Jaxon, a curious young boy, finds himself entangled in a mind-bending mystery. After disappearing from a locked locker and reappearing with a strange story about a theme park and a friend named June, Jaxon's world is turned upside down. As time pass...
A low, frustrated moan rumbled from Dr. Dubar Thompson's throat. He slammed his fist down on the holographic blueprint displayed on his desk 'Yes that's good". His back turned from the door.
A rapping on the door shattered the tense silence. Dr. Dubar didn't bother looking up. "Negro, knock before you walk in here," he growled, the venom in his voice leaving no room for interpretation. A blue haired white woman stands up from behind his desk wiping her mouth, she heads for the door.
The door creaked open a sliver, revealing a wide-eyed young man. "M-my apologies, sir," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
The door shut with a nervous click. Moments later, Irene, Dr. Dubar's right hand and confidante, Walks in cat-like, a nonchalant smile playing on her lips. her crimson nails a stark contrast to the sterile environment of the office. "Who was that white woman, Dubar?" she asked. "That's my financial assistant. Irene" he replied. "Your not sleeping with her are you". Dr. Dubar twisted his face "Disgusting, I would never sleep with one of them and my heart belongs to you".Irene massages his shoulders "It better, because they say black men are disloyal to their black women".
Dr. Dubar snorted, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes. "Only the ones with no fathers," he replied, a playful jab at her earlier remark.
Their banter was abruptly cut short by the whirring of a news report filtering through the speakers. A holographic image flickered to life, showcasing the destruction unfolding across the city. Jack Razor's face, twisted with a manic grin, filled the screen for a fleeting moment before the image shifted to a report of devastation in Brooklyn.
"Jack Razor," Irene spat, her eyes hardening. "That man is raising hell out there. His influence is spreading through the whole state! If you don't do something about him now, it'll be too late to fix."
Dr. Dubar leaned back in his chair, a predatory glint in his eyes. "He may be a snake, Irene, but a predictable one. Gregory, Wing, and Santos. They've been well compensated for the task."
Irene perched herself on the edge of his desk, her fingers trailing through his neatly styled hair. A flicker of concern crossed her face. "Dr. Dubar," she began, her voice softening, "maybe we should have warned our people before the war started. All this destruction..."
Dr. Dubar's expression remained impassive. "No, Irene. They needed a wake-up call. Generations of complacency have dulled their survival instincts. They needed to see the true depths of the white man's cruelty."
A cold smile stretched across his face. "They come from a different era, a time of peace that blinded them to the harsh realities. Now they'll see. Now they'll pledge their loyalty to the one who can protect them: me."
Irene nodded slowly, a predatory glint mirroring Dr. Dubar's own. "There are still many players in this game, Dubar. Razor may be one, but others will rise. They must be dealt with."
Dr. Dubar cupped her face in his hand, his gaze intense. "Becoming the parents of the new order will take time, my love," he murmured. "But with each eliminated pawn, we get closer. The Black Star will rise, and from its ashes, a new world will be born."
He chuckled, a chilling sound that sent shivers down Irene's spine. "But Jack Razor? Let him rage for a while longer. He's nothing but an incel man-child, spewing hate from his basement. His followers are the same – a pathetic bunch of misogynistic losers. Their machines are as impotent as their worldview."
"Mr. Wing, Mr. Santos, and Gregory have been well-funded, and they know the value of a clean kill. Razor's little cult won't stand a chance. And if his lackeys think they're going to have a free run of the city, well, they're sorely mistaken. The other movements, the prepared ones, will resist. They're not scared, Irene. A cornered cat bites back, and there are a lot of prepared cats out there."
The air in the assembly hall crackled with a mix of terror and desperation. The booming sounds of explosions and grinding metal echoed from outside, a constant reminder of the mechanized war raging in the streets. As Dr. Dubar Thompson stepped onto the stage, a wave of hope, tinged with desperation, surged through the crowd. Hands reached out to touch him, pleas for help erupting in a cacophony of voices.
Irene, standing beside him, squeezed his hand. A knowing smile played on his lips. "Then you are my goddess," he murmured, his voice low and rumbling, a stark contrast to the hysteria surrounding them. He raised his hand, the gesture silencing the crowd instantly.
"My fellow brothers and sisters," he boomed, his voice amplified by the microphone, "we are gathered here today in the face of tyranny! This chaos, this fear, is a product of our own complacency! We've allowed ourselves to be lulled into a false sense of security!"
A wave of disappointment washed over the faces in the crowd. They hadn't come for a history lesson; they craved a solution, a way out of the nightmare unfolding around them.
Sensing their shift, Dr. Dubar's voice hardened. "But despair is not an option! Our ancestors faced unimaginable horrors, yet they prevailed! And you, my friends," he swept his arm across the faces staring back at him, "you are their legacy! We will not be cowed by these machines! We will not surrender to fear!"
His words, infused with a charismatic fervor, reignited a spark of defiance in the crowd. A lone voice boomed from the back, "But how? They have the machines, the weapons!"
Another voice chimed in, laced with panic, "I heard they... they wiped out everyone in Staten Island and Brooklyn! Minorities... gone!"
Dr. Dubar raised his hand again, silencing the rising tide of panic. "Enough! We have faced down oppression before! Now is the time to reclaim our power!"
He pointed dramatically towards the center of the stage. A previously unnoticed trap door creaked open, revealing a dark chasm beneath. A collective gasp echoed through the hall as a giant mechanical hand, gleaming metallic black with yellow stripes, emerged from the depths. It grasped the floor, anchoring itself with a metallic screech.
Then, with a mechanical groan, another machine followed, its sleek gray form a stark contrast to its black counterpart. The crowd stared, speechless, as the two war machines rose fully into view, towering testaments to Dr. Dubar's engineering genius.
A triumphant grin spread across Dr. Dubar's face. He raised his arms, his voice echoing with power. "Behold, my children! Behold 'Black Power'!"
The initial shock melted away, replaced by a thunderous roar of cheers. Hope, once flickering, now burned brightly in their eyes. Dr. Dubar had not just promised them a fight; he had delivered the weapons. He had given them a symbol. They were no longer just refugees; they were an army. As the roar of the crowd echoed through the hall, Dr. Dubar knew this was just the beginning. The Black Star had risen, a beacon of defiance against the mechanized storm.
DR. DUBAR THOMPSON
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