this!' Julius, in his hiding place, thought: 'A regular Queen of Hearts.'

It was no secret that General Pen-Dragon was insane. He believed himself to be the direct descendant of the legendary King Arthur, and swore to hold Plymouth even from God... if need be. However, his fatal flaw was that he was a gentleman first and a soldier second. Quite a rarity, if the truth were to be told, in these harsh modern times. So thought Julius, as the assassin considered whether or not really shooting the man would help or hinder the war effort of the Americans. 'What if they put someone far worse in charge?' he speculated. It made his trigger finger nervous. 'Oh well… let us see what happens!' he thought, as he pulled the trigger. Pen-Dragon went down in an instant, and the soldiers began shooting blindly at the shadows, trying to figure out where the fatal shot came from. Meanwhile, the local resistance fighters decided that now was a good time to give the British hell. As a result, the town square became the site of a bloodbath. The British called for a larger force to reinforce the men they were losing, and the resistance fighters just kept coming, despite heavy casualties on their end. Julius decided to make a run for it, keeping to the rooftops as he sprang from his hiding place atop the town hall. He never did learn who shot at him more… his enemies or his supposed allies… all he knew was that he had to get away. However, coming into the town was a large resistance force… and they had with them the largest bomb Julius had ever seen in his life. 'Oh my God! What is that?' he screamed, before clamping his hand over his mouth to keep from blowing his cover. This was to be the end, for Plymouth!

'And so, I looked for the nearest fire escape and made my way to the streets below. I heard what was happening, as I searched for a quick way out of town. The resistance tried to use the bomb to threaten the British into leaving Plymouth. Now leaderless, the British occupation force had no idea what course of action to take. Each side ended up provoking the other, and by the time I got to my car the bomb had gone off already and Plymouth was back in the Stone Age, so to speak. Honestly, Betsy… do you really think that if Pen-Dragon had lived, things would have gone differently? The resistance was looking to make one final move on that night… they would have made it no matter what. That’s what fanatics do for their causes. I don’t really think either side of the conflict was in the right, personally.'

Betsy’s responsibility was to lead those fanatics. She had to make excuses for them, but Julius did not. 'Well, it seems that you were actually innocent this time, old friend. Not like that affair in Paris!' said Miss Ross as she kissed Julius with growing passion. 'You mind if I release you tomorrow?' she cooed. Julius replied: 'Well, I suppose one night of bondage won’t do me any harm.' And so neither of them left the tent until dawn. The soldiers thought nothing of it, since Betsy always took the occasional lover from among captured prisoners, as well as from among them when the fancy was upon her. That was just the kind of woman Betsy was. Julius was escorted back to his car around midday, and shown the safest route to take to get to Washington D.C. In the President’s office, the assassin was given a substantial sum of cash and told to take a month off from further missions, since this one was 'almost a total disaster' in the words of the official report. The White House spun the Plymouth disaster as a 'fortuitous accident' that led to the British retreating from America for fear of more such devices. And so, ironically, the Third World War on the American Front was nearly over, at least in that single reality. As Julius rode down the highway, he pressed a white button in the middle of his red car’s red steering wheel. A pulse of energy enveloped the vehicle, and when it faded the car… and Julius Corwin with it… had phased fully into another plane of existence, another reality. 'Well, Betsy… I wonder if you’ll like me so much in this next world! After all, there's so many of you... but only one of me, to go around.'

'In other news, the Parisian authorities have finally agreed to work with federal disaster workers to try and rebuild the Eiffel Tower. It seems that the tower was knocked over… when a large zeppelin crashed into it sometime last year. It has remained in this state until now. According to official statements, the zeppelin was piloted by a group of neo-fascist terrorists determined to destroy France’s most famous national monument. The federal task force that arrived on the scene of the crash found the entire group of terrorists to be dead. The cause was not the crash, however, but several precise gunshot wounds from a weapon not found at the scene. Apparently, somebody thought they were doing France a favor. It just goes to show how wrong some people can sometimes be. World News Channel 1… out.' Betsy Ross would never forget that news broadcast for as long as she lived.

The End
Written by Kou_Indigo (Kara L. Pythiana-Ashton)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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