"You really think it'll hold them off?"

"It's the best we can do. Besides, I know how Curt's troops fight. We'll funnel their movement and cut them down one-by-one. They may have numbers, but we have determination."

"With all due respect, determination hasn't done us much good these past years."

CivGeneral turned to the lieutenant. "And did you tell Colonel Chase beforehand that you doubted this mission?"

"Well, no," he confessed, reluctantly.

"Then it's too late to start now. Curt will make a move, and we will meet him. Now unless you have any other complaints, go check on Echo Squad and make sure Boston Post Road is fortified."

The lieutenant saluted, turned, and departed due south. He might have been a young man, but the stress of living underground had taken its toll. His forehead was creased and his face looked somewhat sunken. He wasn't the only one who looked dishevelled; in spite of his rousing speech, CivGeneral could tell there were a few fighters who had nearly given up any hope this day would come. For a fleeting moment he wondered if internment in Spamingrad might not have been as bad as he had first thought, if this was how the people on the outside were living, but he quickly pushed the thought from his mind.

CivGeneral exhaled, running a hand through his short beard and across the stubble of his jaw. A thick green bandana was tied around his head, brown hair cropped short, but not sparse. He wore the gritty "uniform" of the Resistance, a blue vest over top a long-sleeved green shirt, nondescript hiking boots and jeans with makeshift armour plates strapped around the legs. He was loath to admit it, but even he had doubts about how well they could hold out. Chase's battalion numbered roughly six hundred volunteers, not counting the tank crews, few of whom had any formal military training. Holding the city perimeter was possible, but stretched the unit thin. They were guerrillas, not a field army; if they weren't moving, they were vulnerable.

Hearing approaching footsteps, he turned about to see his girlfriend Ayane walking toward him, the wizened Colonel Chase in tow. Ayane had helped him break out of Spamingrad, and over time the two took a liking to each other. She had an unmistakably "anime" face; she claimed to be a ninja from an exterminated clan he had never heard of; her short-cropped hair was oddly, but allegedly naturally purple, her eyes a peculiar hue of red. Given her generous physical proportions and somewhat provocative attire, some soldiers wondered how on Earth she was supposed to remain stealthy, but only when CivGeneral was beyond earshot. She came straight up to him and they clasped hands before he addressed his fellow commander. "We're good?"

"The charges are set," Chase said matter-of-factly.

"What's up?"

He hesitated for a moment. "You're sure you want to blow the bridge?"

"I thought we agreed it would secure our flank."

"Yes, but if we're expecting Curt's forces to come from the west, I don't think we'll be able to fall back to Waterford. If—and I'm only saying if—we have to withdraw, blowing the bridge completely rules out an east retreat."

"We are not retreating," he replied coolly.

Ayane gave CivGeneral's arm a squeeze. "Maybe save it as a last resort," she suggested, "We could pull out of the city and then blow the bridge to cut off pursuit."

CivGeneral sighed. "Alright. Colonel, stay the order for now, but keep the demo crew on standby." Chase saluted, then wandered off to attend to other points of defence.

CivGeneral walked arm-in-arm with Ayane back to city hall. The streets were mostly deserted save for resistance soldiers on patrol. Makeshift tank traps and burnt-out Dalek husks littered the roads; Curt's casualties had been removed and their weapons requisitioned. "They're scared," muttered Ayane, "And they have a right to be."

He sniffed. "They shouldn't be. Curt's a coward and his men are even worse. We took this town in under an hour. We'll be facing the same thing."

"We had the advantage of surprise," she noted. "A ninja in plain sight isn't much of a ninja."

He spun around and grasped her shoulders. "Are you scared?"

"No," she smirked.

"Then Curt's already lost."

******

It was early afternoon, and New London lay quiet. The sky had opened up, and the streets were awash in sunlight. Scouting parties reported in all clear. Perimeter patrols were growing anxious. A few nervous residents braved the outdoors to see just what had transpired that morning, and who these rebels thought they were. The Coruscantis had, perhaps, misgauged popular reception to their glorious revolution: to the townsfolk they were largely strangers; when they said they'd come to liberate the city, some people laughed in their face.

"You and what army?"

"This one, of course."

"Outlaws with scavenged guns and antique tanks? I'm sure Curt's rattling in his boots."

