Penman Panic: Author's Club Takes Over the World!

Part 6: Finale, part I

Penman Panic!

THE WORLD: Part 1

                It had been a long time in the making. Plans to take over the world don’t come easy. Zach had laughed when he said that, for some reason, but Dylan didn’t care. He had finished his “blink drive,” a tool that would allow him to travel short bursts of distance instantaneously. With that strapped on his wrist, and his two knives in hand, he was ready to proceed with the mission.

                The siege on Munich had lasted for a few days now. The rest of Germany had fallen fairly quickly after Russia had collapsed. The United League, the main opponent of the WHS Attack League, had several leaders holed up here in the chaos. WHSAL and its allies (France, Italy, Portugal, several African nations, Japan, India, and most crucially, the homeland: North and South America) were leading a killing blow, but there was another reason for the haste: Conquered people don’t like being conquered, especially by some upstart teenagers. Resistance within their lands was almost as strong as on the borders. If they could crush their enemies on no uncertain terms before the resistance could organize, they might have a shot to control with less blood on their hands. All Dylan had to do now was await the signal.

                Jaden was casually walking toward the most heavily armed location in all of Munich. He hadn’t snuck in like Dylan and Jackson, and he certainly hadn’t wanted to wait back and watch with Brenna. He had just walked in. Every guard, solider, artillery and frightened civilian had died around him. He never killed them. No, he didn’t even put up resistance. He would raise his arms, shout “IT’S NOT A HARD SHOT!” and continue walking. Two guards missed him, and shot each other. One thought that his gun misfired, and upon inspecting the barrel, he found (however shortly) it was a delayed fire. The civilian ran off the bridge in panic of seeing such a high up general of the enemy. Artillery detonated in its barrel. Sheer luck was keeping this man alive, and he was pissed.

                He pulled out his only weapon, a small penknife. Flicking it out at the guard near the door, he impaled the man in his temple. The other guard fled. Jaden didn’t care. Fire opened from the windows, machine guns spraying bullets like Twilight reader’s saliva during the wedding scene. But every bullet missed him. Guns overheated; some jammed. Soldiers looked in fear at this man, this being of pure positive karma. He waved, they all ran in fear.

                Jaden walked out, and flashed a signal to a rooftop. Dylan smiled. First floor was clear.

                Brenna watched all of this unfold from a laptop in their military headquarters. Dylan had stepped down as tactician, giving her the shot she wanted so desperately. Her knight was in place, having cleared the first floor. Her bishop stood on the rooftop, getting ready to infiltrate. But where was her pawn? She looked around, and then started switching cameras. He wasn’t in the building. Certainly wasn’t in any of the streets. Her eyes were everywhere. Security cameras that had once kept Munich a stronghold were now its weakest point. She kept searching for her pawn, the last piece that she needed to win the board. Then she found him: just a few minutes behind where he needed to be. He was the stopper of tanks. He was who she sent to prevent reinforcements. He was Jackson and his new puppet, Kunai Horshikiri.

                Jackson ran through his enemies, sundering flesh from bone and limb from body with the ease of moving a hand. Because he wasn’t killing them, not really. It was his new puppet, Kunai. Kunai was a gift from a Japanese diplomat securing relations with the WHSAL, a tobi sock of the highest caliber. He was a ronin, and he had found his new shogun. He wielded a legendary katana, measuring a full six feet long in his two “hands”. And he slew only for Jackson. The two of them where a whirlwind of death, cutting down soldiers and even tanks with a grim, slicing dance of senseless beauty, felling foe and machine without missing a beat from their dark ballet. This was their reinforcements, and they would not arrive at the minister’s house. Their only destination was hell. “SAY HELLO TO MISTER WOOLSWORTH FOR ME!” he roared, ending for men in the process. The survivors fell back in fear at the mindless beast, and soon joined their comrades for an interesting conversation with a fallen sock.

                Dylan jumped from rooftop to rooftop, appearing in the house from an open attic window. He shot down the stairs as fast as he could, running toward a guard with silent steps. The guard turned his head in time to see the two keen edges fly through his neck. Dylan didn’t stop running. Jaden came up the stairs, and the two guard around him had sudden heart attacks. He looked annoyed. Jaden entered the room with the minister. He became keenly aware of his body guards, but mostly aware of the knife buried in his stomach. He looked down, and broke the would-be-assassin’s neck. Dylan blinked in front of him, and buried his knives in the two guard on either side of his friend. “RUN!” he shouted to his friend. Jaden nodded numbly, and started to run. His head pounded, and he coughed up a gobbet of blood. He realized something. He was dying. For a cause. And he didn’t want to.

                Scrounging in his pocket, he pulled out the most important invention WHSAL had ever created: Magical Healing Salve of Plot Convenience. It could save any wound, but only one dose could ever be made. Don’t ask why, it’s just a rule. Sarah had given it to him, asking him not to die. And he didn’t promise. But now he did. He swore it to her. And he applied the salve, and felt a burning sensation. It was soul-wrenching, hurtful, cruel and merciless. The closest thing it could be compared to was having your book beta-read. But he lived, and he ran.

                Dylan slowly approached the minister. He was an old man, very German. “Verschone mich! Verschone mich!” he shouted, trembling. Dylan laughed.

                “Ich spreche kein Deutch.”

The man quivered. Dylan took his knifes and sheathed them. The man stared as his assassin, very scared, very confused. He was knocked out by a quick punch to the head. Dylan slung him over his shoulder, and walked upstairs to the window. He blinked from rooftop to rooftop, and eventually to the ground. Soldiers, afraid to kill their leader, charged him, only to fall to Jackson, who had caught up with him. The two simply marched out of the once-impregnable fortress, to the siege line. Brenna was waiting outside her tent.

“What took you so long?”