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The Conversion Bureau: Setting Things Right

by kildeez

Chapter 33: Chapter XXXIII: HLF Rising

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Los Angeles had been burning for three days straight, and James was tired of hearing gunshots at night. He was tired of the smoke columns rising over his city. He was tired of making these runs for the constant stream of orders The Man kept having him send out. Most of all, he was tired of fighting.

That last one hurt the most. This should have been the most exciting moment since he'd joined The Cause, known to the puppet media as the HLF. For the first time in years, recruitment numbers were up, they were trending on Facebook and their hashtags were all over Twitter. Snapchat and Instagram were lighting up with memes in support of them, mostly crude photoshop jobs of Doom Guy pressing a double-barrel shotgun up to the back of a badly-photoshopped Celestia’s head. They were no longer the crazies screaming on street corners and receiving hundreds of thousands of dislikes and links to parody videos in the comment sections of their speeches on Youtube. They were being taken seriously again! People were looking at them without scoffing again. For the first time since he'd left the Army at the end of the Collision Wars, he felt like he was part of something respectable.

And yet, last night, he'd finished shaving, looked up in the mirror, seen the bags under his eyes, and spent a good five minutes seriously debating just throwing some clothes in a duffel bag and running. Didn't matter where, though he'd always wanted to see New York. Wouldn't have even mattered to him that New York had one of the biggest pony populations on the east coast, New York was on the other side of the country from Los Angeles, and in that moment, that was what was important to him.

No.

No, not just in that moment.

It still sounded fucking fantastic.

He grimaced and cranked up the tunes on his phone, not even bothering to pull it out of his pocket, just closing his eyes and letting Corey Taylor and Slash scream into his ears until they drowned out everything else in his head. He hoped it would help. It didn't. But so the hell what? So the fuck what!? Everyone thought about it every now and again. All the big businessmen and zombified office drones all got those weird urges to just go on lunch break and never go back every now and again. This was no different.

It would pass.

He was sure it would pass.

Did he want it to pass?

He turned the phone up to max volume. He pressed his head up to the window and stayed like that until he got tired of every minor bump and crest in the road whacking his head against the glass, then he sat up straight just in time to catch the Lyft driver snapping his fingers for his attention. Dave pulled the earbuds out. “Yeah?”

“We're a couple blocks away,” the guy said, a skinny rail of a man in a ratty leather jacket and close-cropped hair, contrary to the old stereotype of all cab drivers being fat lardasses in stained wifebeaters. James had actually been a little disappointed when he'd climbed in and saw the driver: this was his first time using Lyft ever, after all, was it too much to ask for a fatass that looked like he drank Bud and hadn’t showered in weeks?

“Thanks,” he mumbled, shoving the earbuds back into his pocket and looking out the window again.

“Hey, dude, you sure you wanna get dropped off here?” The driver asked, stealing glances at James in the rearview mirror. “Dunno if you've been watchin' the news, but it's gettin’ pretty bad this part a' town. Some of the other drivers would've dropped you off a block or two back.”

“Yeah, this is where I wanna be,” James sighed, not believing the words even as they left his mouth.

“Don't look like it,” the driver replied. “Whatcha here for anyway? Is it really worth it?”

“I gotta see somebody,” James said as the car slowed to a stop right at the curb, crunching through a gutter absolutely filled with garbage. He dropped a couple extra fivers in the bony palm the driver held out to him. “Thanks for the ride.”

“S'my job. Hey, listen, if you want I can hang out here while you go inside, if—”

“Thanks, but don't, please,” James replied, not looking at the driver as he climbed out and stepped over the river of trash. He paused on the sidewalk, looking at the squat ranch-styled home with the dead lawn up front. He hovered there for a second, going up on the pads of his feet and coming back down as if debating something with himself, and finally one side apparently won out. He turned back to the kid. “Better yet, forget the address. You'll be a lot better off that way.”

He slammed the door behind him, and whatever the driver had started to say was lost forever. A moment later, the soft whine of the SUV's hybrid engine revving into action filled his ears, and the car pulled away from the curb, fading off until it’s engine was covered up by the distant bark of gunfire and the crackle of a building burning somewhere.

He looked up at the house, framed by a couple of smoke columns rising into the overcast sky from downtown, the distant gunshots and crackle of flame contrasting with the white picket fence, even if that fence was looking chipped and weather-beaten. He sighed again. He could just keep walking. Nobody had seen him pull up, he knew everybody inside would be either watching the back or glued to their smartphones and laptop screens. He could just pick a direction and start walking. He could probably make it all the way to New York by hitching. Didn't Stephen King write a book about a twelve-year-old kid who did just that?

