A relatively average time ago in the same galaxy we all hopefully reside in, there was a middle-aged Aussie man with a dream.

His name was Kent Samson. He served in the Australian military and knew the ins and outs of the government. He was rich, and he was quite smart.

Because of his connections with the local military, he was able to hatch up a plan. All he's ever wanted was to improve the army, to turn them into warriors that could never lose a war. So he started his own organization and even went as far as secretly recruiting his buddies from service to aid him. But a few things didn't go according to plan.

The government caught on to what he was doing and they didn't approve of it. He just wanted to help them, but it didn't matter. He nearly faced prison time, but was ultimately discharged. Because of this, he had to switch things up and he tried again.

In the beginning, his group was small. Located out in the middle of the outback, he recruited random folks from gyms or anyone who seemed strong. Among them was one of his closest childhood friends, a tall Aussie man named Roger Helvius. They regarded each other as brothers and worked close together, even when they both served in the military.

Kent had smuggled loads of weapons and armor from the military, but he didn't stop there. He obtained classified documents and even certain prototypes. He was going to rebuild the military in his own design, and his group grew into a proper company as more people joined his organization.

He still had allies in the military that acted as spies. They provided him with intel on upcoming missions, drills and patrols. He did his homework and researched criminals, wanting to prove what he was capable of. And then it happened. He obtained his first assignment.

His team carried it out and assassinated a man the Australian government deemed a traitor. They robbed him, and secured millions as they covered up the murder.

Kent said it was for the greater good. He used the money to expand his organization. Soon enough, he became official. He had operatives, hired hitmen, trained combatants and skilled technicians.

His team began experimenting with new gear. They developed advanced rifles, grapplers, wingsuits, and anything else his operatives could use on the field. They became unstoppable.

The Division was born.

Roger woke up one morning in his room and washed up. He stepped out to the hotel's lobby that was their headquarters in disguise. While he enjoyed a meal of his own, a blonde-haired woman approached him and sat beside him.

"You're up early today." He remarked.

Trinity didn't appear to be in her usual mood, rather she looked concerned. "I spoke with Kent. He wanted to discuss a matter with you privately."

"About?"

She glanced at him in response. When Roger eventually learned what happened, he erupted in Kent's office while Trin waited outside.

"CLONES?" Roger slammed a desk. "How the bloody hell did you manage this? This ain't just revolutionary, this is a discovery of the ages!"

Kent's response is what angered him. "I just came up with it. I had a vision, and I worked with some of our technicians, and it just... worked."

"And you're utilizing it as a weapon? You plan on creating not just an army, but you're going to make it using the worst agent on the force?"

Kent: "Oi, Tron is not the worst. He is the perfect subject for this project."

Roger: "He's a comedian, not a soldier."

Kent: "Exactly. There's been a change, mate."

Roger: "Change? Kent, what have you done?"

Kent: "Our Division is unorganized. We go into the field wearing ski masks and tactical vests as we drive jeeps and pickup trucks. We look like fuckin' terrorists, mate. This ain't ISIS or Al-Qaeda. We need a rebrand, and it's time we became a legitimate organization and actually look like it."

Roger: "Aside from the fact you discovered cloning... let me repeat that... CLONING... you're altering the Division over appearance?"

Kent: "We're gonna be wearing suits and ties. We'll have advanced vehicular technology available after our scientists finish coming up with the designs off of the stolen military plans. Even our weapons are top of the line. Roger, we're like proper agent spy guys or something! Ain't that great?"

Roger: "What is wrong with you? This isn't a bloody movie! You're jeopardizing everything over what? What the hell even are we anymore? We don't need suits and ties, we need actual military equipment."

Kent: "But suits look cooler and fancier. Which reminds me, we got a bunch of sunglasses too."

Roger: "No! Kent, tell me this is a prank. It's March 27th, it's too early for an April Fools joke. This makes no sense; this is all coming from nowhere! You've never acted like this before."

Kent: "We got prank devices. That's the only prank really, like we have a gun that shoots a banana. But the banana is actually a pickle that we painted yellow and it's the funniest shit I've ever seen."

Roger: "Kent! Enough! You've lost your bloody mind! Nothing you've said has made any sense! I want no part of this!"

Kent: "Come on mate, it'll be fun. It's still the same old Division but cooler. I even came up with new titles like you're all gonna be agents, and I will be your Director."

Roger: "Oh you're a Director alright, yeah. Director Cunt."

Roger turned his back and left the room. He eyed Trin and she quietly walked with him.

He turned towards her. "Don't tell me you agree with that psychopath."

"I don't."

Roger sighed and continued forward, but Trin spoke again. "Though I have no objections."

He paused. "What?"

"The Division's purpose remains unchanged, that is what matters. Kent can renovate however way he wants, it's none of my concern."

Roger tried to speak, but Trin left him. He stood alone to gather his thoughts. Could this really be the end between him and the Division? And over what, exactly? Just a bad joke?

