How about “Social Corporatism”? I think it captures the idea that all the industry is both privately- and state-owned.
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"What Madness Is This?" Volume II: Prophecies in the Dark
- Thread starter Napoleon53
- Start date
Suggestion: while the Yanks have the Worm Cult, the Loomies have the Firefly Society. Basically the same ideas of Worm Cult and obsession with destruction and war but stripped of all its religious connections, a warped ideal that conflict helps make bring men closer to being gods. Why fireflies? the bug with a light within guides them. They shall rise on the flames of the old! The apotheosis of the proletariat!
we are the firefly
We Are the Firefly!
WE ARE THE FIREFLY!!
*is suddenly tackled by trans-dimension security and carted off to a secret facility*
(I'm very tired writing this, hence the weirdness)
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The term 'corporatism' itself fairly well defines the system as it exists in the RU - society is conceived of as an organic whole and organized along 'natural' divisions based on shared interests and foci.
The American System?
So Cybersyn boondoggles all the way down? Cool!
In the first thread, I suggested maybe some Loomies would want something akin to Instrumentality from Neon Genesis Evangelion-that is, for humanity to transcend the material and become a singular gestalt. Perhaps this segment of Illuminism could be almost Loomie Posadist in nature, viewing apocalyptic-level warfare as achieving apotheosis for all of humankind in one fell swoop, ready or not.
I would say the Union is its own thing, and is called Americanism or Yankeeism. It's an entirely foreign concept to us, and a merger of the far left and far right into something bizarre. Pretty much all the Yankee's allies could be classified as classical fascists or ultranationalists, but the Union itself is something unto its self, as befits the New Jerusalem. As I have said before, ev0l empires that have no reason why anyone would fight to the death for are not plausible long-term. But the way America treats its Betters gives every Johnny and Sally a reason to fight to the death for the Bloodstained Banner. The corporations actually treat average people no worse than OTL, and in many ways better. You can't be a Better and abuse your Better workers. Healthcare is universal and most people are happy. The truly needy are taken in by the Church. Media *blackout* over the sootstorms means while people in New Canaan might be rioting, New York, Redemption, Pacifica, and Florida are sitting as pretty as always. The American Empire was built on the backs of Infee fodder unpeople, and when they were no longer useful, the society changed tactics and eliminated them, moving closer to the Pinnacle Future when only the Chosen will live in peace and harmony under Nyarleth-er, Jehovah. 
This is an incredibly flawed system that is bringing arguable benefits in the here and now, but it's definitely going to see some major problems. We're only two genuine dictators into the Union. Lincoln was one yes, but he was much less tyrannical than Custer and Steele and definitely had some duds immediately thereafter. Don't forget Fish was once President. lol
This is an incredibly flawed system that is bringing arguable benefits in the here and now, but it's definitely going to see some major problems. We're only two genuine dictators into the Union. Lincoln was one yes, but he was much less tyrannical than Custer and Steele and definitely had some duds immediately thereafter. Don't forget Fish was once President. lol
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I don't know a lot about them but yes, from what I'm reading it's very close, but still lacking the ultra-religious quality that is key to the Union. And the Union is racist but also not racist in the ways of Third Positionism. They would call OTL Third Positionist sinning bigots. lmao
Ironically, the German movement of Third Positionism in the 1920s was called "Cross Front." That would be an excellent alternative name to the Manifest Destiny Party if I had never chosen MDP.
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Huh, I would have thought the loomies would be into the weirder drugs like nootropics and stuff like that.
I presume once science gets that far there won't be a prescription pad with enough pages. Other than that Nietzsche smoked cannabis IIRC when he was first developing the philosophy.
I've been wondering for a while how has the field of linguistics evolved ITTL: do we still get researches into the links between Sanskrit, Persian and European languages? Do we still get research into Indoeuropean peoples? That would be very interesting from a racist perspective, I mean, after all, it was -wrongfully- one of the bases for Nazi racial theories. Do we still get a Charles S. Peirce and a Ferdinand de Saussure and Semiotics? Also, in this world, I would guess French is still the international language of diplomacy, even among Italian, German, Brazilian, and Neutrality Pact diplomats, with English being only used in the League of Fascist Nations. How's the situation of the learning of foreign languages ITTL? Are French, Spanish or Italian studied in the Union's universities? I'm guessing they must have some people at least to serve as translators, diplomats, or even spies. Also, since they all come from Latin and the Union is obsessed with Ancient Rome maybe there is some academic interest in them despite being "Infee" languages. What about Japanese, Korean and Chinese? Finally, are there studies on Native American languages, including Nahuatl and the many Mayan languages? That last one is the less likely, I would say.
RISE OF THE SECOND PROPHET: THE RATWAY
I'll add illustrations later. For now, I'm exhausted! But this chapter was a blast to write! I was inspired by the "documentary" style of World War Z. Ever since I rebooted WMIT, I wanted to do "eyewitness" chapters in WWZ fashion. I figure now is a great time!
RISE OF THE SECOND PROPHET:
THE RATWAY
Overton WSS mercenaries attempt to storm a section of the Metropolitan "Ratway"
The following was taken from the 1972 documentary film Metropolitan Memories: Dustbowl Daze, and was directed by Joseph S. Wallace of Lucky Duck Pictures. It was the first real documentary film to cover the stories of the everyday troopers and civilian and student volunteers fighting the Battle of Metropolis, the largest single civil disturbance in the Union since Custer came to power.
A simple, homely room awaits our film crew as we interview Manifest Climax and Battle of Metropolis veteran Earnest Winslow in his home in Shalom, Iowai. The floral print papered walls are decorated with old black and white photographs, relics, and a few hand-painted portraits. One depicts a gallant young lad in a blue uniform, a junior officer by the looks of it. Strong Anglo-Saxon features match the almost silver eyes and the wavy mass of golden-brown hair pushed into a slick part. Under his left arm is his peaked visor cap, bearing the All-Reaching Octopus insignia of RUMP. It is Staff Sergeant Earnest Winslow, Republican Union Military Police, Metropolitan Division, Sixth Precinct, at the tender age of 27. That young man saw the gates of hell open up in his own city during one of the most dire moments in Union history, and he met that horror with guns-blazing and determination on his face.