Then again, that kid was white. And a kid. People would be less likely to stop for a black dude in his late twenties. Hell, way things were going, he’d be more likely to get shot by some small-town cop out in Hicksville, USA. Still, it was an idea.

The door squeaked open on hinges that needed oiling back when Dubya was president. A fat Latino guy with the grip of a .44 Magnum poking out of the waistband of his jorts stood in the doorway and looked him up and down, then motioned James over. James stayed on the sidewalk for an extra moment, then walked inside. He even wiped his feet on the welcome mat, not that it would've mattered on the scratched and dinged-up hardwood, but that and the nod he shared with the Latino guy was the extent of the courtesy he was willing to spare for anyone in the house today. Anyone except the man in the basement.

He walked past a living room filled with young guys, mostly in hoodies, some with pistols hanging limply in their hands, one with a stripped-down AK and a polishing cloth that he was running absentmindedly back and forth along the wooden stock, all with their eyes locked on the flickering TV screen in front of them. He only had to peek inside and see that the man in the basement wasn't there to know it would be tuned to CNN, and not Fox. That was good, at least the buildup and outrage in the house would be kept to a moderate amount. Nobody spared him a glance as he clomped over the dirty tile in the kitchen to the reinforced metal door leading to the basement. He was glad for that. He probably wouldn't have even returned a smile and a wave on the off chance one was given to him.

In the basement, he found The Man at his computer, editing another one of his speeches to make it Youtube-ready. His wrinkled face remained locked on the screen as James walked in, its glow highlighting the gray showing at his temples. The eyes, slightly dulled with age but still holding an almost unnatural sharpness, were locked onto the screen with a gaze that James had heard compared with a bombardier's. He disagreed. He thought they looked more like a lion's eyes. Or a falcon. Something big and dumb that knew what prey looked like.

“You wanted t'see me?” James asked.

The Man didn't respond immediately. James knew to wait until he did, and wasn't surprised or knocked off track by the response he got: “What sounds better? 'Burning our homes and families,' or 'Taking our homes and families'? I like burning and the imagery it summons up, but I'm worried it sounds a little melodramatic.”

James didn't miss a beat. “Burning's good, it's not that overdramatic. Besides, people are hungry for that overwrought stuff now. They're scared. Goin' in a little heavy-handed works now.”

“Thanks,” The Man spent a few more moments typing, then he stopped and turned, a massive grin bringing out the crow's feet beneath his eyes. “Jimmy!”

James cringed a little, but let it slide, forcing a smile on his face. “Commander.”

“No need for that kinda formality with nobody around, m'boy, not anymore,” the older man motioned to the folding chair next to the computer desk.

James sat down with a nod of gratitude. “You wanted t'see me?” He repeated.

“First off, lemme congratulate you on all the hard work you've been doing these last few weeks,” the old man said, his focus already back on the computer screen. “You're turning a bunch of gangbangers and thugs into tomorrow's army, I wantcha to know that's you who did that. It's you we'll have to thank when those little fuckers are swimming ashore and there's an armed and trained militia waiting to give ‘em a good ol' American welcome, instead of a bunch of pansy-assed smurfs who'll turn tail and run the first time one of those things lets off a bolt of magic.”

The Man said “Magic” with severe distaste, the corners of his mouth turning down as he pronounced the word. James just nodded his agreement. He knew that was all the input he needed to provide, if even that.

The man closed the video editor he had up, and pulled up Firefox. James cringed at seeing the old browser, long since replaced by the faster ChromeX, but said nothing as he pulled up Youtube. James knew exactly where he was going, long before the video managed to load and the visage of the pony princess appeared. It was the hottest trending thing on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Haibu, YesChat, and every other social networking site under the sun right now.

Oddly enough, James tried to tap into that old rage he once felt at the mere mention of the Suncunt’s real name, and found he couldn’t. This was the bitch who’d taken so much from him, who he used to print up pictures of to take down to the range and spend hours shooting again and again, not that it was necessary given how many different cardboard cutouts of her most shooting ranges had up during and after the Collision Wars. Still, when he looked for that old black hatred to summon those fantasies again, of taking a blow torch to that pristine coat and giving that winged whorse a little taste of the hell she’d put his people through, he came back with nothing. Just an endless, empty gray feeling that sucked any and all emotion right out of his body. Easy, this used to be so easy, why was it suddenly getting hard right when he needed it most?

“Trust,” the old man scoffed. “You’ve heard this shit, right?”

