This is something I've been wanting to do for awhile now, and since we finally have a place to put our autistic fanmade creations involving ADF, I figured it was a better time than any to start on this. I'll try to pump out a chapter a week, and bi-weekly at latest.
"In the early years of the 21st century, the Atlantic nation of Australatina underwent a mysterious regime change overnight. Contact with the outside and Western nations was lost for nearly two days, until information was released stating that Australatina's prime minister, Cruz Bustamante, was no longer in power and had been replaced by Chairwoman Ahuviya Rotem Harel, who was turning Australatina into a nation of equality. Many media outlets and journalists were interested in interviewing the citizens of Australatina. However, the borders to Australatina were closed the week following the regime change. Australatina had effectively become a nation with secrecy rivaling that of North Korea. Commercial airlines and ships were barred from entering the country, save for those with special permits. Any information regarding life in the secretive nation was very scarce, and almost non-existent...until now.
Enter Tyler Sloan, freelance journalist and war reporter, currently at rock bottom after an incident from months back destroyed his reputation. He sees a chance to save his career and get back in the game: Entering Australatina and conducting the first ever outside documentary. It seemed like it would be an easy scoop. But things took a turn for the worse the moment his plane pulled into the airport terminal..."
CHAPTER ONE: Like Jamestown All Over Again
I only had two things on my mind during that flight: Where I was going to go first when I got off the plane, and when the hell the flight attendant was going to bring me my Rum & Coke. I swear that plane was only a third of the way full, not many people on it. I didn't know if this Australatina place was a dry country or not, so that drink would have been the last drop of liquor I'd have till my two weeks was up. Ah, hell. Who knows. Maybe it was for the best. My little run in with the law some months back sort of put me on a downward spiral of booze and pills. A little detox session wouldn't hurt, I guess. The flight attendant walked right past me for the who-the-fuck-knows-how-many-eth time. She didn't bring me my fuckin' drink, but the captain did come over the intercom to let us know we were arriving at the airport soon. Hell, I still hadn't decided where I was going to go first or who I was going to interview. The only thing that had been on my mind was that Rum & Coke. I almost forgot that I was supposed to call my buddy Stuart once we landed.
Once the plane touched down I pulled out my smartphone and dialed up Stuart. Normally I'd have to wait a few dial tones before he'd pick up, and hell, sometimes it would seem like I was going to voicemail before he decided to pick up. But that day, he answered almost immediately. "Hey, hey, hey! Tyler fuckin' Sloan, how's it going, buddy?!" Stuart blurted.
"Stu boy, glad to hear from ya!" I said, putting on my sunglasses. "I just landed in North Korea 2.0, how 'bout that?"
"Ah, nice bro, nice. Did you get a view of the countryside coming in? How'd it look?"
"Uuuh..." I just remembered that I'd been sitting in the middle of the fucking plane. "Yeah, nice! It was nice! You know, like flying over the countryside of any other country!"
"Yeah, well, just be sure to take pictures of the shit that matters. You know that FOX News, MSNBC, and all those other assholes are gonna be at each others throats trying to get a piece of what you've got!
"Look, Stu, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I just want to get out of the shitter with this job."
"Hey, I get it, Ty. But look on the bright side: You're kind of a fuck up. You know who takes in fuck ups and publishes their stories about fucking up?"
"VICE News..." I said through a sigh
"VICE News!" Stuart shouted. "Seriously, the kids these days love hearing cautionary tales, and the hipsters also love hearing about the nitty gritty shit they can't do because their parents raised them to be goody two-shoes! Just sayin', man. It can't be all that bad. Like, I guarantee ninety-five percent of what you say and write will just be Hunter S. Thompson quotes, y'know? Alright, look, what I'm sayin' is that it won't be all that bad and you can make money writing about your fuck ups. Just being the first outside journalist in that country is enough to get your career back."
"Yeah, let's hope, at least." I said as I put my faux-leather blazer on over my red Hawaiian shirt. "Hey, I'll call you back once I get a hotel, the plane's getting ready to unload."
"Alright, man. Good luck!" Yeah, I was going to need all the luck I could get.