That young man sits just a few feet under the portrait, but he is now 62. Staff Sergeant Winslow reclines in his favorite avocado green easy chair, a Morton's cigarette dangling from his tight, wrinkled lips. You can see in his grizzled features that life has taken quite the toll on him. While merely 62, he looks 72, and a lifetime of health problems are a daily reminder of the hell he survived back in the 1930s. He is missing an eye, the old socket covered by a patch depicting the logo of the Order of Valley Forge. Nearby skin is covered with a porcelain mask painted a flesh color. His fingers are rough, large, and worn. His brow has a hundred wrinkles. While he still looks strong and is a veritable Pinnacle Man, he has truly eked out a hard existence. Our interviewer, Barabas Johnston, asks him if he has stories to tell.
"No shit," the old man chuckles. His age and health can't take away his sense of dry humor. He smiles and extinguishes the cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. He takes a minute to pour himself a glass of whiskey from a chrome bottle shaped like a rocket ship. "1964 vintage New Galilee Distillery. Commemorates the Space Force landing on the Moon, Jev bless 'em. Been sitting on this bottle since. Figured I needed a special occasion to pop it open. Talking about this shit is as good a reason as any, I suppose." His New Canaan drawl is still heavy, though he has been living in Shalom for the past three decades. "But yeah, lost my right peeper in Metropolis during the Overton affair. Nasty shit, pardner. Nasty shit. Can I cuss?" We motion for him to continue and he takes a sip of the vintage whiskey. "Okay, so yeah... I lost it there. But a lot of men, women, and children lost a lot more than me. I'm one of the lucky ones."
We ask him to clarify how he is "lucky." He says, "Well, that was a hell of a shindig, hell of a shindig. I was in them Jev-damned tunnels from the start. We Metropolitan MP's called it the Ratway. You see, way back during the Custer years when Metropolis was first being built, they wanted to make it the most connected city in the world. Herman Moos built Lake Washington and all the canals, and Daniel Burnham built the buildings themselves, with some input from Moos. Fathers of Metropolis, they call 'em. But it was Edward Stockton, a Brit, who built the tunnels. Now these here tunnels was so RUMP and emergency services could get anywhere in the city real quick-like. They connected to all the major train stations, hospitals, jails, morgues, and armories, as well as at regular intervals. They also connected to the subway system, which was built in the early '30s. It was a web of access hatches, shadowy ramps with 'Government Use Only' plastered onto them, and whole walls that moved to allow vehicles access for police patrol cars and ambulances. It was supposed to make any civil emergency ten times more manageable."
Winslow chortles blackly and drains his small orange glass and grabs the whiskey bottle to pour again. We ask him if it, in fact, did not live up to its purpose. "Yeah... haha, yeah, you could say that. The Ratway was a shithole. I'm talking a real shithole. It was built in the 1890s, in a turn of the century style. Lots of eagles sculpted into the walls, lots of sconces and details. Don't get me wrong, Metropolis was always big. But by the 1930s, it was just plum too big. All that weight bore down on the damned tunnels somethin' fierce. Mayor Cline was elected in 1933 on a promise to 'remodel and modernize the Stockton Metropolitan Tunnel System an.' We boys in the precincts were overjoyed. While a few miles of tunnel did get redone in the style of the day, with lots of pillars, big bold lines, and sturdy struts--real Steele shit--the rest continued to waste away day by day while the civilian subway system got all the love. When Operation Manifest Climax began and nation went into a wartime economy, the Ratway was left high and dry. We still used it, though. Hell, we had no choice. The Metropolitan Police Union withdrew our support for Cline and were gonna back Theo Moos the next election, but then the war came and the temporary, slap-dash fixes stayed."
The old veteran takes a sip of his whiskey and then grabs a pencil and paper from the coffee table to draw us an illustration. "Boy, was it shit. Okay, so you see these two lines?" he asks, pointing to the two lines he just penciled onto the page. "That's the Ratway walls. Whenever we would get new vehicles, they tried to make sure they would fit in the tunnels. But by the Steele era, we were drivin' practically Jev-damned buses down there. The need to transport criminals and drunken tourists overwhelmed us. In 1925, right when I joined the Force as a gopher boy junior member, I was able to ride my bicycle on the walkway area and two cars were able to drive side by side. By the late '30s, the vehicles were way more beefed up and armored and they could barely squeeze in side-by-side." He draws two squares about a centimeter apart, symbolizing how narrow the margin of error was while driving in the tunnels. "It was just askin' for a catastrophic accident to trap some of us guys down there. Here's where it gets better! The city, obviously, predates the autocarriage. They were driving patrol buggies down there to begin with. Brick roads! And if you have ever tried to drive a patrol car at 60 miles per hour over brick, you'll know that shit wears down real damn fast. Plus, whenever there was an auto accident down there, it could really weaken a section of the tunnel. The constant weight from above, crossed with the constant weight from inside, caused the Ratway to start bowin' and sinkin'. Oh sure, they slapped a few struts up and called it safe. But it wasn't. It fucking wasn't!"
The aged veteran's mood seems to drop second by second as memories come flooding back. "Okay, okay," he says, sitting back. "Now that I gave y'all a Ratway history lesson, maybe you can understand why it was about as fun as being a horse in a glue factory durin' the whole Overton treason thing. Worse days of my life, bar none. That bottle of whiskey celebrates when we went to the Moon, and let me tell you, I would volunteer right now to be blasted into outer space in the cheapest one way rocket than serve one more day in those hellholes. Imagine an ant farm, like the one in your kids bedroom. Now imagine each ant is a Jev-fearin' Christian Yankee boy doing his job. Now dump in a bunch of ant-eatin' beetles and then light the whole ant farm on fire, jump up and down on it, and then throw it out the window. That's how bad it was. That's where I lost my eye."
