FicWad

Shippers: Rise of the Sues

Chapter Six: Resident Shippers



“Will you just take a seat already? Jesus Christ,” the old man scolded him, looking up from the head of the kitchen table. His eyes conveyed an impatience that lacked frustration, his tone beckoning his grandson away from the sink.

“Sorry, sorry,” Conor smirked as he finished scrubbing the red filth off of the plate. He took a nearby towel, kneading it with his hands as he made his way to sit down beside him. Flipping the towel back, he felt the gentle weight of it lying over his shoulder.

James looked up at him, his head bobbing up and down as an inaudible chuckle passed through him. With a gentle smile he lifted his hand, his fingers lovingly ruffling his grandson’s hair.

“You never told me what you think.” Conor started, unsure as to what had prompted the comment.

“About what?”

“About me becoming a writer.”

“Oh?” He held onto the syllable, the sound filling the room before fading quickly into silence. The old man’s lips pursed, leaning back before offering a slow and determined nod of the head.

“What does that mean?” He could not suppress his amused grin, knowing only that the gesture conveyed approval.

“Do you like writing?” James turned to face his grandson, his gaze paralyzing.

Conor stared briefly into his grandfather’s eyes. In them he had always seen an underlying strength and the wisdom of experience; the understanding that age had gradually honed. Yet most obvious to him was something permanent, something that surely had been part of the old man since his first defiant cry into the cold air of the world.

He saw kindness. Whether these were accurate observations or merely traits he himself had assigned to his elder, he would never know. It can be argued that at the end of all things, it hardly makes a difference.

“…I love it,” he smiled.

“Then I think it’s a good idea.” He gave another slow nod, as if the motion transformed the mere opinion into unbendable fact.

“But, y’know…” James continued, his hands placed firmly on the steering wheel.

Conor turned his attention away from the window, looking curiously toward his grandfather. He had somehow grown bigger in the space of an instant.

“…You haven’t written anything in a few months, have you?” The car traveled quietly along the long stretch of highway.

“The end of the semester’s always busy.” The voice was surely his own, yet inexplicably higher in pitch.

“Yeah, but you had time after that, right?”

“I was getting trained for my summer job, and writing for it too.” It was true; the end of the college semester always soaked up whatever free time it could before releasing him, only to hurl him into the preparation needed for his summer job. Between training and travel, he had little opportunity to write.

“And then?”

“Then…” Conor’s voice trailed off as he felt reality touch him gently upon his memories.

The car moved silently, the illusion refusing him the comfort of background noise.

“…Then you died.” The pitch of the voice lowered, his body returning to the lost and humbled age of twenty-one. He looked up from his seat, the bottom of a staircase.

James stood before him, old and bald. His wrinkled skin hung loose in certain spots, the result of losing so much weight after a long run of hospitalization.

Despite the dream, Conor could perceive his grandfather’s scent.

“You should write,” he gave a small nod of the head. Even in dreams, a shadow constructed of memory and stories shared by loved ones, he nudged him closer toward what he loved to do.

There was a long silence before he nodded, his eyes fixed upon the ground. His fingers were laced together before his face, tense as he willed the dream to stretch on for another minute.

“I love you,” James smiled, resting a hand on his grandson’s head.

A soft choking noise pierced through the stillness, the feel of the old man’s fingers only deepening the pain of the words. They were simple; typical and sometimes carelessly offered with no regard to their consequence.

Yet they were the last he had heard from him in life, whom he had cherished and admired every day.

“I always will.”

There was no sudden movement, no beautiful words offered with perfect timing. There was only a young man nodding his head slightly as he cried, the gesture conveying a bitter resignation to truth.

“Give ‘em hell.” The phrase held no particular strength; it was merely what they had said to one another in parting each time.

Conor lifted his head slowly to the sight of an open door.

He sat at the base of the stairs, staring quietly past the empty landing as he felt silence infect the air.



Conor opened his eyes slowly, lying still as he attempted to regain focus. Ahead of him was a suburban landscape, passing rapidly as the mini-van hurried down the highway.

“Is he awake yet?” Kimchi muttered, leaning lazily into the seat. Her foot remained firm upon the gas pedal; though the lack of traffic and law enforcement had made the trip much easier, it was still a long and boring drive.

Isaia turned her upper body, quietly peering back toward the swordsman.

“Ah, I think so. Conor? Are you awake?” She kept her voice down on the off chance that he was still resting.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly. His mind struggled to grasp onto the remnants of the fleeting dream, somehow committing it to memory before it could slip away into nothing.

“Are you alright…?” She kept her voice at a whisper, nervous as she noticed a weight to his features, a sadness that had been absent prior.

“Yeah,” he nodded. Sitting up, he kept his attention to the window. “How far are we?”

“Two hours. We’re in Astoria,” Kimchi explained. “Want to switch? I’m sick of driving.”

