The Multiversal War ended a decade ago, but it's true history remains obscured in shadows.

  The United Universes of America, the Holy Andromeda Empire, and the rest of the allied forces, all fractured into their own factions after the downfall of the monstrous Universal Union. A seemingly endless conflict, the war's resolution didn’t come with the clear victory that was promised. Beneath the surface, the lines between "good" and "evil" blurred beyond recognition.

  The supposed victors—the ones hailed as heroes—have since buried much of what truly transpired during the war. The formation of the Universal Union, the rise of the Alliance, and the very real cost of the war on both sides have been obscured, twisted, and forgotten. The public has been fed a sanitized version of events, but the people who fought, died, and survived hold the true history.

  After the dust settled and the victors paraded their success, I set out to uncover the truth. My goal was simple: to find the survivors of both sides—the soldiers, the strategists, the civilians caught in the crossfire—and uncover the stories the powers that be didn’t want told. The real history of the Multiversal War was never about just one side’s victory, but about the cost of war itself, the alliances forged in blood, and the ultimate price of peace.

  Below, you will find the accounts of those men and women who lived through it all. Some fought for the Union. Others fought for the Allies. All of them have stories to tell, each shedding light on the dark and forgotten corners of the war.

  _________________________________________

  You know, the war wasn’t the worst thing in the world."

  The old man stood against the back of a weathered farm door, smoking a cigarette—pre-war, judging by the carton it came from. Midstates, a company long forgotten by the now-defunct Union. The acrid smell curled through the air, irritating me as he just stood there, gripping his old shovel without a care in the world.

  "People like to complain that before the war, everything was sunshine and daisies. That life was just fine and dandy."

  He let out a dry chuckle, a thick cloud of smoke slipping from his lips, carried off by the wind.

  "But it wasn’t. Our cities were on fire with protests over ‘racial inequalities’—whatever the hell that meant. Famines were a daily occurrence. And the government? They were trying to pivot us into nuclear war just to jump-start the military-industrial complex. And that’s just scratching the surface."

  His gaze turned distant, almost as if he didn’t want to remember. I looked down and saw him clutching his watch, the old, cracked glass reflecting the last rays of the setting sun.

  The old man flicked the cigarette butt onto the dirt path, grinding it under his boot heel. His eyes still wandered, searching for something unseen—an answer, maybe, or the remnants of a life long past. He leaned on his shovel, the tip pressing into the earth with a soft crunch. It felt like he was trying to bury something—something that needed to stay buried.

  "You can tell yourself whatever you want," he muttered, his voice low, still carrying the weight of bitterness. "The past wasn’t better. Just different. People always find reasons to tear each other apart. War, famine, inequality—it’s all the same damn monster with a different face."

  I watched him pause, lost in thought, before he gave another dry chuckle, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the weight pressing down on him. "But people, they don’t want to hear that. It’s easier to believe in some golden age. Something to aim for. Something to bring back."

  I nodded, unsure of what to say. He had a point, but the way he spoke—it wasn’t just words. It was something deeper, something that hurt. I glanced at the watch in his calloused hand, the leather strap worn smooth over the years. It had seen wars, both external and internal.

  He studied it for a long moment before shaking his head. "People blame the war for everything, but the war wasn’t the cause. It was just the outcome. The result of years of greed, power-hungry leaders, and folks too damn blind to see past their own noses."

  He straightened slightly, his age showing more than ever. "What they don’t tell you, kid, is that nothing changes when the war ends. People keep living in their little bubbles, convinced it’s someone else’s fault. Crime, corruption, poverty… it all stays the same."

  He turned away, looking out at the horizon where the sun had begun to sink, casting long shadows over the land. The air grew thick, heavy. "In the end," he muttered, almost to himself, "we’re all just waiting for the next war, like we don’t know how to live without it."

  I couldn’t find the right words, so I just stood there, watching the last of his cigarette smoke dissolve into the dusk. He had cracked open some dark truth—one that didn’t need to be spoken. It just was. And yet, as much as I hated to admit it, a part of me wondered if he was right.

  He exhaled sharply, breaking the silence. "Anyways, you didn’t come here for an old man’s ramblings. You came to interview me, didn’t you?"

  Snapping back to reality, I straightened my posture. That was the whole reason I had traveled all the way from MegaYork to this forgotten dust pit on the outskirts of our great Holy Nation of the United Universes of America.

  "Yes, Admiral it is the reason as to why I came here-

  A dark chuckle rumbled from his throat. Something in his posture shifted—his wrinkles smoothed slightly, as if time itself recoiled.