After his... poignant parable, we ask him where he was when it first began. He takes another Morton from his orange-and-brown flannel button-up's chest pocket and loosens his wide brown wool tie. He takes a silver-plated lighter off the coffee table and lights the cigarette, taking two long drags as he searches through memory lane. "I remember," he says, almost dreamily. "I remember... I was in Tunnel 43. December 19, 1937, 8 o'clock in the evening by damn. Big Dick Pennington had started his hostile takeover earlier in the day, but Metropolis is a big place. The attacks came in waves. City was already a mess. For months we had been dealin' with rioters and looters, mostly refugees fleein' the dust storms. There was also the persecution of the Second Prophet and his followers going on. At any rate, we were already exhausted and in deep shit by the time the Overtons acted out. I was in a patrol car with Private Henry Orwell. Fresh-faced kid from New York who had just graduated high school. We were both exhausted and were putting away a few donuts between us when we saw a whole line of other cops coming from the other direction, lighting up that whole damn tunnel. The sirens were deafening. It's like I can still hear 'em. We knew somethin' bad--and I mean really damn horrible--was goin' on. We drove ahead till we reached a loop to switch lanes and followed after them. Patrol cars comms weren't great underground, another brilliant pre-modern era problem caused by the tunnels, but when we were this close together and following behind the big pack, the communicators worked well enough.
"So we started beepin' 'em, tryin' to figure out what in the Sam Hell was goin' on. 'Treason,' they told us. 'There has been city-wide assault by the Overton Agency. They are trying to seize the city. They've breached Tunnel 42. Prepare to fight like hell.' At that, we turned our siren on and checked our guns, and after I patted the rookie on the back, we rushed to meet this new Hamiltonian enemy. Fuckin' swine, all of 'em. Not enough bullets in the world to riddle their corpses with. Justice would come, but we suffered for that justice. -I- suffered." At that, he thumps his chest with his calloused hand. "They breached the tunnel network, at least in our precinct, in Tunnel 42. The entrance was located behind the largest Kingfish Supermarket in the city, right on Saxon Avenue. They used explosives to blast the doors off the hinges and had already taken over most of the damn tunnel by the time we got there. It was a bloodbath. They had already pushed several patrol cars in the way, blockin' our advance and forcing us to get out and go forward on foot under a hail of small arms fire. They were using bolt-action Arnold Arms service rifles and semi-auto pistols. Hell, was it loud. While they had taken us by surprise and forced us out of our vehicles, we still were better-trained than they were. Most of them had never seen real combat. We'd been living in a rioting hellhole for months. We were exhausted but trained. Even Orwell the Rookie with me had already seen some action, leavin' him shaken but stronger. We thought we might even be able to push them back since a few of us had pump-action shotguns. Corporal Harris blasted two shells their way, scattering buckshot into three Overtons. They started to give way after a few more of us opened up. We were all scared shitless still, but there was hope."
The retired staff sergeant takes a moment to knock some ash into the tray. It is clear that these memories are extremely troubling to the man. He looks wistfully at the portrait of his younger self on the wall a few feet away before continuing. "Then... the automatic grinder opened up. It was a damn massacre. While they tried to hold us back, further up the tunnel they had built up a grinder nest. We thought they were pullin' out like the pack of gutless chicken-livers they were, but they were trapping us. The lone gunner just had to pour lead down-tunnel and just keep a-squeezin' that trigger. A squad car exploded, sendin' debris and shrapnel and fire in all directions. I saw one of my brothers go running out right in the front of it all, his back on fire, his mouth hanging open in a death-scream. And that gunner ripped through him like he was made of butter. His guts exploded and his body hit the ground like a bag of mashed potatoes. Me and Orwell barely made it behind an access alcove in time to avoid the hail of bullets. About ten more of us went down right after, some screaming and others struck down before they could tell what hit 'em. I fired a couple shots up-tunnel, but they were useless. No way I could hit that bastard. We were fucked.
"So there we were, bein' diddled like a whore in a campground by these bastards, pinned down six ways from Sunday with no Jev-damned clue what we were goin' to do. It was about 100 yards to the nearest bend in the tunnel. So it was 100 yards of gettin' shot at by a full-auto nutjob. The only thing to do was wait and hope he got taken out from behind. We were down there for hours, must have been three at least. Sometimes we'd try to move and that gun would open up again on us. They were trying to divert us, keep us occupied. Tunnel 38, just a few blocks north, was the main emergency access to the Palace of Patriots, the town hall and general administrative headquarters for the entire city. If they took that, they could kidnap or kill the mayor and local elders, maybe even get to Metropolitan RUMP Chief Arnold Walters, as he frequently was at the Palace. While they distracted us in Tunnel 42, more Overtons were runnin' wild in 40. They launched an all-out siege on the Palace. I'm talkin' balls-to-the-wall, shamrock shake-throwin', full-on assault. Finally, with about thirty of us left, we get sick of waitin' this fucker out. A captain... I think Wilkins was his name... gets the bright idea to just start all the fires. If we started all the cars on fire, the amount of smoke would probably give us about enough cover to sprint to cover. There were already several burning wrecks, but by shooting some gas tanks we managed to get a couple more goin'. Before we knew it, the whole place was up in smoke and flames. The plan worked too well."
Winslow has a look of sheer horror on his face as he tells us the next part of the tale. "Lemme tell you another flaw of the Ratway," he tells us, staring straight into our camera. "Like I said earlier, pardner, that place was made for the era of horses. Horses might take some shits and piss everywhere, but they don't spew carbon monoxide. The Ratways always had a decent amount of what we called "the fumes." But no one died from it. It needed far more ventilation, but it was a big enough thing to wear it wasn't suffocating. The smoke caused by all those fires let us slip away, but that smoke also completely filled the damn tunnels. Couldn't see our hands in front of our faces as were crawling along. We could hear the cries of the Overtons as they blasted blindly into the shadows, unable to make out a thing. And then the first collapse happened."
