Jaxon RadioHead

THE ALLIANCE

In a large, cavernous hall, a tense assembly unfolded. Faces from every corner of the city filled the room - Asian, Hispanic, Arabs, Native American, African American, Mexican - a vibrant tapestry of cultures united in a moment of shared grief and anger. A collective gasp echoed through the hall as a series of images flashed across the screen at the front. 

Images of war machines, those monstrous harbingers of destruction, tearing through the city streets. Images of people of color - innocent men, women, and children - cut down in cold blood, their faces etched with terror and despair.

A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd, coalescing into a low roar of outrage. Dr. Dubar, a tall, imposing Black man with a commanding presence, strode to the front of the room. His voice, though heavy with emotion, held a steely resolve.

"Everyone, please calm down," he boomed, his voice cutting through the cacophony. Slowly, a semblance of silence descended. "Look at what we have allowed them to do to us!" he continued, gesturing at the horrifying scenes plastered on the screen. "They separated us, pitted us against each other, and now they want to eradicate us all!"

Heads bobbed in agreement, a grim understanding etched on every face.

"You all know me," Dr. Dubar continued, his voice resonating with authority. "I am a Black man, and I'll always be proud of that. But what we're facing here is bigger than race. This is about an entire system, a white power structure that has oppressed us for far too long. If we don't stand together now, if we don't fight back, they will wipe us all out!"

A Mexican man, his face etched with fury, spoke out in Spanish, his words translated by a nearby interpreter. "Let's fight these ghost-faced killers! Let them see the fire in our hearts!"

A chorus of agreement erupted - shouts in Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, and a multitude of other languages, all expressing the same sentiment - unity and defiance.

Dr. Dubar raised a hand, silencing the crowd once more. "Now, listen closely," he said. "The African American community currently has control of three war machines." A collective gasp rippled through the room

He scanned the room, his gaze settling on a man in his forties, impeccably dressed in a fur coat - Jose Santos, a prominent figure in the Hispanic community.

"Mr. Santos," Dr. Dubar addressed him, "your community, the Hispanics, have two war machines, is that correct?" 

Jose's eyes glared, a flicker of suspicion crossed his face before he finally nodded "I'm not sure how you know that, but yes, we do."

"I know everything," Dr. Dubar stated cryptically. He then turned to another figure, Antonio Castro, a leader in the Latino community. "And your community, Antonio, possesses one war machine." Antonio offered a solemn nod.

Finally, Dr. Dubar's gaze landed on a young Chinese man, Mr. Wing, his body adorned with elaborate gang tattoos. "You, Mr. Wing," he said, "your community, like us, has three war machines."

Wing, offered a curt nod.

"That's a total of nine war machines," Dr. Dubar announced, his voice resonating with a newfound confidence. A murmur of surprise traveled through the crowd.

"There are reports of about 12 enemy war machines" a voice interjected. It was Gregory, who had just entered the auditorium, his face contorted in a mix of frustration, confusion and disgust as he surveyed the diverse crowd.

Dr. Dubar ignored Gregory's interruption. "We need to act swiftly and decisively," he declared. "With your combined forces, we can overpower them! We will show these white supremacists, these ghost-faced cowards, the true meaning of resistance!"

A thunderous roar erupted from the crowd, a wave of defiance that seemed to vibrate the very walls of the hall. The diverse groups, so recently divided, were now united under a single banner - survival. The city's fate hung in the balance, and Dr. Dubar, with his plan of unified resistance, had ignited a spark of hope in the face of unimaginable terror.

Dr. Dubar stood in a well-appointed backroom,  a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. adjusting his tie. Irene, a striking woman with a confident air, took his coat and hung it on a nearby rack.

"Did you get the recording of the speech, Irene?" Dr. Dubar inquired, a hint of pride in his voice.

"Yes, I did, Doctor," Irene replied, her voice laced with amusement. "That's going to go viral for sure."

Dr. Dubar chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. Irene began to massage his shoulders, her touch firm and practiced.

"How long do we have to keep up this charade, Doctor?" Irene asked, her voice dropping to a low murmur. "Playing nice with those... integrated folks down in Times Square?"

Dr. Dubar smirked. "Until we know exactly what we're dealing with, my love," he replied. "The chessboard needs pawns as well as rooks."

Irene let out a sardonic laugh. "I know, but don't you get any ideas about leading the charge yourself. I want that child you promised, remember? I want to be the wife of a revolutionary, not a widow."

Dr. Dubar spun around, cupping Irene's face in his hands, and planted a passionate kiss on her lips. It was a moment of intimacy shattered by the sudden intrusion of Gregory, who burst into the room without knocking.

"Dr. Thompson!" Gregory exclaimed, his voice laced with urgency and bordered angression.

Dr. Dubar pulled away from Irene, a slight frown creasing his forehead. "Gregory," he acknowledged, straightening his tie. "Good to see you."

Irene rolled her eyes and sauntered out of the room, leaving the two men alone.

"You want to explain why the auditorium looks like a leftist barbeque with no damn seasoning?" Gregory demanded, gesturing towards the door.

Dr. Dubar's lips curled into a sly smile. "We're using them, Gregory," he said simply.

Gregory's face contorted in a mixture of confusion and betrayal. "Using them? But I thought this was about Black power!" Gregory sputtered, his voice rising in anger.

"And it is," Dr. Dubar countered, his voice calm and collected. "That hasn't changed."

"Then why do we need their help?" Gregory's voice was laced with confusion.

Dr. Dubar sighed. "Think, Gregory, don't be a small minded. We're not just fighting white folks here. We're going up against the entire damn government. We need more muscle, more firepower. We don't have enough war machines. We need all the help we can get"

Gregory pondered this for a moment, his initial anger giving way to a grudging acceptance. "It just doesn't feel right," he muttered. "Asians are just as racist as whites, and those Mexicans... they can't stand us."

Dr. Dubar scoffed. "I know, Gregory. It's a temporary alliance. The more of them that die, the less of us do." His voice lacking emotion, treating human life like mere currency in a deadly game.  Gregory nodded slowly, a cold glint entering his eyes. "Alright, then," he said, his voice hardening. "Look here, we're sending out the war machines in thirty minutes. I want you to pilot one."

A wide grin split Dr. Dubar's face. He knew exactly how to play Gregory. The revolution was about to begin, and Dr. Dubar was determined to be the one pulling the strings.