  "Don’t the Allies have something to say about that? They won the war, after all." His voice dripped with amusement, but beneath it lurked something sharp, like a blade hidden in velvet. He tilted his head, scrutinizing me, as if gauging whether I wanted the truth or just another sanitized version of history.

  "History is written by the winners, sir," I said, my voice steady. "And if I don’t get the real history of how the war started, I’ll never understand the full picture. Every history book conveniently leaves things out. Who better to ask than the man who fought and lost?"

  The old man studied me for a long moment. The air between us thickened, charged with something unspoken. Then, with a slow nod, he exhaled through his nose, conceding a silent victory.

  "Then why the hell did you come to interview the man on the losing side?"

  "Because sometimes, that side tells the story that matters more."

  The old man shook his head. Overhead, the lights of a U.U.A. light frigate passed through the sky, its cannons aimed downward, its searchlights sweeping the farm below. Probably on the hunt for remaining Union supporters still launching attacks on the inner cities that id heard about in late night tv, I heard my buddy down at the MNN was doing a story on it, hope the guys are ok. Its massive form cast a shadow that swallowed the land.

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  "Let’s go inside. If you want to hear the truth, we’d best not talk out in the open."

  "Alright then," I said, tapping the side of his watch. Its old electronics were failing once again. Even in the future, a good watch was hard to find.

  We walked inside, the farmhouse shaking from the ship’s presence. The place was stark, save for a few interesting relics—a sword, a tank tread, an old gas station sign riddled with bullet holes.

  The Commander settled into a creaky wooden chair, rocking slightly as I hurriedly set up my camera on the table. A small beep signaled it was ready.

  "So tell me, Mr. Hale—how did the Union form begin? As I recall, your planet was the basis for the —"

  "I know what I did, boy. I can speak for myself."

  I fell silent, watching as he lifted a cup of coffee. The past weighed heavy on his shoulders, but there was something else in his eyes—something deeper. Something that needed to be said.

  And so, the real story began.

  _________________________________________

  EX UNION GRAND ADMIRAL HALE May 1st, 109897 A.W (after war) May 1st

  "I don’t remember much about my home universe anymore. Just fragments. The only thing that sticks with me is the ash. Ashes where the United States used to be."

  He paused, his fingers curling around the cigar, lifting it to his lips. A plume of smoke curled upward, thick and heavy, as he exhaled it slowly, lost in thought.

  "I was five years old when the Third World War started. Most of the major cities were gone, and with them, the governments. I think the year was… what was it? 199… no, wait, 1983, that’s right. Something about the Soviets—had their systems down a false nuclear alarm, I think. But honestly, I don’t even know the details. I was just a kid. All I knew was that everything was burning."

  He blew another cloud of smoke into the air, his gaze distant as he watched the smoke dissolve into the fading light.

  "What little remained of Earth formed what they called the World Government Emergency Commission. Yeah, long-ass name, I know, but it wasn’t even close to some of the military acronyms we had back in the Union, believe me. Anyway, I lost my family to the bombs. They were just… gone. And I was left behind. Just another orphan in the wreckage."

  He gripped the cigar tighter, eyes hardening as he recalled the past.

  "After the war, the National Guard set up orphanages around places like College Station. I was put in one near where my old home used to be, just outside of Houston. But it wasn’t much of a home. Hell, there was no home anymore."

  He paused, eyes flickering with a memory, dark and cold.

  "I remember what it was like, living under them. The guards, the officers—they didn’t care about us. Water was a luxury, given only to those who could scrape together enough food to feed the higher-ups. They burned settlements to keep the population under control. Said it was to ‘maintain food supplies.’ But all it did was kill more of us."

  His voice hardened as he spoke, each word carrying the weight of a lifetime of suffering.

  "We got the bare minimum, if we were lucky. If nuclear winter didn’t take us, starvation sure as hell would. Every day was just one more step toward the end."

  He fell silent, the weight of those words settling between us, like a heavy fog. The past was alive in him, gnawing at his bones, and there was nothing to do but breathe it in.

  "But then, out of the darkness… came hope."

  He leaned back, the words heavy on his tongue, as if testing them for truth. His gaze turned distant, pulled back into the years.

  "There were rumors, of course. Whispers of a rebellion forming, something more than the usual disjointed uprisings that had come and gone over the years. The kind that would start, burn bright for a week, maybe two, only to be crushed by the Commission’s soldiers. But this… this was different."

  He paused again, watching the smoke curl from his cigar, the ash glowing as it drifted into the night air.

