CHAPTER/one: SHATTERED/origins

Retribution Definite in the year 2014. The UN Allied Forces launched a full scale attack on the United States. The United States is defeated and the UN Allied Forces take control of a vast majority of the world in the U.S.' dark times.

The year is now 2015.

As the sun beats down on the surrounding wasteland, a lone red car streaks down the decrepit remains of a road, kicking up dust clouds in the wake of its speed. To the naked eye, the only semblance of a driver would be the blur of the pitch-black suit he is wearing. The driver's name is Emir Parkreiner, and his eyes are wide open. He doesn't know where he is going or why – he doesn't need a reason anymore.

Suddenly, he spots a lone bar on the roadside and slams on the brakes, screeching to a stop that one could only describe as 'stylish'. The bar is run down and beaten up, but the neon sign in the front window is still flashing a red and blue 'OPEN' to strangers passing through. Emir approaches the bar and enters the muddy atmosphere. It's a typical bar setting – neon signs of beer companies hung everywhere, a set of pool tables near the back, a TV set up above the wooden bar that is turned off. The smell of cigarettes and alcohol is thick in the stale air.

The bartender has his back turned and doesn't bother greeting Emir as he approaches a bar stool. There is only one other person in the bar, a man Emir knows well. The man is named Christopher Mills, and he turns in his seat to face Emir as the African American sits in an adjacent stool.

"So you were loyal to Japan after all. Heh, I was hoping you'd change your ways." The man spoke, scratching his head through his thick, curly, brown hair. He smiled at Emir.

"Hope is for the uncertain. And uncertainty is for the weak." Emir replied in his natural deep voice, turning in his seat to meet Chistopher's eyes.

"Well, Garcian - er, sorry - Emir, I mean, it doesn't really matter to me now." Christopher sighed calmly. "I'm finally free now. I was caught in a cycle that would never end, you know. The U.S. Government gave the jobs, which I passed off to you. Once you completed the job, the Government always had another one waiting for me to give ya." Christopher turned to Emir and frowned. "But the cycle's been broken, and all their efforts were in complete vain. Too bad for them, eh?" The man grinned.

"Yeah, sure. Look, you're starting to bore me. I'll chat with you later." Emir replied as he reached into his suit.

"Alright, see ya later." Christopher nodded, still grinning. He pointed at Emir. "Just watch out for the past, it might just be your worst enemy." Christopher advised as he saluted.

"Hmph." Emir grunted, pulling a golden revolver out of his suit. He aimed at Christopher's head, swiftly pulling the trigger. The man burst into thousands of white fragments that dispersed, then absorbed back into Emir. Emir placed the revolver back into his suit and sighed. A cup of coffee slid down the bar to him.

"It's on the house, don't worry about it." A voice coolly said. Emir looked up and noticed it was the bartender that had spoken, though his back was still turned. A chill ran down Emir's spine, but he shook it off.

"Uhh…thanks." Emir muttered uncertainly. He lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip. "Pretty good."

"Yeah, house blend. So, Garcian, how's it going?" The bartender asked, no hint of emotion in his voice.

Emir paused for a split second and then dropped the cup. It shattered on the floor as he reached into his right pocket and whipped out his silenced handgun, another weapon he carried at the ready. He aimed it straight at the bartender's back. "Who the hell are you?" Emir yelled as he nestled his left hand on the gun as well, to make sure he had a steady grip.

"Easy, easy. Just calm down." The bartender assured. He turned around, revealing his messy black hair with long sideburns. He had a slight grin on his face, and Emir recognized him immediately, though he couldn't believe it.

"Dan Smith? You're dead, dammit, DEAD!" Emir yelled out. "What the fuck is going on?"

"Calm down - do I look dead to you? I guess I'm not dead then, right dumbass?" Dan rhetorically asked. He remained calm, the grin still stuck on his face.

"Well then, I'll just kill you now!" Emir started to squeeze the trigger, but then stopped. He felt the cold barrel of a gun press tightly against the back of his neck. What stopped Emir wasn't the fact that there was a gun pressed to his neck though – it was the person behind the gun. He felt the edge of the revolver and knew that it was highly modified, totally customized and therefore unique to one man. One Hispanic man.

"Put the gun down now, amigo." A deep voice ordered behind him.

"No way. There's no way." Emir said, his voice wavering.

"HEY! Put the goddamn gun down. Now, dammit!" The voice commanded, a voice Emir knew all too well. At that instant, he knew the man behind him was Coyote Smith.

"My God…" Emir muttered, lowering his gun. "I'm not gonna drop it, but I'll lower it. Now explain what the fuck is going on."

"I think I might be able to do that for you, Garcian. Or I guess you would prefer Emir, seeing as that's your new persona." Another familiar voice spoke in a raspy tone. Harman Smith, the wheelchair-bound old man wheeled out from a shadowed corner of the bar. He was dressed in black and had his signature rimmed hat on, black as well. The familiar oversized sniper rifle was strapped to the back of his wheelchair. He smiled as he met Emir's gaze.

"What the fuck! No, no no no! I killed all of you!" Emir cried out, shocked. He raised the gun again and pointed it from Dan to Harman, then to Coyote. "WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?"

"Emir, lower the gun and all will be explained." Harman declared in his calm voice. It was a command Emir obeyed. Anything to get the truth.