One of the best known events of the Battle for Metropolis, the collapse of the Ratway tunnels greatly changed the outcome of the struggle. It is clear this was one of the most terrifying moments in Winslow's life. We ask him if it was such and he replies, "Oh sure. Yup. Hands-down. Even scarier than when I lost my eye later on. That first collapse sealed up Tunnel 42 and brought half a grocery store down on top of it. Bricks and struts and mortar and shelving and merchandise came raining down like it was the end of the world, and to us it might as well have been. There was an awful groaning noise and then the thunderous crashin' and screams as men got buried forever. That Overton grinder piece of shit was among them, I have no doubt. But that was small compensation for us as we dragged our broken and battered comrade-patriots through the smoke and soot and flames and bricks and wreckage and bodies. In the dim light of a flickering sconce, I saw a man impaled on a ceiling strut. Damn thing went straight down the back of his neck, sending his spinal column into the ground. We were crying out to the Prophet and Jehovah to save us, to guide us through through this nightmare. We came up on a junction, linking 42 with 41 and 40. We dragging our buddies through this shit, the ceiling caving as we went. Tunnel 40 looked like salvation. Closer to the main city square, 40 had been remodeled and was significantly more durable. While some dust was falling from the ceiling there, it wasn't caving in. We poured into that tunnel like bats out of hell, our eyes stinging and our lungs burning. The smoke was still following us the whole time, but increased ventilation in 40 made the area more breathable, and the electric lighting allowed us to help the wounded more efficiently."
We ask Winslow about the attack on the Palace of Patriots. He shrugs and tells us, "I wasn't there for it, but it burned. They killed Mayor Cline and ripped down the Union flag, damn them. They hoisted the 'Starry Wisdom' flag, they called it. Evidently, it was some feverish delusion of Big Dick Pennington that he was the modern Constantine and that the stars had shown him "the way," or some bullshit like that. Real nutjob. Anyway, it was this purple flag with some stars painted on it. Very ugly to look at. Some of the Overton men wore purple ribbons around their arms and such, too. We never complained about that. With everyone covered in dust and filth during the battle and with the uniform code becoming less and less strict, those armbands actually saved our asses more than a few times. After setting up a field hospital in 40, we used a comm set to beg for reinforcements. More would come about an hour later, around the time the Palace was abandoned to the enemy. They told us we were heading to the Marshal & Carter Mall to make a stand. That was where I lost my eye, actually." The man caresses the eyepatch as he tries to remember events that happened almost 40 years ago. "Funny thing, that. I didn't even know what happened. We were running out of the tunnel through the access hatch in the back lot of the shoppin' center when small arms fire opened up from across the street. A pistol round went right into my eye. I'm lucky though. It hit at an angle so it just fucked my face up and took that eye. If I had had my head turned any other angle, it probably would have put me six feet deep. I instantly lost consciousness. I remember nothing. I would find out later that Orwell grabbed me and dragged me 30 yards through intense enemy fire to the safety of the Mall. He took five bullets for me doing it, but they all missed vital areas. Still alive today, that Orwell. Real son of a bitch. We still keep up on things and go golfing every winter in Florida. I owe him my life. He's the real hero."
We ask him what his next memory is. "I woke up a day later inside the Mall, my whole faced wrapped up in bandages and hurting like hell. I'm talkin' real gen-yoo-ine bullet-to-the-face pain. But we needed all hands on deck to fend off those nutjobs and so I was back on the ramparts before I knew it, blasting away with a grinder mounted on the rooftop. We would hold out there. They called us the Sixth Precinct Bastards. We were like iron gates to those Overtons. They couldn't break us. They wouldn't break us. And all over town, citizens were taking up arms to defend themselves from these traitors as well. My favorite was always the students. Benedict Arnold University of Metropolis decided that not one Overton was too advance one step closer onto their campus. They used their American right to bear arms and fought like sons of bitches. We all did. The world was ending. Everything was collapsing. And we fought like sons of bitches until we couldn't fight no more. I am proud of myself for fightin' the good fight, but I'm far more proud of my old hometown for uniting in times of hardship to fight real traitorous scum together."
We ask him if he still loves Metropolis, and why he moved to Shalom. He laughs quietly, takes another drag of cigarette, and replies, "Of course I love it. Always will. The smell of concessions at Moos Park, the din of the traffic and the hum of the planes and helicopters overhead. But while I never gave up or stopped doing my best to defend it, the battle broke me inside. I can still remember those tunnels like yesterday. The screams, the cries for mothers from boys too young to die. The smell of charred flesh. The sound the Liberty Torches made when we started to flush those Overton motherfuckers out of that ant farm in '38. I went back into those tunnels time and time again. It was like playing chess in four dimensions. Just as you'd get the situation above-ground figured out, they'd strike below. It was hell. When I retired from the Force in '45, I moved to Shalom here because land is cheap, beautiful, and peaceful. Shalom means 'peace' in Jew, you know. I like it here. I'm proud to call it home. I still visit Metropolis, but I will never again go into those tunnels. I did my part for Country, Prophet, and President, and wouldn't take it back if I could, but if I had to do it again I'd lose my sanity. It's a miracle I didn't become a maniac murderer after the war, because I became addicted to killing down there. The Ratway makes you into a different person. Changes who you are. And makes you do stuff you never thought you would. When Overtons would surrender, I'd line 'em up and personally gut them with a bayonet. Slit their throats and watch them gurgle like stuck pigs on the ground. I kicked them and beat them as they lay dying. But they got what they deserved. I did what Uncle Joe asked of me, and I did it without question. Death always to traitors. All hail."
The aging, scarred veteran lifts his right arm in a salute. Our film crew thanks him for his time and service and a few final pleasantries are exchanged. We set off for the home of Peter Brown, who was a member of the "Student Militia" that defended B.A.U.M. from the Overtons and secured and rescued untold amounts of knowledge and artifacts from theft or destruction. Brown is now Regional Bannerman for the Greater Metropolitan MDP, and will meet us at the rebuilt 1952 Palace of Patriots.