  "The boy who led them—only known as ‘The Director.’ And yes, before you ask, it’s the same man who led the Union through the whole damn Multiversal War. But let me tell you, in those early days, he was different. He wasn’t some power-hungry warlord, some tribe chief looking to take his piece of the pie. No. He was something else entirely. This wasn’t just a ragtag group of settlers, or a bunch of desperate souls throwing stones at a monster that had been terrorizing them for years. This was an army. An army with purpose. And the craziest part? They were actually winning. I saw it with my own eyes when I finally left the orphanage—people rallying to their banner, fighting for something they hadn’t had in a long time: hope."

  The old man’s eyes grew sharp, a bitter edge creeping into his voice as he relived the memories, raw and alive.

  "Some people said the Union was just tribes, survivors of the bombs, struggling to break free from the Commission’s chokehold. Others said it was something more. A remnant of the pre-war world—people who’d hidden in bunkers, maybe even former government agents. Hell, no one really knew for sure. All we knew was that they were fighting for liberty. For the people of the wasteland. And that, kid, was something worth fighting for."

  He took another long drag from his cigar, eyes unfocused for a moment, as if trying to shake off the weight of it all.

  "They weren’t just fighting to survive. They were fighting for something bigger. Something real. And that, my friend, was a light in the darkness. A reason to keep going. Something I hadn’t seen in a long time."

  His voice dropped, a hint of something darker creeping into his tone.

  "But the Commission, they weren’t having any of it. They’d worked too damn hard to keep their stranglehold on the world. They weren’t about to let some ragtag group of rebels spoil their plans."

  His hands tightened around his cigar, jaw clenched.

  "So, life got harder for us. Harder than it already had been. Where I lived, the restrictions tightened—food rations, travel bans, constant surveillance. And it was there, in that hell, that ‘Red Sunday’ happened. You see, people, the ones who had already been pushed to the edge by the Commission, were starting to snap. The pressure was too much. The food was too scarce. The hope was all but gone. And on that Sunday, when it all came to a head... that was when the Union really began to take hold of the people."

  He paused, letting the silence hang in the air, the weight of what was to come pressing down on us both.

  "People were tired. Tired of being told how to live, tired of starving, tired of watching their loved ones disappear. That Sunday wasn’t just another day. It was the spark that ignited the fire. And from that day on, the Union wasn’t just some whisper in the dark. It was a force. A force that couldn’t be ignored."

  His voice grew heavier, each word dragging the weight of a thousand buried memories.

  "It was in my settlement that the Commission decided airstrikes would keep the more rebellious settlements in line. That bombing us into submission would break our spirit, make us fall back in line with their so-called order, Red Sunday it was called and for a good reason too. They targeted key settlements—those that disobeyed, those that dared to resist. And mine… mine was one of them."

  He let out a slow, bitter exhale, the ember of his cigar flaring in the dim light.

  "I still remember when the bombs fell. It was like the Third World War all over again. One minute, life—struggling, but still life. The next… fire, rubble, screaming. Everything I had built, everyone I had ever known—gone in an instant. Three rusted-out F-16s and some bureaucrat in an office decided we weren’t worth keeping around. Just like that."

  His hand trembled slightly as he lifted the cigar to his lips, but there was something else in his eyes now. A fire. Deep. Undeniable.

  "I lost my only friends that day. My only family. And as the years have passed, their faces have faded. Time has stolen them from me. All I know is that they were there. That they mattered."

  He shook his head, exhaling a long plume of smoke.

  "That’s the problem with nanobots. They make you live forever—but at the cost of forgetting."

  He let the thought hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his voice quieter now.

  "The Director found me buried under the rubble. He gave me a choice: join him and ensure atrocities like that never happened again… or go back to my settlement and help rebuild."

  A humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

  "I chose to join him. And for a long time, I never regretted it. Not until the Great War. Not until the Moscow Incident."

  His expression darkened, shadows flickering across his face.

  "The world was horrified. Settlements and nations broke away. The government crumbled while the Union rose. The Commission fell, and before anyone could stop it, the Union’s flag flew over their old crusty capital of good ol Geneva."

  He took another slow drag, his words turning cold.

  "The remnants of the world government were swept up in the tide. And with the stroke of a pen, the World Union was born—The Director at its head, a ministerial congress below him, the whole illusion of governance. A constitutional monarchy in all but name."

  He exhaled, watching the smoke twist and fade toward the ceiling.

  "They called it a true democracy. The Director—our guiding light."

  Another pull from the cigarette, the ember glowing like a dying star.

  "I should have seen it for what it was." His voice dropped, bitter and raw.

  "It was a damn dictatorship."