After a while, CivGeneral gave up on trying to sell himself, and the New Londoners retired to their private solitudes. It was not the heroic reception he had imagined, but at least they weren't overtly hostile.

At about 2 P.M. soldiers manning the northern line began to hear a low droning that steadily became louder and seemed to fill the sky. Low over the horizon, heading south-east, they perceived a balloon-shaped craft; it was far, but gaining fairly quickly. CivGeneral was taxied to the front and he and a few fellow commanders scoped it through binoculars.

"Airship," said one captain. "Fairly small, unarmed; must be a speaker-blimp. Looks like Curt didn't forget about us."

"Airship?" repeated CivGeneral, evidently surprised.

"Curt loves the aesthetic," explained the officer. "Sometimes they're armed, but those are damn near worthless in air combat. He mostly uses them for airborne freight, and in this case, public broadcasts."

"Well take it down before it's in our airspace."

"Don't be too hasty; Know Your Enemy and all that. Whatever he has to say might be worth listening to."

CivGeneral turned to the man. "You're kidding, right?"

In twenty minutes the airship was over the city. It was larger than a blimp and looked much sturdier; giant LED screens were affixed two to a side, facing downward at an angle such that no matter where one looked one could see the display. The skeletal visage of CurtSibling appeared on the monitors, the multiple loudspeakers booming his voice across the city:

"People of New London; it is I, CurtSibling, your patron, your protector. By now you are no doubt aware that your humble city has fallen prey to vagabonds of the worst order: the Coruscanti separatists. This wayward rabble clings to a naïve and outdated pride that aims to resurrect a long-extinct pseudo-nation through violent revolution and in flagrant contempt of the peace, order and security that I have consistently bestowed upon you."

CivGeneral clenched his fists; Curt's face was replaced by static mugshots of him in prison dress.

"Look around you: the corpses and rubble that litter your streets now are but the warning signs of the death and destruction that will accompany these terrorists if their insidious machinations are left unchecked. But fear not, loyal citizens; today I shall return to sweep away these transient barbarians and re-establish the public order that you hold so dear. These criminals are dangerous and unpredictable, and I implore you not to try apprehending them yourselves."

The image faded back to Curt.

"CivGeneral, if you are a man of peace as you claim, then you will recognize the futility of your resistance and avert further bloodshed by laying down your arms and surrendering immediately. You may of course choose to continue down your illogical path of self-destruction, but recognize that you are taking responsibility for the life of every man, woman and child, soldier and non-combatant in this city.

"Choose wisely."

The broadcast began to repeat as the airship lazily began its tour of the city. CivGeneral drew his pistol, but Chase grabbed his arm. "Don't waste your bullets. We'll need them soon enough."

******

The hours passed, and still no sign of Curt.

The tension among the fighters was becoming unbearable. Nervous sentries kept checking their weapons. Checkpoint guards sat and stared at the horizon, unmoving. A few people tried to crack jokes, suggested the army took a wrong turn and invaded Canada, but the atmosphere continued to grow ever more oppressive.

The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the city. CivGeneral continued to patrol the streets, redundantly reconfirming defence arrangements, but they were as prepared as they would ever be. Roadblocks guarded every major entry into town. Marksmen were strategically positioned along the outer perimeter. The Sherman tanks were held just behind the front lines for rapid deployment when the first wave struck. Now it was that dangerous period of inaction, the waiting game, when doubts and second-guesses leisurely crept in, and the airtight strategy of the morning now felt like a child's doodle on a napkin. His comrades might be fearful; CivGeneral only felt anger. He was a soldier; he thrived in combat; and he was facing off against his arch-enemy.

Except he wasn't.

Not yet.

He was distracted from his brooding by a commotion at the checkpoint guarding Interstate 95, the major highway running through the city. It looked like a crowd of some sort; he jogged over. As he drew closer, he saw they were local residents: couples, families, lone individuals, some in a vehicular convoy, most walking along the road, arms full of bags and suitcases. He ran up to one woman and asked her where she was going, but he already knew the answer: they were fleeing.

"But you're heading towards Curt!"

"Don't you think I know that?" she retorted.

He power-walked to keep pace with her. "Look, don't go; we can organize a shelter—"

"Until today we didn't need a shelter!" she barked. "We were fine until you came along! Just who the hell do you think you are, barging in here and telling us we're part of a revolution? I didn't ask for this! Now my home's in the middle of a battlefield just because you thought our city would make the perfect place for an uprising. Well thanks a God-damn lot!"

