Michael Bunker - WICK

“I didn’t say that money couldn’t buy power. It can. That much is obvious. I asked if it should be able to,” Red Beard snapped back.

“I just used that power to stop a battle that would have raged for days or weeks and would have cost many more lives, Pat,” Clive said. “Personally, I don’t mind if these people fight. Really, I don’t. But I’m not going to let any of them, as they thrash out at one another, crush the only source of food and productive knowledge that any of us will have in the near future. I’m not imposing my will on people, except insofar as they are heedlessly endangering everyone else. Think of me as a referee.”

“I just said I don’t feel comfortable with arbitrary power. That’s all,” Red Beard said.

Clive didn’t respond.

Calvin bit into his apple and looked out across the field. He saw the RV roll forward down the street. Clive’s army was now moving efficiently toward what had once been the brewery at the end of the block, picking off any remaining opposition with impressive efficiency. It really was a thing of beauty, Calvin thought. He considered Clive and Red Beard’s argument for a moment, and decided that it was the willingness to use force that made it priceless… and morally questionable.

To Calvin, Clive and Red Beard’s whirlwind of activity over the last few weeks, started to make sense. For the first time he had an inkling as to what the cowboy and the leprechaun had been up to all this time. Even if now, with the fruit of their work made evident, they seemed to be disagreeing about the morality of it all.

The group that had weathered the battle down in the cellar emerged from the rubble of Nick’s restaurant with smiles on their faces. Clive’s men immediately went to work helping Nick and Ace haul the valuables. They removed bags of gold and silver, crates of barter-able goods—a veritable treasury—from the catacomb shelter that had saved five lives.

After the bounty from the basement was loaded into wagons, the group of five joined Clive, Red Beard, and Calvin as they exited the town of Mount Joy, walking the mile to the place where Clive’s heavily guarded RV was stationed.

The unified group talked as they moved across the fields, trudging through the snow towards Clive’s motorcade, and, as they talked, they caught up on the stories of their lives like old friends or new acquaintances would, like survivors would, with war stories and harrowing tales of terror and survival.

Peter and Red Beard talked as they walked. Calvin and Charlie paired off, with Elsie hovering just over their shoulders, having taken a motherly instinct toward both of the boys. Clive and Nick, old friends, carried on a conversation known only to themselves.

It was only Ace, along with the ever-present armed contingent that served to protect Clive, who was still watching for trouble. That is a critical fact to note.

No one among the group was ever in real danger. That should be noted too. Clive’s men were on the job, but they were just a tad slow in spotting two people who broke free from the tree lined rise just ahead, and began dashing towards the group.

The two were running, screaming, and waving their arms. They were two-hundred yards away when they emerged from the trees and began their mad dash, and it seemed that they might be running at a man who had just brought an entire town of opposing armies to its knees as easily as if he gone out for milk.

Ace moved automatically, and with no hesitation. In one smooth motion, he dropped his pack and the sniper rifle almost magically swung with his body, rising up into his ready hands. With clock-like precision, he popped up the scope covers, and brought the weapon up to the ready position. He dropped to one knee, and by this time, the whole militia contingent had seen the two strangers sprinting towards the group. They too began moving into position, raising their rifles and pistols towards the onrushing pair.

Ace looked through the scope and raised it until a face filled the lens. His eyes narrowed and he made a few slight adjustments in order to bring the face into clearer focus. That was when he saw her….

Natasha .

He moved the scope over a hair and spotted the other runner. That must be Natasha’s brother. The likeness was uncanny.

Cole .

What were they yelling? He could just make out their lips.

“Peter! Peter!”

“Hold fire! Hold fire!” Ace shouted.

The militia unit all reacted immediately, lowering their weapons and repeating the order to hold fire.

Peter and Elsie looked quizzically over at Ace, the unspoken question plain on their faces.

The sniper pointed at the two runners in the distance and smiled.

“Some friends of yours, I believe.”

He was no longer Mikail Mikailivitch Brekhunov. He was no longer even Mike Baker. He’d now become someone else altogether different. He was being remade, reborn , yet again. He was now on the verge of becoming what he was meant to be. Like, for instance, in the Bible, when men of renown were placed into high office, and God Himself would give such men a new name. Mikail demanded that everyone else treat the affair with that kind of dignity, at the utmost level of seriousness. He had, in the past, been known by several names, but now, with his new office, he was adopting the name and rank that would be his for the rest of his life. He was seizing his birthright.

“Gentlemen! Welcome to the new world. That which has passed, is now behind us, and we are moving into the future together. I’ve spoken to each one of you, and you know what I have promised you. This force is about to rise up and we’re going to bring order to this chaos.”

He paused for a moment, choosing his words wisely, watching to see how each man responded to the words he chose.

“We have a lot of challenges ahead of us. We’re going to have hardships. But, this army is no longer going to be operating for the private benefit of one man!” He paused and looked at the crowd, “From now on, all of us are going to benefit! Everyone will share in everything!”

Mike walked slowly down the line of soldiers, looking each one of them individually in the eye before moving on. He stared into their souls and made contact with the part of them that actually hungered for order, and for recognition, and for improvement.

“A lot of things are going to change, gentlemen. We’re all going to change. In the midst of that change, though, there needs to be a continuation of sorts—a continuity with the authority that formed us and gave us being. Change. Continuity. Order.” He paused again for effect.

“To signify this concept, I am taking upon myself the name, rank, and authority of my predecessor.” He motioned toward a solider nearby, indicating the soldier should step forward. The soldier did, nervously.

“Soldier, do you know my name?”

The soldier nervously nodded that he did, unsure if that was what he was expected to do.

“I appreciate your honesty, soldier.”

He looked at the soldier and the soldier looked at him. He pulled his pistol out of his holster and asked, “What is my name, then?”

“General Amos Duplantis, sir!”

“Yes,” he said. He looked at the crowd of soldiers and they looked at him.

“My name is General Amos Duplantis. I will be known by no other name. To you, that is who I am.”

He gave the group one more scan, and then began walking back towards the command tent. After about four steps, he stopped, and turned back to the men.

“Does anyone have a problem with that?”

Maybe, down deep inside, some of them did have a problem with it. But the world had indeed changed. Power was now more fluid. Old habits would have to die hard. Maybe they didn’t like a twenty-something year old man taking authority, a name, and an office that didn’t rightly belong to him. But they also recognized that the old world may have been something of a meritocracy, however corrupt, but this new world? Not so much. If they wanted peace and an end to the war with the FMA and a portion of the spoils going forward, they were going to have to deal with the new situation as it was—not as they might have wished it to be.