1963. South Vietnam. We're in the Ap Bac Hamlet. Eight years into the Vietnam War, and there are no signs of it ending anytime in the near future. However, today, it wasn't the United States that was pushing its way through this area of war-torn southeastern Asia. No, no, today it was the South Vietnamese and the regime of Ngo Dinh Diem, who was heavily favored by the United States against the Communist North and Viet Cong, who would find themselves face-to-face with their brethren across and within the border. Oddly enough, Ngo Dinh Diem would find himself killed at the hands of an assassin, thanks to the barrel of a gun and cool, American justice, toward the end of this year.

The figurehead behind the great ideals of Americana, John F. Kennedy, and the main figurehead behind the CIA-led coup of Ngo Dinh Diem, would find himself also killed by the hands of a gunmen... only 20 days later. All's fair in love and war.

It's 4:30 in the morning, Vietnamese time. A dark, overcast morning, the sun is just starting to peek through the clouds, waking up this area of the province of Định Tường. A semi-hot zone, tension had been brewing for a while without any true conflict, so it seemed, given how much karma could be a true bitch, violence was to come. And there it was.

Santos: Let's hit it!

Tony Santos found himself jumping out of a CH-21 Shawnee helicopter with a group of South Vietnamese, hitting the ground to fight the influx of Viet Cong that were present in the area. Why an American in a purely Vietnamese (ground) conflict? Well...

Tony had emigrated from the United States to the adjacent country of Laos as a child, but had never found himself sympathetic to the Communist ideals that permeated that country. Seeing himself as a crusader against Communism and a purveyor of good, he felt that it was his duty to take down the Viet Cong and bring glory to not just the United States of America, but the uncorrupted world of freedom.

His rough, worn, combat boots hit the ground, and off Santos goes. M14 rifle in hand, camouflage outfit covering him from absolutely nothing in the Vietnamese terrain, and a combat helmet to ward off, well, stray bullets that happened to hit him solely in the noggin, Santos was off to kill some Asians. Not just any god damn Asians. Asians who weren't god-fearing sons of bitches. Asians that had no concept of the Almighty. Asians who believed in sharing the resources and wealth of their countrymen. Asians who would rather sit in a damn foxhole and...

Santos: hide, taking in the spoils of their countrymen while they pick their butts and play with their shit in the dirt.

Oh, it was war. Jingoism was in full force, and ignorant, flag-bearing ideals were all the rage. The recklessness and quick thinking that got us into Vietnam were reminiscent of the times. In America, it was a time where kids were raised on patriotic GI Joes, who fought for America against the gooks and the Nazis abroad. They fought against the Jews and the negros at home. White people were fighting for our freedoms, both abroad AND at home. It was a time of damn near anarchy, and the good ol' red, white, and blue was here to prevail.

Santos, charging along the banks of the "Anterior River," South Vietnamese comrades flanking him on his left and right by the handful, charges forward and runs into a gang of Viet Cong. Armed with rifles of their own, likely supplied from their allies in China and the Soviet Union, they charge back at him. Oddly, they don't fire, but instead look to pummel him and his troops with brute force. Santos, realizing this, smiles...

Yes, he smiles for the Viet Cong...

And charges head on, the butt of his rifle facing a few of his foes head-on. Tony cocks his gun back, then slams it in to the skull of one belligerent, then another, and another. The dirt below is bustling at their feet. Tony, having cleared out a gang full of Viet Cong, isn't satisfied. No, no, he stands above his defeated opponents, and...

Smiles... again.

Looking down, he sees, in particular, six soldiers at his feet. Oddly, these godless Commies seem to be wearing masks. They weren't wearing them even a few minutes ago.

Odd...

Tony thinks.

And then he smiles...

again. Seeing the fools beneath him, he smiles and lifts the gun above his head. Beneath him, the men... or women, he honestly can't tell at this point. The fog of war has done him in. His inner core destroyed, his sanity gone. Beads of sweat and dirt flow from his forehead, his smile a crimson mouthpiece.

Anyways, beneath him lie six... individuals. They're wearing masks, resembling...

Casey Jones...

*SMACK*

Death Merchant...

*CRACK*

LJ Havok...

*THUMP*

Mystica...

*KERPLUNK*

Santos: Kerplunk?

Yes, kerplunk.

Jessie Diaz...

Tony blows her, or her masked representation, a kiss, and then...

a skull-crushing bat to the head.

Finally...

Oh, finally...

Eli James IV...

Tony raises his gun high above his head, blood of his previous victims dripping from the butt like a faucet. Tony smiles a wide, wide smile, knowing that this is the man that he wants. This is the man that he needs to get. The monotonous, rambling son of a bitch who, in their brief, 23 second encounter on the battle field, managed to say the exact... same... thing over and over again whilst running at Tony, looking to hurt him, looking to end him. He said it eloquently and in perfect English, but he, in his own bloodlust, didn't realize that he had said absolutely nothing at all.

See, Eli James had charged at Tony Santos with nothing but a rock. Yes, he had put his faith in a rock. A godless, lifeless, powerless rock. That allowed Tony to drop him to the ground, and now, Tony was ready. Smiling wide, Tony readied his right arm to thrust the butt of the gun into Eli's skull. He wanted to pulverize him... to end his life. Santos flexed his arm, and then thrust himself down toward Eli's face...

*BAM*

A bullet lodged itself in Tony's temple, hitting him on the right side of his skull. Tony's gripped loosened immediately, and the gun fell from his grasp, Eli James no different for his trouble. Santos hit the ground face first, his helmet popping off and laying two feet to his right. Tony was dead as could be.

The crackling of boots against the rough, dry dirt can be heard in the distance. A young, lanky North Vietnamese can be seen walking toward Tony from the distance. The South Vietnamese all lay on the ground, either dead or dying. The man, or, well, more likely a boy, stands at six feet tall, his short, black hair absorbing the sun. Draped in khaki pants and jacket, his helmet having been tossed from his head during the gunfight, he places the butt of his rifle against Tony's right cheekbone, checking for life. Sensing none, he smiles.

He pokes him again...

No response.

And again...

No response.

Jeremy: Sir, you know how the Battle of Ap Bac ended, right?

Tony grunts.

Jeremy: The Americans/South Vietnamese get destroyed...

Tony mumbles in his drunken slumber.

Santos: Kill the self-righteous. I'll destroy the self-righteous. I don't stand for bumbling idiots...

Jeremy: You sound like one right now.

Tony rolls over on his side, spittle making its way out of the crack of his lip.

Santos: Kill 'em all!

Jeremy: Ugh, war. War never changes.

The scene fades to black.

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