Propaganda poster backing Dick Pennington's Starry Wisdom Revolt
Banner of the Starry Wisdom Revolt
RISE OF THE SECOND PROPHET:
THE RATWAY
Overton WSS mercenaries attempt to storm a section of the Metropolitan "Ratway"
The following was taken from the 1972 documentary film Metropolitan Memories: Dustbowl Daze, and was directed by Joseph S. Wallace of Lucky Duck Pictures. It was the first real documentary film to cover the stories of the everyday troopers and civilian and student volunteers fighting the Battle of Metropolis, the largest single civil disturbance in the Union since Custer came to power.
***
A simple, homely room awaits our film crew as we interview Manifest Climax and Battle of Metropolis veteran Earnest Winslow in his home in Shalom, Iowai. The floral print papered walls are decorated with old black and white photographs, relics, and a few hand-painted portraits. One depicts a gallant young lad in a blue uniform, a junior officer by the looks of it. Strong Anglo-Saxon features match the almost silver eyes and the wavy mass of golden-brown hair pushed into a slick part. Under his left arm is his peaked visor cap, bearing the All-Reaching Octopus insignia of RUMP. It is Staff Sergeant Earnest Winslow, Republican Union Military Police, Metropolitan Division, Sixth Precinct, at the tender age of 27. That young man saw the gates of hell open up in his own city during one of the most dire moments in Union history, and he met that horror with guns-blazing and determination on his face.
That young man sits just a few feet under the portrait, but he is now 62. Staff Sergeant Winslow reclines in his favorite avocado green easy chair, a Morton's cigarette dangling from his tight, wrinkled lips. You can see in his grizzled features that life has taken quite the toll on him. While merely 62, he looks 72, and a lifetime of health problems are a daily reminder of the hell he survived back in the 1930s. He is missing an eye, the old socket covered by a patch depicting the logo of the Order of Valley Forge. Nearby skin is covered with a porcelain mask painted a flesh color. His fingers are rough, large, and worn. His brow has a hundred wrinkles. While he still looks strong and is a veritable Pinnacle Man, he has truly eked out a hard existence. Our interviewer, Barabas Johnston, asks him if he has stories to tell.
"No shit," the old man chuckles. His age and health can't take away his sense of dry humor. He smiles and extinguishes the cigarette in an ashtray on the coffee table in front of him. He takes a minute to pour himself a glass of whiskey from a chrome bottle shaped like a rocket ship. "1964 vintage New Galilee Distillery. Commemorates the Space Force landing on the Moon, Jev bless 'em. Been sitting on this bottle since. Figured I needed a special occasion to pop it open. Talking about this shit is as good a reason as any, I suppose." His New Canaan drawl is still heavy, though he has been living in Shalom for the past three decades. "But yeah, lost my right peeper in Metropolis during the Overton affair. Nasty shit, pardner. Nasty shit. Can I cuss?" We motion for him to continue and he takes a sip of the vintage whiskey. "Okay, so yeah... I lost it there. But a lot of men, women, and children lost a lot more than me. I'm one of the lucky ones."
We ask him to clarify how he is "lucky." He says, "Well, that was a hell of a shindig, hell of a shindig. I was in them Jev-damned tunnels from the start. We Metropolitan MP's called it the Ratway. You see, way back during the Custer years when Metropolis was first being built, they wanted to make it the most connected city in the world. Herman Moos built Lake Washington and all the canals, and Daniel Burnham built the buildings themselves, with some input from Moos. Fathers of Metropolis, they call 'em. But it was Edward Stockton, a Brit, who built the tunnels. Now these here tunnels was so RUMP and emergency services could get anywhere in the city real quick-like. They connected to all the major train stations, hospitals, jails, morgues, and armories, as well as at regular intervals. They also connected to the subway system, which was built in the early '30s. It was a web of access hatches, shadowy ramps with 'Government Use Only' plastered onto them, and whole walls that moved to allow vehicles access for police patrol cars and ambulances. It was supposed to make any civil emergency ten times more manageable."
Winslow chortles blackly and drains his small orange glass and grabs the whiskey bottle to pour again. We ask him if it, in fact, did not live up to its purpose. "Yeah... haha, yeah, you could say that. The Ratway was a shithole. I'm talking a real shithole. It was built in the 1890s, in a turn of the century style. Lots of eagles sculpted into the walls, lots of sconces and details. Don't get me wrong, Metropolis was always big. But by the 1930s, it was just plum too big. All that weight bore down on the damned tunnels somethin' fierce. Mayor Cline was elected in 1933 on a promise to 'remodel and modernize the Stockton Metropolitan Tunnel System an.' We boys in the precincts were overjoyed. While a few miles of tunnel did get redone in the style of the day, with lots of pillars, big bold lines, and sturdy struts--real Steele shit--the rest continued to waste away day by day while the civilian subway system got all the love. When Operation Manifest Climax began and nation went into a wartime economy, the Ratway was left high and dry. We still used it, though. Hell, we had no choice. The Metropolitan Police Union withdrew our support for Cline and were gonna back Theo Moos the next election, but then the war came and the temporary, slap-dash fixes stayed."
The old veteran takes a sip of his whiskey and then grabs a pencil and paper from the coffee table to draw us an illustration. "Boy, was it shit. Okay, so you see these two lines?" he asks, pointing to the two lines he just penciled onto the page. "That's the Ratway walls. Whenever we would get new vehicles, they tried to make sure they would fit in the tunnels. But by the Steele era, we were drivin' practically Jev-damned buses down there. The need to transport criminals and drunken tourists overwhelmed us. In 1925, right when I joined the Force as a gopher boy junior member, I was able to ride my bicycle on the walkway area and two cars were able to drive side by side. By the late '30s, the vehicles were way more beefed up and armored and they could barely squeeze in side-by-side." He draws two squares about a centimeter apart, symbolizing how narrow the margin of error was while driving in the tunnels. "It was just askin' for a catastrophic accident to trap some of us guys down there. Here's where it gets better! The city, obviously, predates the autocarriage. They were driving patrol buggies down there to begin with. Brick roads! And if you have ever tried to drive a patrol car at 60 miles per hour over brick, you'll know that shit wears down real damn fast. Plus, whenever there was an auto accident down there, it could really weaken a section of the tunnel. The constant weight from above, crossed with the constant weight from inside, caused the Ratway to start bowin' and sinkin'. Oh sure, they slapped a few struts up and called it safe. But it wasn't. It fucking wasn't!"
