Resolution

[John Doe]

"I'm sorry. Could you repeat that? Over."

"I said I'm sending them back, dumbass! I don't want these guys anymore. Over."

"Understood. What are your demands? Over."

"Got some wine? Or a big ol' juicy steak? We seem to be out of good meat over here, ha ha. Over."

"You're trading our soldiers over a steak dinner!? Over."

"Hey! They've been MY men for over four hours. I'd rather say that I'm sending over the fuckups I don't want. Over.

"So if you send our men over, we'll send over a deluxe steak dinner over to you. Over."

"Don't worry, I'll be sure to send them over. Over."

"Understood. Which base are you sending them over to? Over."

"How the fuck should I know? I'll just tell them to pick a dome and start walking over there. I'm sure that will work over well. Over."

"Very well... This next statement is off the record, but you know you won't get away with this, right? Over."

"Oh, I'm sorry, but I think I will. I'm on a roll, after all. And right now, I think this conversation is over."

"I didn't catch that last part. You were cut off. Hello? Over."

***

It had only been a few hours since Doe's plan was carried out. All over Mercy, invaders disguised as militiamen entered every base on Mercy at once. In a single, coordinated effort, Every military base on the planet was under attack. Radio messages echoed around the room. Cries of confusion, shouts for support, and howls of terror filled the airwaves, terminating with silence. Nothing was left but soft static.

Doe sunk back in his swank swivel chair, arms folded behind his head and legs crossed on top of a bare counter. Across the room, several yellow-clothed invaders monitored monitors, monitoring the situation unfolding around them. They conversed between themselves in a language the shade-wearing turncoat couldn't hope to understand. Hovering behind these soldiers was the armored invader commander, coolly taking note of the information being spoken. Fine leather footwear left their perch on the head of the desk. Doe leaned in to his new allies, taking out a small plastic case labeled "Fat Lady" with black ink. "Hurrah hurrah! Complete annihilation, right?"

The armored invader, who Doe mentally decided to call Bob, cranked his head back to the collaborator. Bob lifted his armband and spoke into it. "Correct. Our forces have just sieged the final colony. The planet Mercy has fallen."

"Told ya it would work!" Doe opened his container and pulled out a handful of cigarettes, tossing the plastic box to the floor. Flicking his thumb sent one cig into his open chops, lighting as soon as it touched his lips. He pulled himself out of the chair and walked over to the crowd of yellow robed invaders. Doe extended his offer with his hand. "You guys want one?"

The armored Bob carefully picked a cig from the small pile and examined it carefully. The invader commander brought the translator up to his mouth. "What of your subordinates?"

"My men? I'll show you what I think of my men!" The suited man scanned the room until he saw a single militia standing in the corner. "Private Wood, salute!" The soldier flashed his longest digit in the air for his commander, standing at full attention. Doe gave the trooper a thumbs up as he reached into his pocket, pulled out his pistol, and shot Private Wood in the head. The soldier fell backwards without a sound, save a hushed crash, laying in a heap on the floor. "Atta boy!" He buried the weapon back into his overcoat, spinning around to face Bob. "I told ya, I don't give a damn about these guys. The only one that matters is me!"

Bob brought the cigarette he clutched to his mouth, mimicking Doe's movements. As the cigarette reached his mouth(?), the shady suit-wearing man touched the end of the butt. Embers appeared at the end, filling the invader's orifice with Nicotine-enriched smoky goodness. Bob made wheezes and hacks, the invaders surrounding him on all sides in response. Doe spat out low sniggers and grey haze, smacking Bob a few times in the back. "So, when do I get my cut?"

***

"Sir, I've gotten word from Mercy." The middle-aged messenger ducked his head from a large, ivory door.

"Yeah? Out with it!" A giant mahogany desk, shined to perfection, sheltered the seated old man. Both the messenger and the old man were highly decorated, dressed in select suits and eagle ties.

The messenger walked in, sliding into a leather chair in front of the engraved wooden desk. He inhaled and closed his eyes as he leaned in, hands grasping each other and covering his mouth. After a brief calm, the messenger spoke. "Mercy's gone sir, it's been conquered."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" The old man threw his hands up and blankly stared at his desk, pacing his balding head back and forth. He kept his mouth agape and brought his hand to caress his forehead. "Well, as long as the those invader bastards don't try anything else, we'll let this one slide. We'll deal with them once the time comes."

"Yes sir."

The old man and the messenger gazed off into space and thought to themselves. There wasn't much else they could do. "What did we learn, Johnson?"

"I don't know, sir."

"I don't fucking know either."