"You can't be serious," he sputtered, "We're fighting for freedom; you're telling me you'd rather live under Curt?"

The woman stopped, dropped her bags, and faced him, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes, it sucks. Yes, of course I wish for a better life. If I could leave this country, I'd do it in a heartbeat." She snapped her fingers. "But I can't." She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "Unlike you, Mr. Revolutionary," she jabbed him again, "I have to work to get by every day, and I don't have time—" jab, "—or money—" jab, "—or energy—" jab, "—to go off on idealistic adventures. And you know what? Curt might be an objectively terrible ruler, I don't know, but at least he gives us the order to run our daily lives. All you offer is chaos and discord, and that I can't use." She picked up her bags, spat at his feet, and marched off.

He stood still for a full minute, dumbstruck, as the emigrants flowed past him. Regaining himself, he returned to the perimeter; Chase put an arm around his shoulder as they walked back to city hall. "Don't mind them; Curt's had years to entrench himself in the public consciousness. We'll win out, in the end."

******

At twilight, the reports began to filter in.

Scouts north of Waterford had sighted a convoy moving along the highway. Twenty minutes later, patrols in the northwest of New London sighted troop movements along the Hartford Turnpike; five minutes after that, another column along the Vauxhall Street Extension. The Coruscantis seemed to have guessed correctly: the force had come from the northwest, likely Hartford.

And yet none of the three groups reached line-of-sight with the city itself. Ten minutes after the Vauxhall convoy should have entered the town, there was still no direct contact. The scouts were recalled for their own safety; their final reports suggested the groups were making camp.

"It's a siege," mused Chase, "They want to see how long we intend to hold the city."

"Forever, of course," CivGeneral scoffed. They and various other officers were gathered around a table with a map of the city and surrounding area. Three markers, evenly-spaced, indicated Curt's units; pencil marks and assorted trinkets detailed Coruscanti squads and defences.

The colonel cleared his throat. "It's not too late to withdraw." He gestured toward the enemy markers, drawing an invisible line. "They're concentrated North-West; we could sneak back to Waterford—"

"No. Retreat." CivGeneral gritted his teeth. "We didn't liberate this city just so Curt can play hot-potato. We've fortified it; that's why he's not attacking; he knows we have the advantage."

"Then what do we do?" interjected Ayane. "We can't go to him; he won't come to us."

CivGeneral stood still for a moment, before convulsing suddenly and storming out of the building. The commanders hastily trailed him; he hopped in a car and drove through New London to the perimeter line in the northwest. His officers leaped out of their shuttles; he had marched past the defence and seemed to be heading for the army itself.

"CivGeneral, what the hell are you doing?" shouted Chase, "Get back here!"

"CURT!!" he bellowed, "CURT, YOU COWARD!! COME OUT AND FIGHT ME!!" He raised his arm skyward; they thought it was his pistol, but it turned out to be a flare gun. A crack, and seconds later the area was bathed in a red glow. "THOUGHT YOU COULD CONTAIN ME, HUH?! THE ALL-POWERFUL CURTSIBLING!" He strutted to and fro before the night. "C'MON, IT'S ONLY ONE CITY! WHY SO SCARED, CURT? DON'T YOU WANNA PLA-A-AY??"

The flare faded, and CivGeneral returned to his astonished officers. "What are you playing at?!" hissed Chase, "D'you want this to be your martyrdom?"

"I was calling him out," he replied calmly, glancing back, "And it worked."

They looked. Tiny blue lights began to flicker on the horizon, like fireflies or ground-level stars. Dancing lightly at first, as they grew larger they began to settle into a pattern. CivGeneral's face fell. The lights formed a broken line, evenly-spaced, stretching far off in both directions. The commanders quickly made their way back behind the perimeter, fumbling with their radios. CivGeneral flashed hand signals and squad leaders leaped into action. "Contact! Contact!" echoed across frequencies; the hidden Shermans rumbled to life.

And all along the broken blue line, rhythmic flashes of white lights, above and to either side of the blue, accompanied by a single croaky, electronic exclamation reiterated up and down in varying pitch:

"EX-TER-MIN-ATE!!"