The aged veteran's mood seems to drop second by second as memories come flooding back. "Okay, okay," he says, sitting back. "Now that I gave y'all a Ratway history lesson, maybe you can understand why it was about as fun as being a horse in a glue factory durin' the whole Overton treason thing. Worse days of my life, bar none. That bottle of whiskey celebrates when we went to the Moon, and let me tell you, I would volunteer right now to be blasted into outer space in the cheapest one way rocket than serve one more day in those hellholes. Imagine an ant farm, like the one in your kids bedroom. Now imagine each ant is a Jev-fearin' Christian Yankee boy doing his job. Now dump in a bunch of ant-eatin' beetles and then light the whole ant farm on fire, jump up and down on it, and then throw it out the window. That's how bad it was. That's where I lost my eye."
After his... poignant parable, we ask him where he was when it first began. He takes another Morton from his orange-and-brown flannel button-up's chest pocket and loosens his wide brown wool tie. He takes a silver-plated lighter off the coffee table and lights the cigarette, taking two long drags as he searches through memory lane. "I remember," he says, almost dreamily. "I remember... I was in Tunnel 43. December 19, 1937, 8 o'clock in the evening by damn. Big Dick Pennington had started his hostile takeover earlier in the day, but Metropolis is a big place. The attacks came in waves. City was already a mess. For months we had been dealin' with rioters and looters, mostly refugees fleein' the dust storms. There was also the persecution of the Second Prophet and his followers going on. At any rate, we were already exhausted and in deep shit by the time the Overtons acted out. I was in a patrol car with Private Henry Orwell. Fresh-faced kid from New York who had just graduated high school. We were both exhausted and were putting away a few donuts between us when we saw a whole line of other cops coming from the other direction, lighting up that whole damn tunnel. The sirens were deafening. It's like I can still hear 'em. We knew somethin' bad--and I mean really damn horrible--was goin' on. We drove ahead till we reached a loop to switch lanes and followed after them. Patrol cars comms weren't great underground, another brilliant pre-modern era problem caused by the tunnels, but when we were this close together and following behind the big pack, the communicators worked well enough.
"So we started beepin' 'em, tryin' to figure out what in the Sam Hell was goin' on. 'Treason,' they told us. 'There has been city-wide assault by the Overton Agency. They are trying to seize the city. They've breached Tunnel 42. Prepare to fight like hell.' At that, we turned our siren on and checked our guns, and after I patted the rookie on the back, we rushed to meet this new Hamiltonian enemy. Fuckin' swine, all of 'em. Not enough bullets in the world to riddle their corpses with. Justice would come, but we suffered for that justice. -I- suffered." At that, he thumps his chest with his calloused hand. "They breached the tunnel network, at least in our precinct, in Tunnel 42. The entrance was located behind the largest Kingfish Supermarket in the city, right on Saxon Avenue. They used explosives to blast the doors off the hinges and had already taken over most of the damn tunnel by the time we got there. It was a bloodbath. They had already pushed several patrol cars in the way, blockin' our advance and forcing us to get out and go forward on foot under a hail of small arms fire. They were using bolt-action Arnold Arms service rifles and semi-auto pistols. Hell, was it loud. While they had taken us by surprise and forced us out of our vehicles, we still were better-trained than they were. Most of them had never seen real combat. We'd been living in a rioting hellhole for months. We were exhausted but trained. Even Orwell the Rookie with me had already seen some action, leavin' him shaken but stronger. We thought we might even be able to push them back since a few of us had pump-action shotguns. Corporal Harris blasted two shells their way, scattering buckshot into three Overtons. They started to give way after a few more of us opened up. We were all scared shitless still, but there was hope."
The retired staff sergeant takes a moment to knock some ash into the tray. It is clear that these memories are extremely troubling to the man. He looks wistfully at the portrait of his younger self on the wall a few feet away before continuing. "Then... the automatic grinder opened up. It was a damn massacre. While they tried to hold us back, further up the tunnel they had built up a grinder nest. We thought they were pullin' out like the pack of gutless chicken-livers they were, but they were trapping us. The lone gunner just had to pour lead down-tunnel and just keep a-squeezin' that trigger. A squad car exploded, sendin' debris and shrapnel and fire in all directions. I saw one of my brothers go running out right in the front of it all, his back on fire, his mouth hanging open in a death-scream. And that gunner ripped through him like he was made of butter. His guts exploded and his body hit the ground like a bag of mashed potatoes. Me and Orwell barely made it behind an access alcove in time to avoid the hail of bullets. About ten more of us went down right after, some screaming and others struck down before they could tell what hit 'em. I fired a couple shots up-tunnel, but they were useless. No way I could hit that bastard. We were fucked.
"So there we were, bein' diddled like a whore in a campground by these bastards, pinned down six ways from Sunday with no Jev-damned clue what we were goin' to do. It was about 100 yards to the nearest bend in the tunnel. So it was 100 yards of gettin' shot at by a full-auto nutjob. The only thing to do was wait and hope he got taken out from behind. We were down there for hours, must have been three at least. Sometimes we'd try to move and that gun would open up again on us. They were trying to divert us, keep us occupied. Tunnel 38, just a few blocks north, was the main emergency access to the Palace of Patriots, the town hall and general administrative headquarters for the entire city. If they took that, they could kidnap or kill the mayor and local elders, maybe even get to Metropolitan RUMP Chief Arnold Walters, as he frequently was at the Palace. While they distracted us in Tunnel 42, more Overtons were runnin' wild in 40. They launched an all-out siege on the Palace. I'm talkin' balls-to-the-wall, shamrock shake-throwin', full-on assault. Finally, with about thirty of us left, we get sick of waitin' this fucker out. A captain... I think Wilkins was his name... gets the bright idea to just start all the fires. If we started all the cars on fire, the amount of smoke would probably give us about enough cover to sprint to cover. There were already several burning wrecks, but by shooting some gas tanks we managed to get a couple more goin'. Before we knew it, the whole place was up in smoke and flames. The plan worked too well."