People kept shoving me back into my seat every time I tried getting up. I kept cursing under my breath, but in hindsight, that was probably a good thing. The line came to a halt and the passengers began murmuring as they looked over everyone's heads and shoulders. The captain came over the intercom again and said, "Uuh, ladies and gentlemen, there's a slight problem. Please, uh...please return to your seats." I had a bad feeling about it. A very bad feeling. So, my war reporter instincts kicked in and I got down low. I peeked around the corner of my seat, towards the entrance of the plane cabin to see a flight attendant arguing with someone on the outside. That's when she took a burst of gunfire to her stomach.
It was chaos in that plane cabin. I heard someone yell, "Flashbang!" and next thing I knew, my hearing was gone and it felt like some beefed up Siberian bodybuilder took a baseball bat to my skull. Not the first time it happened to me, but definitely the first time outside of testing Chinese SWAT crowd control weaponry for a piece I did for some gun bunny magazine in the States. Still though, it wasn't anything you just shake off after a few seconds. First thing I did was feel around for my carry-on luggage which...well, it was a messenger bag, but it had its uses. I started crawling along the floor of the cabin, making my way towards the back of the plane as I tried to regain my hearing and as chaos ensued all around me. The civilians on the plane were screaming, shoving each other, trampling over me. My guess was someone opened the door at the other end of the plane, because I heard someone scream, "They're shooting people over there too!" At least that's what I was able to make out as my hearing was coming back. I went for the emergency exit on the wing of the plane that wasn't facing the gunfire. I knew there'd be mooks on the other side, but I didn't really give a damn. It seemed like they were all focused on that one side of the plane. I felt a hand grab my shoulder and pull me away as I was about to open the door. "Get out of my way!" Some fat guy in a suit shouted as he tried opening the door. "I'm getting out of this slaughterhouse!"
That was probably my saving grace, though. The second that door open, he started spazzing the fuck out as bullets ripped into him, barfing up blood and half-digested airplane food. He turned around, grabbing my jacket as he fell back and pulled me out onto the wing. I slid down towards the end of the plane, trying my best not to move until I felt myself hit the pavement of the tarmac. Once I was on the ground I got up and started running. It was chaos on the ground. Some of the passengers made it to the tarmac and made a mad dash, but they were being gunned down by a BTR making circles around the plane. One of the flight attendants as well as a man she was helping were sucked into the plane engine, causing it to blow up and knock me back onto the ground. As I was getting up, I came face to face with the barrel of a FN-FAL, wielded by a soldier dressed in olive drabs, jackboots, and a black beret. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy! I'm with the press!" I shouted, reaching into my coat and pulling out my press pass. "I'm not a terrorist! I swear to fucking god!"
The soldier just shook his head and leveled the rifle with my head. I thought that this would be it, but luck was on my side that day. A red mist of blood, brain, and bits of skull fragment blew out the side of his head. "It's the resistance!" One of the soldiers shouted. Suddenly all those trigger happy assholes were focused on the incoming paramilitary force. The chain linked fence around the tarmac was blown open and a cavalry of bikers armed with light machine guns started mowing down the gunmen almost immediately. "YEEEEEAAAAAAAARGHH, RIDE HARD, BROTHERS!" Shouted the leader of the bikers, a burly blond haired viking of a man wearing sunglasses. "GET RID OF THOSE BABY RAPIN' TRANSCUM!"
The bikers were followed by a group of technicals that were armed with .50 cal machine guns. "Protect the passengers! Eradicate the ADF!" A man said over the loudspeaker of his technical. I started running away from the plane, taking cover behind baggage carts as I pulled out my smartphone and began taking photos of the battle. Yeah, I know, a journalist using his smartphone for photography. But if it makes you feel any better, I kept a camcorder in my messenger back for video footage. Smartphones can only do so much. Also I was a cheap motherfucker, but whatever. As I was going for the camcorder in my messenger bag, one of the Resistance technicals came to a screeching halt next to me. Some big ass John Goodman looking motherfucker poked his head out the window of the truck and yelled, "You, get in! Come on, go, go, go!!!" I didn't argue with him. I just held my messenger bag in my arms and dove into the bed of the technical as the gunner continued mowing down ADF soldiers. We drove past the biker viking again, who looked like he was having the time of his life as he held a metal pole out in front of him like a jouster. He was going for a wounded ADF soldier who was crawling on all fours. The biker viking jammed the metal pole up the asshole of the ADF soldier and hoisted him high in the air. "YEAAAAHHRRRRRGGGGH!!! TO FREEDOM, AMERICANS!!!" He shouted as the ADF soldier slid further down the pole.