“Sure.” He shook his head suddenly, blinking as he tried to snap himself back to attention. He had always detested the image of the jaded young adult, refusing to have any part of it. With a deep exhale he felt his spirits rejuvenate, even if only slightly.

“How did you sleep…?” Isaia asked with a measure of concern, unsure as to whether it would be appropriate to ask what he had dreamed about.

“Good. I feel like I’ve been out for months,” he smiled at her, leaning forward to place his head between them. “Kimchi, pull over somewhere and we’ll switch.”

“You pull over!”

“…You’re driving.”

“You’re driving!” She accused, staring down the highway.

“…Has your blinker been on the whole time…?” he stared hard at the dashboard, suddenly aware of the clicking noise in the background.

“…Shut up,” she muttered flatly.

“Oh no…” Isaia trailed off, her hand lifting to her mouth.

The two ceased their bickering, Isaia’s intervention always succeeding in interrupting them from their senseless exchanges.

They peered out the window, the mini-van stopping as they noticed a distant figure fending off a horde of Kataangers.



“Right. I think you should just keep the phone plugged into the car charger for now. Yeah. Yeah. Wait, I don’t know. Wait.” Rufftoon looked up from the phone to their commander, delivering the inquiry. “Will the cell phone charger in a car work if the car is off?”

“No,” Booter answered. She remained behind the communications station, her arms folded. Maps and monitors had been hastily scattered around them, effectively turning the communications desk into the nervous center of the base.

“No, it won’t work. Do you get a good signal there? How many bars? No, not the battery, how many service bars? Five? No, five is good. It means the charge will hold longer, since it’s not looking for a network. Yeah, just plug it in when the car’s on. Alright. Just sit tight, we’ll call you when the others are ready. Thanks. Right. Bye!” Rufftoon set the phone down gently, looking back up to Booter.

“Susie’s team is in place. They say they can see a ton of Zutarians mulling about, but they haven’t noticed them. They also managed to pick up the secret weapon on the way there. ”

“How close are they to the target?”

“Three kilometers.”

Booter’s face conveyed a great degree of perplexity, her eyebrow lifting.

“How long is that in normal people measure?”

“It’s metric. Metric is what normal people use.” Her explanation was calm, attempting to defend her native country’s use of a uniform and convenient system.

“I don’t use it.” Booter’s counter was defensive, attempting to demonstrate that the metric system was both silly and weird.

“Are you normal?”

“Am I a shipper?”

“No.”

“Look at that; I’m normal! How much is it in miles?”

She opened a nearby drawer, fishing out an old calculator before setting to work. A moment later she looked up, lifting the device to confirm her answer.

“Two.”

“Okay, good. Where’s the Albany team?”

“Last time they called, they were just coming into New York. So right now, they’re probably two hours away. Maybe a little less,” she glanced at a notepad to see when she had taken the message.

“Excellent,” Booter smiled, turning toward a map of the country. “We’re almost in position.”

“They also insisted that we change their team name from ‘team Albany’ to ‘team Iroh’s Awesome and rules your face’.” She read carefully from the notepad, making sure to recite it properly.

“Approved!” She lifted her fist to the sky.



“What are you doing!?” Isaia’s eyes went wide as she gripped whatever she could to steady herself.

The mini-van shook violently as it pulled from the highway, speeding across a flat field toward the crowd they had observed earlier.

“I’m helping him out!” Kimchi yelled in response, her grip tight on the steering wheel.

“Slow down!” the artist pleaded, genuinely fearing for her life.

“Turn your goddamn blinker off!” Conor yelled from the back, the movement of the vehicle tossing him around despite the best efforts of his seatbelt.

“Make me!” She answered defiantly, her muscles tightening as the front of the mini-van plowed into a crowd of shippers.

The figure looked up from the advancing group of Kataangers, his hand lifting to quickly reposition his glasses. His jeans gave evidence to his struggle, slight tears littering the legs. His T-Shirt was black, the blue head of a rabbit resting happily at the center with the phrase “yaytime” written beneath.

Conor tore the door of the mini-van open, glaring out toward the blank gleeful stares of the infected. His fingers gripped the handle of the katana tightly, drawing it slowly from its sheath.

The passenger side window lowered quickly, Isaia lifting her pistol to face toward them. Behind her, Kimchi lowered her window to do the same.

The swordsman tore out of the van, stabbing the katana deep into the stomach of a shipper.

“It’s canon…” he moaned slowly.

“The cave of two lovers…They totally ki-“ the argument was interrupted as the shipper’s jaw burst from his skull, Isaia’s shot obliterating it.

“Katara doesn’t trust Zuko…She never will…” The faint whispers escaped the Kataanger as he hit the ground, body riddled with arrows.

“Get in the car!” Kimchi yelled out to the stranger, waving her hand to beckon him.

