06-26-13 (Three Year dA Anniversary).

Author’s note: This story takes place either before or after Connie is rescued from her predicament here, .

06-26-13 (Three Year dA Anniversary).
by JamesE82



A sub-basement of a warehouse on Olympus Harbor, Angel Falls…


“June twenty-sixth…” the Crimson Conservative said to herself as a half dozen men were cut down by her bullets. “This date’s just stickin’ in my mind for some reason…”

“Maybe what’s sticking in your mind should be your mission,” Republicat said, her voice coming from the device clipped to the redhead’s belt. Unlike RC, who often worked with wire-thin transmission headsets, Connie simply did not trust the modern gizmos and often found ways of “accidentally” destroying them. The piece of technology on her belt outwardly looked like an old-fashioned field radio, but that was merely the shell of what was in effect a very advanced and powerful cell phone that Republicat’s contacts in the government had created for her, complete with a hands-free function that Connie was now utilizing.

“Yeah, yeah,” the supersoldier muttered, striding through the corpse-littered ground. As she walked she adjusted her long stride slightly, causing one of her giant boots to come down on, and utterly demolish, the throat of the room’s lone survivor.

“What was that?” RC asked, hearing a sudden gurgle that ended abruptly.

“Wasn’t me,” Connie replied. “That was some Abu getting ready to meet his virgins. Say, is this here thingy sensitive enough to pick up his reaction when he wakes up in Hell instead of Allah’s land of milk ‘n honey?”

Laughing at her own joke, the Crimson Conservative sent her gory boot into the steel loading door, enjoying the shriek of metal as it folded and collapsed, allowing her to gain further entry into the complex.

“List off some thing that’ve happened on this day in history, will ya?” she asked, sweeping the room with her custom automatic assault shotguns.

“Connie…”

“Come on, RC, this is buggin’ me,” the supersoldier told her partner as she filled the air with lead. “I know you got Interweb stuff there, so look it up.”

“Uhg, fine…”

“What’s taking so long? You see a new picture of Zac Effron without his shirt and get distracted or something? The Interweb‘s fulla those… boy must be allergic to shirts.”

“No, and speak louder,” RC said. “Your radio is on a setting that filters background noise to bring out your voice more clearly, but with your shooting and all the men you’re making scream, you‘re hard to understand sometimes.”

“Gotcha,” Connie said, ducking behind a large concrete pillar as an RPG was sent her way. “Two can play that game,” she said, setting down one AA-12 and removing her colossal revolver from its holster at her back. She could have broken cover, as the explosives being shot towards her were nowhere near strong enough to cause her damage, but instead she merely pointed the ridiculously large handgun in the direction the RPGs had come from, pulled the trigger, and listened as the soda can-sized round packed with high explosives roared towards its target and detonated in a room-shaking boom! “June twenty-sixth,” she pondered.

“Had to use the Gipper?” RC asked.

“Wanted to is more like it. Anyway-”

“June twenty-sixth, yeah. Um, a lot has happened, but as for the things you’d be interested in, hmm… Christmas was declared a federal holiday back in 1870.”

The redhead laughed. “Suck on that candy cane and gag on it, atheists!”

“In 1917, American troops arrived in France to fight with French and British forces against the Germans in World War I.”

“Shoulda let the krauts wipe the frogs out first, then invaded. That’s a mistake we just won’t learn with those damn crybaby cheese-chompers.”

“They signed the United Nations Charter in San Francisco in 1945,” RC told her.

“Too bad a relative of ol’ Fat Man ’n Little Boy couldn’t have gone astray and taken out all those godless tyrant wannabes ‘n gotten rid of Sodomite Central with it. ‘Honest, we were just flying the Enola Gay around for old time’s sake, and it turns out there was another bomb in there that fell out by accident! Oops!’”

Republicat sighed. “How many times a day are you called ‘demented‘?”

“That specific word, or other stuff that means the same thing? Oh, and I‘m not sure I like these knee ‘n elbow pads. You were right ‘bout them not making it hard to move, but really, what’s an unstoppable bitch like me need ‘em for?”

“Would you like them better if I said people thought they made you look sexy?” RC asked, only perhaps telling the truth.

Connie paused a moment to think about it. Gotta remember to thank Rush for the latest batch, she thought as she popped a Monte Christo No. 2 between her smiling lips. Is that it? Do I gotta golf date with him or something? The Amazon opened her mouth to ask RC when a door like the one she had demolished slid open, a heavy, metallic klunk, klunk, klunk coming her way. Instead of her previous question, she asked, “RC? What do ya call those big robots again? The kind folks ride around in?”

“Mechs?”

“Yeah,” Connie said, stepping around the cement pillar. “I gotta mech on my hands.”

The fifteen-foot mechanical battle suit pounded through the rubble caused by the Gipper’s round, brushing aside ruined concrete and fallen metal beams with ease. Connie fired from the hip and sent another shell of high explosives flying, but was dismayed to see the air in front of the machine waver before the round exploded. The mech was halted, but its force field had kept it from sustaining any noticeable damage.

“Yup, and a mech that’s cheatin‘,” Connie said, sending another round up into the ceiling above the machine’s head. In addition to the concrete and metal beams, the mech’s pilot found his ride pelted and pummeled with items from the floor above, including a forklift and many heavy crates of (Connie saw after some broke open) military grade weaponry.