Winslow has a look of sheer horror on his face as he tells us the next part of the tale. "Lemme tell you another flaw of the Ratway," he tells us, staring straight into our camera. "Like I said earlier, pardner, that place was made for the era of horses. Horses might take some shits and piss everywhere, but they don't spew carbon monoxide. The Ratways always had a decent amount of what we called "the fumes." But no one died from it. It needed far more ventilation, but it was a big enough thing to wear it wasn't suffocating. The smoke caused by all those fires let us slip away, but that smoke also completely filled the damn tunnels. Couldn't see our hands in front of our faces as were crawling along. We could hear the cries of the Overtons as they blasted blindly into the shadows, unable to make out a thing. And then the first collapse happened."
One of the best known events of the Battle for Metropolis, the collapse of the Ratway tunnels greatly changed the outcome of the struggle. It is clear this was one of the most terrifying moments in Winslow's life. We ask him if it was such and he replies, "Oh sure. Yup. Hands-down. Even scarier than when I lost my eye later on. That first collapse sealed up Tunnel 42 and brought half a grocery store down on top of it. Bricks and struts and mortar and shelving and merchandise came raining down like it was the end of the world, and to us it might as well have been. There was an awful groaning noise and then the thunderous crashin' and screams as men got buried forever. That Overton grinder piece of shit was among them, I have no doubt. But that was small compensation for us as we dragged our broken and battered comrade-patriots through the smoke and soot and flames and bricks and wreckage and bodies. In the dim light of a flickering sconce, I saw a man impaled on a ceiling strut. Damn thing went straight down the back of his neck, sending his spinal column into the ground. We were crying out to the Prophet and Jehovah to save us, to guide us through through this nightmare. We came up on a junction, linking 42 with 41 and 40. We dragging our buddies through this shit, the ceiling caving as we went. Tunnel 40 looked like salvation. Closer to the main city square, 40 had been remodeled and was significantly more durable. While some dust was falling from the ceiling there, it wasn't caving in. We poured into that tunnel like bats out of hell, our eyes stinging and our lungs burning. The smoke was still following us the whole time, but increased ventilation in 40 made the area more breathable, and the electric lighting allowed us to help the wounded more efficiently."
We ask Winslow about the attack on the Palace of Patriots. He shrugs and tells us, "I wasn't there for it, but it burned. They killed Mayor Cline and ripped down the Union flag, damn them. They hoisted the 'Starry Wisdom' flag, they called it. Evidently, it was some feverish delusion of Big Dick Pennington that he was the modern Constantine and that the stars had shown him "the way," or some bullshit like that. Real nutjob. Anyway, it was this purple flag with some stars painted on it. Very ugly to look at. Some of the Overton men wore purple ribbons around their arms and such, too. We never complained about that. With everyone covered in dust and filth during the battle and with the uniform code becoming less and less strict, those armbands actually saved our asses more than a few times. After setting up a field hospital in 40, we used a comm set to beg for reinforcements. More would come about an hour later, around the time the Palace was abandoned to the enemy. They told us we were heading to the Marshal & Carter Mall to make a stand. That was where I lost my eye, actually." The man caresses the eyepatch as he tries to remember events that happened almost 40 years ago. "Funny thing, that. I didn't even know what happened. We were running out of the tunnel through the access hatch in the back lot of the shoppin' center when small arms fire opened up from across the street. A pistol round went right into my eye. I'm lucky though. It hit at an angle so it just fucked my face up and took that eye. If I had had my head turned any other angle, it probably would have put me six feet deep. I instantly lost consciousness. I remember nothing. I would find out later that Orwell grabbed me and dragged me 30 yards through intense enemy fire to the safety of the Mall. He took five bullets for me doing it, but they all missed vital areas. Still alive today, that Orwell. Real son of a bitch. We still keep up on things and go golfing every winter in Florida. I owe him my life. He's the real hero."
We ask him what his next memory is. "I woke up a day later inside the Mall, my whole faced wrapped up in bandages and hurting like hell. I'm talkin' real gen-yoo-ine bullet-to-the-face pain. But we needed all hands on deck to fend off those nutjobs and so I was back on the ramparts before I knew it, blasting away with a grinder mounted on the rooftop. We would hold out there. They called us the Sixth Precinct Bastards. We were like iron gates to those Overtons. They couldn't break us. They wouldn't break us. And all over town, citizens were taking up arms to defend themselves from these traitors as well. My favorite was always the students. Benedict Arnold University of Metropolis decided that not one Overton was too advance one step closer onto their campus. They used their American right to bear arms and fought like sons of bitches. We all did. The world was ending. Everything was collapsing. And we fought like sons of bitches until we couldn't fight no more. I am proud of myself for fightin' the good fight, but I'm far more proud of my old hometown for uniting in times of hardship to fight real traitorous scum together."