Suddenly the technical was flanked by Resistance bikers. The John Goodman guy looked at me through he back window. "You! You were on that plane, right!?" He shouted. I stammered a bit at first but eventually I was able to say, "Yeah, I was! What the hell happened back there?!"
"Doesn't matter!" He said. "The name's Mac! Listen, we need to debrief you as soon as we get outside of the hotzone!"
"What?! Look, buddy, I need to get the fuck out of here! I'm just a journalist, alright?!"
"Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but the borders are gonna be closed soon, and there's no way in hell you're getting out of the country."
"There has to be some way."
"Yeah, and there is. You said you were a journalist, right? We could--" The technical braked hard as a mortar exploded in front of it. The driver swerved, throwing me out and onto the pavement.
After I skidded across the ground and came to a stop, I slowly tried to get up, grunting in pain. My messenger bag was still in the truckbed of that technical. Thing is, that bag had my passport in it. And my press pass. I felt someone grab me by the back of my blazer, hoisting me onto my feet. For a second, I thought it was Mac, so naturally I praised him with thanks. A cargo truck came up to me and I felt "Mac" start to push me towards it. It wasn't until I looked in and saw two ADF soldiers inside the cargo truck, guarding survivors from the airplane that I realized the man behind me was just another ADF soldier, and not Mac. "Into the truck, you CIS-scum!" The soldier demanded before he, for some fucking reason, bashed the butt of his rifle into my head. As my I faded out of consciousness, my eyes caught the last glimmers of the rising sun. It was the end of dawn for the day, but just the beginning of an Australatina Dawn...
Yeah, that sounded better in my head, I think.
"In the early years of the 21st century, the Atlantic nation of Australatina underwent a mysterious regime change overnight. Contact with the outside and Western nations was lost for nearly two days, until information was released stating that Australatina's prime minister, Cruz Bustamante, was no longer in power and had been replaced by Chairwoman Ahuviya Rotem Harel, who was turning Australatina into a nation of equality. Many media outlets and journalists were interested in interviewing the citizens of Australatina. However, the borders to Australatina were closed the week following the regime change. Australatina had effectively become a nation with secrecy rivaling that of North Korea. Commercial airlines and ships were barred from entering the country, save for those with special permits. Any information regarding life in the secretive nation was very scarce, and almost non-existent...until now.
Enter Tyler Sloan, freelance journalist and war reporter, currently at rock bottom after an incident from months back destroyed his reputation. He sees a chance to save his career and get back in the game: Entering Australatina and conducting the first ever outside documentary. It seemed like it would be an easy scoop. But things took a turn for the worse the moment his plane pulled into the airport terminal..."
CHAPTER ONE: Like Jamestown All Over Again
I only had two things on my mind during that flight: Where I was going to go first when I got off the plane, and when the hell the flight attendant was going to bring me my Rum & Coke. I swear that plane was only a third of the way full, not many people on it. I didn't know if this Australatina place was a dry country or not, so that drink would have been the last drop of liquor I'd have till my two weeks was up. Ah, hell. Who knows. Maybe it was for the best. My little run in with the law some months back sort of put me on a downward spiral of booze and pills. A little detox session wouldn't hurt, I guess. The flight attendant walked right past me for the who-the-fuck-knows-how-many-eth time. She didn't bring me my fuckin' drink, but the captain did come over the intercom to let us know we were arriving at the airport soon. Hell, I still hadn't decided where I was going to go first or who I was going to interview. The only thing that had been on my mind was that Rum & Coke. I almost forgot that I was supposed to call my buddy Stuart once we landed.