“’Course.” Had even listened to it again on his way in. Spent the first half of the taxi ride searching for that old black feeling before turning to Slipknot and Asking Alexandria.

“Can you believe people are buying this shit? After what she did?”

Not her, James almost said, but when the words wouldn’t make it past his lips, he said, “Yeah.”

The Man scoffed. “Yeah, I can too, people are stupid,” he grimaced. “Still, thought most people would have the common goddamned sense to not repeat the same stupid mistakes that started all this bullshit five years ago.”

“A lot of ‘em are,” James said, moving in closer and entering his name in the search bar. A few seconds later, a video with The Man’s face in the thumbnail appeared, and James loaded it up. He pointed to the like/dislike bar. “See that? A month ago, that was almost all red. Today, it’s maybe a quarter red.”

He didn’t stop there, pulling up a couple more stats windows. “Almost all of that was from the last few weeks, after those little bitches popped up outside England. We’ve got more faves, likes, and views than we’ve gotten in the last four or five years.”

The old man grinned at that. “Point taken, HLF’s making a comeback.” His grin faded to a weak smile. “And so’s the PER. Gonna be the Collision Wars again.”

“I like our odds better this time.”

“So do I,” the old man turned the smile on him, clapping a hand on James’s shoulder. “And speaking of England, I’ve been in contact with the old HLF elements there, they’ve got soldiers all over. Melbourne, Hong Kong, Rio, all lighting up now, all ready to raise hell. And maybe even all ready to give that bitch a little surprise when she sweeps into Japan. Might be the Collision Wars again, but you bet your ass when she makes the same moves, we’ll be waiting.”

It was a testament to how his acting skills had grown that James kept a wide, hopeful smile on his face that The Man never managed to see through despite looking right at it. Five years ago, The Man had read him like a book at every turn. Times had changed. “This time when she hits,” he said. “It’ll be different.”

“Blow her ass sky-high,” the older man nodded. “We’re the patriots fightin’ for what’s right. Gonna wait for her to settle in, get all high and mighty on her power, wait for her and her little smiling ass kissers, human and shitbag alike, t’get all cozy, and then…”

Despite himself, James’s smile widened. “Blow her ass sky-high?”

“Damn straight,” The Man clasped James’s hand, pulling him in close. “I wantcha to know right now that you’re gonna be there. You and me, together. We’re gonna stomp that bitch’s fuckin’ face in, piss on that little crown, and stand tall with our chests out for the news cameras and let the whole world know how right we were all along. There’s nobody else I want there. The other boys’ll be good for gettin’ there, but it’s you I want next to me when that moment comes, when the whole world looks up at us and realizes we were right all along.”

Again despite himself, James’s smile morphed into a wide grin, the first genuine one he’d flashed in weeks. “Thanks, dad.”

The Man smiled gently. “No problem, son,” he muttered, maintaining that smile even as he gently pressed a handgun into James’s hands. Colt 1911. .45 ACP rounds, almost certainly. “Now, g’wan, rally the troops. We got a boat to catch if we wanna get to Tokyo in time, but maybe there’s time for one last goodbye to LA.”

James kept up his smile too, nodding even as his stomach twisted. He tried tapping into the black rage for another moment, and finally gave up on that. He shoved the Colt into his waistband, returning the old man’s smile and looking him right in the eyes as they shook hands and saluted one another. Finally, he turned and started up the stairs.

Everyone was waiting for him in the kitchen. All the angry, young, hoodie-clad men that had been watching news in the next room were crowded around the beat-up chipboard table in the middle of the floor. Some had pistols, most had heavy pipes and brass knuckles though. A few even just had their bare hands, though these guys were so big that didn’t make them any less intimidating.

Without a word, James pulled out the black bandanna in his pocket and tied it around his face. The others did the same, mimicking him with only a few seconds’ delay all around. Then he pulled out the gun. Raised it. Pistols, hammers, baseball bats, and even an AK all joined his weapon in the air. He nodded, lowered his arm, then walked out the back door. He didn’t have to look behind him to know he was followed by every man in that living room.

He wished he wasn’t. He wished everybody had stayed behind, and he could just pull up another Lyft, and hop in, and tell the driver to take him anywhere but here, he didn’t care where. San Fran, maybe. Catch a plane to New York?

Maybe.

Author's Notes:

This...all took way too long to get out there. Yeah, I'm sorry gang, I could make the same excuses anyone might make in this situation, but I'm not one for excuses. All I can say is I'm sorry at this point, and I'll be trying my best to do better in the future.

Next Chapter: Chapter XXXIV: Luna's Plan Estimated time remaining: 4 Hours, 60 Minutes
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