“I’m alright!” he insisted, pulling a small object from his pocket. He ducked swiftly, dodging one of the shipper’s strikes.

Conor thrust his arm up, the sword cutting a deep vertical gash into one of the infected. It stumbled back, the inner workings of its torso exposed. With a quick turn he watched the man, squinting to make out the object.

“Is that a…?” Isaia stared, trailing off.

“…Holy crap, that’s a digivice.” Kimchi stared as her hands worked almost unconsciously to load another bolt.

The stranger extended his arm, holding the digivice steady as one of the Kataangers drew closer.

“No way,” Isaia whispered. Had she been told a year ago that the shipping community would form an uprising and decimate the country she would have never believed it. Yet here before them stood a man, his finger poised to activate the device seen commonly in what they had all thought to be a television show.

“Here we go,” the stranger whispered confidently, gripping the digivice tightly.

They watched in silence, the tension growing as the shipper came closer him.

He then proceeded to lift the device and smash it down repeatedly upon the Kataanger’s skull, bludgeoning him into submission.

Kimchi’s mouth hung open, amazed by just how anti-climactic the scene had turned out to be.

Isaia pursed her lips quietly, slightly embarrassed that she had actually expected something.

Conor smirked, shaking his head slightly as he turned to slice into another shipper.

The fight did not carry on much longer, the small squad of Kataangers writhing and moaning before eventually passing. The group went about their usual cleanup, Isaia opening the door of the car to try and brush out the spent cartridges from her gun.

Kimchi stepped toward the stranger, passing the swordsman as he wiped the infected blood from his blade.

“So, what happened? Did you get chased here?” She asked curiously, wondering how he had come so close to the highway.

He attempted to wipe away some shipper blood, composing himself. “Kind of. I was driving out to the store to try and get some supplies; a few of us are holed up a few miles over. I ran out of gas and tried to walk back, but they manage to catch me.” He smiled, silently cursing his own luck.

“How many of you are in hiding?” Isaia looked toward him, sweeping the last few cartridges to the ground.

“A lot. A couple of hundred, actually,” he glanced in the direction of their hideout, hoping that the others were still safe.

“That’s good,” Conor started before sheathing the katana. “That means a hundred people can try to go back to a normal life in a few hours.”

“A few hours?” his eyebrow rose curiously, unsure as to what he was implying.

“It’s a long story. The short version is; we’re on our way to end this. Once and for all. If it goes like we’re hoping, the shippers will all fall apart by this time tomorrow.” Kimchi summarized.

The stranger’s eyes lit up; hope grasping his features and lifting them considerably.

“Are you serious about this? You really think you can end this?”

“Yeah, we have solid info.” She grinned as she folded her arms.

“…And nukes. And more duct tape than we know what to do with,” the swordsman grunted, interrupted by Kimchi elbowing him in the gut.

“Well, that’s incredible! What can I do to help? Anything?” He looked excitedly toward them, pocketing the digivice once again.

“Actually…” Isaia started, pondering.

“Hmm?” her fellow artist questioned.

“…Well, Conor knows Albany. But we’re not very familiar with the Kataangers around here, right? I mean, where they are or how many. Maybe it would help to have a guide?”

“That’s true,” Conor nodded. He hadn’t been to Albany since before the uprising; he was just as likely to navigate them into a horde of shippers as get them there safely.

“I can get you to Albany,” the stranger nodded. “I was there once with another group to try and pick up some survivors just a few weeks ago.”

“Welcome aboard then!” Kimchi grinned, offering a hand. “I’m Kimchi. This is Isaia; and over here is Dorkface McBananafiend.”

“Yeah, thanks,” the swordsman muttered.

“Kimchi and Isaia…I know both of you!” He laughed, extending his hand to meet hers.

“Eh?” Isaia squinted, searching her memory to see if she could recognize him.

“I’m Dave Roman; it’s great to finally meet you both.” He smiled as he shook their hands.

Their eyes lit up, recognizing the name instantly. The two called out joyously, the group piling into the mini-van as Conor took to the wheel. The trip had taken on a certain dread and anxiety as they drew closer to the final conflict; the levity that Dave’s company brought was a welcome and reassuring change.



“Got it. Right. We’ll call you in a minute or two. Good luck. Bye,” Rufftoon nodded solemnly, setting the phone down once again.

“Are they alright?” Booter glanced toward her from the map.

“They’ve made it to Albany, less then a mile from the target. Both teams are in position.” There was a certain worry to her voice, anxiety fluttering beneath her chest as the critical moment came closer.

“Alright then,” Booter turned to face her. “Give the signal.”

Rufftoon placed her hand on the receiver, lifting it as her eyes fell upon two pieces of paper propped up against the desk. They were the results of the time she and Isaia had spent sketching; two images, one by her hand and one by Isaia’s, of all the members of the resistance.

The moment had come.