Once the plane touched down I pulled out my smartphone and dialed up Stuart. Normally I'd have to wait a few dial tones before he'd pick up, and hell, sometimes it would seem like I was going to voicemail before he decided to pick up. But that day, he answered almost immediately. "Hey, hey, hey! Tyler fuckin' Sloan, how's it going, buddy?!" Stuart blurted.
"Stu boy, glad to hear from ya!" I said, putting on my sunglasses. "I just landed in North Korea 2.0, how 'bout that?"
"Ah, nice bro, nice. Did you get a view of the countryside coming in? How'd it look?"
"Uuuh..." I just remembered that I'd been sitting in the middle of the fucking plane. "Yeah, nice! It was nice! You know, like flying over the countryside of any other country!"
"Yeah, well, just be sure to take pictures of the shit that matters. You know that FOX News, MSNBC, and all those other assholes are gonna be at each others throats trying to get a piece of what you've got!
"Look, Stu, I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I just want to get out of the shitter with this job."
"Hey, I get it, Ty. But look on the bright side: You're kind of a fuck up. You know who takes in fuck ups and publishes their stories about fucking up?"
"VICE News..." I said through a sigh
"VICE News!" Stuart shouted. "Seriously, the kids these days love hearing cautionary tales, and the hipsters also love hearing about the nitty gritty shit they can't do because their parents raised them to be goody two-shoes! Just sayin', man. It can't be all that bad. Like, I guarantee ninety-five percent of what you say and write will just be Hunter S. Thompson quotes, y'know? Alright, look, what I'm sayin' is that it won't be all that bad and you can make money writing about your fuck ups. Just being the first outside journalist in that country is enough to get your career back."
"Yeah, let's hope, at least." I said as I put my faux-leather blazer on over my red Hawaiian shirt. "Hey, I'll call you back once I get a hotel, the plane's getting ready to unload."
"Alright, man. Good luck!" Yeah, I was going to need all the luck I could get.
People kept shoving me back into my seat every time I tried getting up. I kept cursing under my breath, but in hindsight, that was probably a good thing. The line came to a halt and the passengers began murmuring as they looked over everyone's heads and shoulders. The captain came over the intercom again and said, "Uuh, ladies and gentlemen, there's a slight problem. Please, uh...please return to your seats." I had a bad feeling about it. A very bad feeling. So, my war reporter instincts kicked in and I got down low. I peeked around the corner of my seat, towards the entrance of the plane cabin to see a flight attendant arguing with someone on the outside. That's when she took a burst of gunfire to her stomach.
It was chaos in that plane cabin. I heard someone yell, "Flashbang!" and next thing I knew, my hearing was gone and it felt like some beefed up Siberian bodybuilder took a baseball bat to my skull. Not the first time it happened to me, but definitely the first time outside of testing Chinese SWAT crowd control weaponry for a piece I did for some gun bunny magazine in the States. Still though, it wasn't anything you just shake off after a few seconds. First thing I did was feel around for my carry-on luggage which...well, it was a messenger bag, but it had its uses. I started crawling along the floor of the cabin, making my way towards the back of the plane as I tried to regain my hearing and as chaos ensued all around me. The civilians on the plane were screaming, shoving each other, trampling over me. My guess was someone opened the door at the other end of the plane, because I heard someone scream, "They're shooting people over there too!" At least that's what I was able to make out as my hearing was coming back. I went for the emergency exit on the wing of the plane that wasn't facing the gunfire. I knew there'd be mooks on the other side, but I didn't really give a damn. It seemed like they were all focused on that one side of the plane. I felt a hand grab my shoulder and pull me away as I was about to open the door. "Get out of my way!" Some fat guy in a suit shouted as he tried opening the door. "I'm getting out of this slaughterhouse!"