We ask him if he still loves Metropolis, and why he moved to Shalom. He laughs quietly, takes another drag of cigarette, and replies, "Of course I love it. Always will. The smell of concessions at Moos Park, the din of the traffic and the hum of the planes and helicopters overhead. But while I never gave up or stopped doing my best to defend it, the battle broke me inside. I can still remember those tunnels like yesterday. The screams, the cries for mothers from boys too young to die. The smell of charred flesh. The sound the Liberty Torches made when we started to flush those Overton motherfuckers out of that ant farm in '38. I went back into those tunnels time and time again. It was like playing chess in four dimensions. Just as you'd get the situation above-ground figured out, they'd strike below. It was hell. When I retired from the Force in '45, I moved to Shalom here because land is cheap, beautiful, and peaceful. Shalom means 'peace' in Jew, you know. I like it here. I'm proud to call it home. I still visit Metropolis, but I will never again go into those tunnels. I did my part for Country, Prophet, and President, and wouldn't take it back if I could, but if I had to do it again I'd lose my sanity. It's a miracle I didn't become a maniac murderer after the war, because I became addicted to killing down there. The Ratway makes you into a different person. Changes who you are. And makes you do stuff you never thought you would. When Overtons would surrender, I'd line 'em up and personally gut them with a bayonet. Slit their throats and watch them gurgle like stuck pigs on the ground. I kicked them and beat them as they lay dying. But they got what they deserved. I did what Uncle Joe asked of me, and I did it without question. Death always to traitors. All hail."
The aging, scarred veteran lifts his right arm in a salute. Our film crew thanks him for his time and service and a few final pleasantries are exchanged. We set off for the home of Peter Brown, who was a member of the "Student Militia" that defended B.A.U.M. from the Overtons and secured and rescued untold amounts of knowledge and artifacts from theft or destruction. Brown is now Regional Bannerman for the Greater Metropolitan MDP, and will meet us at the rebuilt 1952 Palace of Patriots.
Propaganda poster backing Dick Pennington's Starry Wisdom Revolt
Banner of the Starry Wisdom Revolt
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Boo. Was hoping the RU would never make it to the moon, or much later then OTL. Fingers crossed said landing is more like they crashed into it and wrote it off as a propaganda victory.
My saltiness about the space race aside, that would absolutely amazing, Napo. Really captures the hellish frantic nature of the battle. Would be a great style to see more going forward.
Always nice to see big battles from the POV of a common soldier. Winslow is a truly compelling character, and he must be as though as steel if he managed to survive the hell of the Ratway.
Three cheers for Earnest Winslow, the Comrade-Patriot of our times. I'll drink a shot of 1964 vintage New Galilee Distillery whiskey and give an "All Hail" for this moment.
I have been thinking lately that the Illuminists are likely to draw more inspiration from the French Revolution than from OTL's Russian Revolution. Therefore, there would be a focus on liberty, especially the sort of liberty that is protected and enhanced by the state. I don't think the IPRR would have any problems with welfare programs, state monopolies on strategic goods such as oil and uranium, or with passing "laws of maximums" to make commodities affordable to the average worker. This freedom from want would give the average Illuminist prole sufficient motivation to stick with the state rather than risk forming a sans-culotte army to overthrow it. The threat of such an army might be a thing continually hanging over the heads of the IPRR's government because I expect that since "every man is a god," the state would grant their godlings power over life and death and allow them to possess a widely varied assortment of weapons. Private armies and paramilitaries would proliferate alongside the state security forces, and would probably be used for strike breaking purposes despite the IPRR theoretically allowing strikes and labor agitation.
Drawing further inspiration from the French Revolution, the IPRR would have two national security organizations: the Komitet Obshchey Bezopasnosti (KOB), or the Committee of General Security; and the Komitet Obshchestvennoy Bezopasnosti (also KOB, expect the Yankees to conflate the two in propaganda), or the Committee of Public Safety. The Committee of General Security wound function like RUMP in the RU, as a standard police organization that occasionally dabbles in counterintelligence. The CGS would likely have a militia arm called the Militsiya. The CPS would be a security advisory body convened by the Protector of the IPRR, and would include the Protector, any Deputy-Protectors, the heads of all the military branches, and whoever is in charge of the interior ministry. The CPS would be a more authoritarian and sinister organization, in charge of revolutionary courts and whatever GULAG analogs the Illuminists are running. Speaking of GULAGS, the Illuminists would probably run them like spiritual retreats to "purge the internal contradictions" from inmates so they can "achieve a fully actualized divine nature." This would, of course, be achieved through ridiculously cruel brainwashing methods. Moreover, I expect that the IPRR's leaders and the proles in the poorer wards of major cities would develop a level of guillotine fetishism to surpass the worst days of the Great Terror. The RU, of course, would use Revelation 20:4 to imply that this makes the Illuminati the New Babylon.
With regard to the spiritualism practiced in the IPRR, it could fuse itself to government in highly unusual ways. For instance, in post #560, I laid out the theology that could lead to a Cult of Technopoly that shapes the Illuminist economic programs and development of computer science. Moreover, since the average Illuminist will be knee-deep in crazy spiritualist ideas, it seems reasonable that they would band together to refine their doctrines and practices. This would lead to the formation of cults and spirit clubs that end up as minor political factions and fora for elites to network and socialize. When all the IPRR's administrators are rushing off to the Lodge of Humanity and the Forum of the Divine Source after work, it is only a matter of time before they start showing up to their jobs in cult regalia and speaking in spiritualist buzzwords to their coworkers.
Given the cultural presence of Christianity in Russia, it is unlikely that Illuminist Dechristianization can root out all of it. I suspect that the Dechristianizers would mostly target the Orthodox churches, but allow sects like neo-Gnostics and Mystic Christians to proliferate as long as they keep up the facade of being a "social club" to avoid running afoul of restrictions on public religious activity. Muslims, meanwhile, are easier for the Illuminists to portray as an alien Other. The IPRR would likely take a hostile stance on Islam, destroying mosques and disbanding congregations. This would drive Turkestan and the Caucasus into revolt, compelling the Illuminist state to crack down even harder despite this only making the problem worse (like, War in the Vendee levels of worse). Meanwhile, Buddhists might be able to slip past the anti-religious laws for a time due to Russian interest in Orientalism and as a mirror to actual Victorian attitudes toward Buddhism. Once China starts being a thorn in Russia's side though, this clemency might abruptly end.
For the symbol of the IPRR, I think they would use a revolutionary tricolour based on the Russian flag with the Eye of Providence up in the corner.
(Proposed flag of the IPRR)
Let me just say that I love how one of the major factions in TTL is literally the Illuminati.