Urrr, ur-ur-urrr… The mechanical suit was halfway buried and struggling to extricate itself from the small mountain of debris, motors roaring and servos whining. The robotic battle suit had pinchers at the end of its arms, Connie saw, but using them to dig its way out would take a while.

And I’ll be there long before that, you iron-plated Islamist, the supersoldier thought, reholstering the Gipper as her long legs sent her barreling towards her enemy. She could have sent a few more shells at the mech, which probably would have weakened it; she did not know much about force field technology, but knew that being knocked around by the explosions would not be good for the man inside the machine. But when her single deep blue eye had taken in the sight of all the firepower in those crates, the half-buried robot started to look like a Christmas tree surrounded by all the presents a good little girl like her could have expected from Santa.

“Connie?” Republicat asked. “What’s going on?”

“I gotta turbaned terrorist in a tin can,” she said, bearing her teeth in an evil grin as she climbed the hill of rubble. Whatever force field the mech was equipped with was fine for stopping artillery, but she noted that--like most types of force fields, it seemed to her--the slower moving rubble was not repelled. And it ain’t gonna work on my fists, ‘less I miss my guess…

After setting down her AA-12 she got to work, grabbing the mech’s left arm and bringing it back, holding it as she circled to the robot’s side. As she suspected, the right arm was unable to aim past the mech’s head, meaning all the firepower on that arm was useless. The left arm’s guns went to work, but Connie was aiming them away from herself, gripping the machine’s wrist with one hand and sending her other hand into the mech’s elbow joint, punching and punching, eye ablaze with glee at the chance to fight an opponent who was not reduced to red spray and ragged muscle strips from just one blow.

“Robert Davi!” the Crimson Conservative exclaimed as the robot’s left arm snapped.

“What?” RC asked. “What about him? Tell me that’s not him in the mech…”

“Ha! I don‘t think so,” Connie said, leaping over the robot’s head and gripping the right arm, repeating the process that had disabled the other one. “I think ol’ Agent Johnson’s got better ways to spend his birthday!”

“Agent-oh, Die Hard, yeah,” Republicat said. “It is his birthday, you’re right.”

“We ought to send him a fancy microphone for when he feels like crooning,” Connie said as the mech’s right arm broke at the elbow in bursts of sparks and pneumatic hisses. “And the card’s gotta tell him to get off his butt and speak at another CPAC sometime.”

“So, was that what was bothering you? Can you concentrate on your work now?”

“I’m concentratin’ just fine,” Connie said, using both hands to twist the mech’s head violently one way and then the next. “But naw, that ain’t what was pesterin’ me…” After weakening the robot’s neck the supersoldier stood, drew back her leg, and booted the head across the expansive basement, exposing the mech’s innards.

“Take a note, RC,” the redheaded giantess said as she picked up her AA-12 and bent her knees, grinning down into the ruined battle suit and the upturned, terrified face of its operator. “Remind me to tell those Saudis they oughta spend some of their trillions on better ways to attack America and our allies than on these wind-up toys.” Grin widening even further, the Crimson Conservative pointed the fully automatic shotgun down at the screaming man and unloaded the remaining dozen shells into him at close range.

“Yeah, I’ll remind you to tell them that,” RC said with a sigh. “Do you want to make every secretary of state hate you?”

“Only if they’re fucking traitors.”

“I take it the mech and its occupant aren’t a threat now?”

“You oughta see him!” Connie laughed. “Looks like the biggest damn can of tomato soup you’ve ever seen!”

“Gee, sorry I missed it.”

“Maybe you can take a gander when you show up to help me load some of these goodies onto my truck,” Connie said, toeing a M249 SAW back into the crate it had slipped from. “Even if I can’t remember just what it is about this day, it sure is turnin’ out to be a fine one.”

“If you say so,” RC sighed.

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Connie told her. “I see plenty of smaller guns for you to get your paws on. Maybe I’ll let you have a dozen or five.”

“Really?” RC asked, the sound of purring coming through the radio.

“As long as you keep readin’ off stuff that’s happened on this date, sure.”

Still smiling and smoking her cigar, the Crimson Conservative pulled her specially-made Uzis, ones built to match her towering frame. She swaggered to the freight elevator and hit the button that would send her down to the next level of the hideout used by the Islamic weapons dealers, which she hoped would be jam packed with people to slaughter.

“June twenty-sixth,” she mused as she waited.

“How about this,” Republicat said. “The Supreme Court just basically ruled that same-sex marriages are as valid as traditional ones.”

The door to the elevator closed, cutting off the stream of profanities as the Crimson Conservative was sent on her way to do what she did best on that twenty-sixth of June… a date which she never did figure out just why it should have seemed so special to her, but was still a pretty good one.

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Connie’s not the only one to not realize why yesterday was special: I completely forgot it was my third year anniversary of joining this website. So and , I guess.

Big thanks to , who created the above artwork, and took it upon himself to add the knee and elbow pads of his own accord. Connie thinks it makes her look weak, but I dunno… Anyway, go to Yurihausen’s page and commission him to create just about anything you can think of.

More thanks to all the people who have encouraged me and become chummy over the past… wow, has it really been three years? If I start naming people I’ll either go on forever or forget people: You know who you are, and I thank you.

Beneath a section of is where this took place, a city that is certainly worth a look for superhero fans.

The Crimson Conservative and Republicat are my creations, © 2009.

Comments welcome, even to suggest that you would like to see Connie wearing her pads more… her knee and elbow pads, and nothing else certainly wouldn’t get an objection from me…