That was probably my saving grace, though. The second that door open, he started spazzing the fuck out as bullets ripped into him, barfing up blood and half-digested airplane food. He turned around, grabbing my jacket as he fell back and pulled me out onto the wing. I slid down towards the end of the plane, trying my best not to move until I felt myself hit the pavement of the tarmac. Once I was on the ground I got up and started running. It was chaos on the ground. Some of the passengers made it to the tarmac and made a mad dash, but they were being gunned down by a BTR making circles around the plane. One of the flight attendants as well as a man she was helping were sucked into the plane engine, causing it to blow up and knock me back onto the ground. As I was getting up, I came face to face with the barrel of a FN-FAL, wielded by a soldier dressed in olive drabs, jackboots, and a black beret. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy! I'm with the press!" I shouted, reaching into my coat and pulling out my press pass. "I'm not a terrorist! I swear to fucking god!"
The soldier just shook his head and leveled the rifle with my head. I thought that this would be it, but luck was on my side that day. A red mist of blood, brain, and bits of skull fragment blew out the side of his head. "It's the resistance!" One of the soldiers shouted. Suddenly all those trigger happy assholes were focused on the incoming paramilitary force. The chain linked fence around the tarmac was blown open and a cavalry of bikers armed with light machine guns started mowing down the gunmen almost immediately. "YEEEEEAAAAAAAARGHH, RIDE HARD, BROTHERS!" Shouted the leader of the bikers, a burly blond haired viking of a man wearing sunglasses. "GET RID OF THOSE BABY RAPIN' TRANSCUM!"
The bikers were followed by a group of technicals that were armed with .50 cal machine guns. "Protect the passengers! Eradicate the ADF!" A man said over the loudspeaker of his technical. I started running away from the plane, taking cover behind baggage carts as I pulled out my smartphone and began taking photos of the battle. Yeah, I know, a journalist using his smartphone for photography. But if it makes you feel any better, I kept a camcorder in my messenger back for video footage. Smartphones can only do so much. Also I was a cheap motherfucker, but whatever. As I was going for the camcorder in my messenger bag, one of the Resistance technicals came to a screeching halt next to me. Some big ass John Goodman looking motherfucker poked his head out the window of the truck and yelled, "You, get in! Come on, go, go, go!!!" I didn't argue with him. I just held my messenger bag in my arms and dove into the bed of the technical as the gunner continued mowing down ADF soldiers. We drove past the biker viking again, who looked like he was having the time of his life as he held a metal pole out in front of him like a jouster. He was going for a wounded ADF soldier who was crawling on all fours. The biker viking jammed the metal pole up the asshole of the ADF soldier and hoisted him high in the air. "YEAAAAHHRRRRRGGGGH!!! TO FREEDOM, AMERICANS!!!" He shouted as the ADF soldier slid further down the pole.
Suddenly the technical was flanked by Resistance bikers. The John Goodman guy looked at me through he back window. "You! You were on that plane, right!?" He shouted. I stammered a bit at first but eventually I was able to say, "Yeah, I was! What the hell happened back there?!"
"Doesn't matter!" He said. "The name's Mac! Listen, we need to debrief you as soon as we get outside of the hotzone!"
"What?! Look, buddy, I need to get the fuck out of here! I'm just a journalist, alright?!"
"Yeah, well, I hate to break it to you, buddy, but the borders are gonna be closed soon, and there's no way in hell you're getting out of the country."
"There has to be some way."
"Yeah, and there is. You said you were a journalist, right? We could--" The technical braked hard as a mortar exploded in front of it. The driver swerved, throwing me out and onto the pavement.
After I skidded across the ground and came to a stop, I slowly tried to get up, grunting in pain. My messenger bag was still in the truckbed of that technical. Thing is, that bag had my passport in it. And my press pass. I felt someone grab me by the back of my blazer, hoisting me onto my feet. For a second, I thought it was Mac, so naturally I praised him with thanks. A cargo truck came up to me and I felt "Mac" start to push me towards it. It wasn't until I looked in and saw two ADF soldiers inside the cargo truck, guarding survivors from the airplane that I realized the man behind me was just another ADF soldier, and not Mac. "Into the truck, you CIS-scum!" The soldier demanded before he, for some fucking reason, bashed the butt of his rifle into my head. As my I faded out of consciousness, my eyes caught the last glimmers of the rising sun. It was the end of dawn for the day, but just the beginning of an Australatina Dawn...
Yeah, that sounded better in my head, I think.