Unfortunately, as time progressed, that seemed to be the case. Kent continued his antics, making a complete mockery of something that was once a symbol of power and justice. It wasn't fair, and Roger couldn't accept it for long.

He had to leave the Division. Fortunately for him, there were others that felt the same way. Kent's madness was responsible for this. If this is what will become of the Division, then Roger will reclaim its past glory.

So, Roger formed a plan. Behind Kent's back, he stole weapons, supplies and blueprints. Just as the Division had grown, Roger was going to start his own organization through theft.

Along the way, agents who distrusted the Director's plans joined Roger. As they grew in size and power, Roger took the opportunity to leave the Division behind.

He gathered his supplies, rallied his men and they made their escape during the night. But it wasn't that simple.

Roger waited by a helicopter loaded with stolen gear. The men that joined him readied themselves and boarded the choppers. The others drove off to be picked up later farther away.

But while Roger waited, he heard shuffling from behind. Before he could turn around, a 'pop' sounded and something splattered on the ground beside him. He looked down and spotted a yellow pickle resting by his feet.

Several agents appeared from behind. Leading them was the Director himself, holding a rocket launcher. Kent giggled audibly as he stared at the pickle.

Roger cocked his pistol and kept it close as he watched. Kent walked over and stood still.

"Crikey, mate." Kent exclaimed. "It's a bit late for another expedition, ain't it?"

"What are you doing here Kent?"

Kent lowered the pickle launcher. "I'm here to give you permission to leave. You no longer wish to serve the Division and I understand. I support you. Start your own little fan group."

This sounded too good to be true. "Why? So you can shoot us down while we've got our backs turned?"

A couple of Roger's men stood beside him, cautious of anything that may arise.

"Nah mate! S'all good, man! I'm quite delighted, actually. Look at ya'! Followin' in my footsteps, you remind me of myself from a few years ago. I suppose every kangaroo must leave the pouch at some point."

Kent's kindness came across suspiciously. Roger kept his distance, noticing the ominous figure of Trinity leaning against some stacked barrels. She had a hand over her holster, and she looked him in the eyes. Her expression told him not to do what he's thinking.

But how could he not? The moment he steps foot aboard that helicopter, he would die. There was no other way.

"Tell your men to leave, Kent," Roger yelled back at his old friend. "I'm not leaving until I'm guaranteed a safe flight, and I will open fire if I have to!"

"I brought these lads over to give you a celebratory sendoff. We're not going to shoot you, we were just going to shoot around you to celebrate. I heard some people do it, think it was Arabs or tribal Africans or something. I don't know, one of the loud ethnicities." Kent looked disappointed, and his head lowered.

Roger still wasn't buying it. None of this added up. But before he could shout another order, one person appeared from behind the others. Dressed in a proper black suit and tie, his golden hair was neatly combed back and his dark shades hid his eyes. He held a white cowboy hat and stood by Kent, carefully passing the hat to him.

"By the way, mate. My name's no longer Kent." Kent held the hat and lifted it up. He gently wore it over his head and raised his chin in the process. His eyes stared directly towards Roger's, and he proudly responded. "I am the Director of the Division. Cunt is the name. Or, as I prefer, Director Cuntfield."

"And I..." the man beside him spoke with an unnerving smile as he lifted his hand up, "am..." his middle finger stayed up as the rest of his hand curled into a fist, "Tron."

A sudden explosion occurred behind them. Nobody even flinched, and that's what made Roger so paranoid. He cursed and put an elbow in front of his face as a reaction to the blast. Only him and the other escapees showed any form of expression, as Tron just kept his damn, creepy smile.

Cuntfield looked behind and chuckled. "Incredible practical effects! Truly such a cinematic display, Michael Bay is proud."

Tron agreed. "Let's add more explosions later for no reason."

"Bloody genius, why am I even the Director? You should be the Director! Director Tron, the new Director. Oh shit, this could go hard as a future chapter. I'm sure later on, you'll survive horribly dangerous missions without getting shot in the head by a random, forgettable side-character and you'll live on to get my job and become the New Director because you'll still be alive at that point and not dead."

"Imagine dying lmao." Tron said wisely.

"Enough of this crap!" Roger, on the other hand, did not appreciate clown behavior. "What the hell was that to begin with? You have explosives rigged around the base? Answer me, Kent!"

Cuntfield simply laughed. "Mate, I really don't know what you're blabbering about. You can go on your way, we just came to say goodbye."

Roger turned his focus back on Trinity, who seemed disappointed. He cursed to himself quietly. "Fine then. Be that way. I'm leaving, and you won't ever see me again. Do you understand that, brother?"

"I was gonna send you a friend request on discord so we can stay in touch, but if you really mean it, then so long, buddy. Happy trails." Cuntfield tipped his hat and smiled.

Roger turned his back in a daring move. His allies still had their guns aimed at Kent's forces. He whispered to the closest one, "don't fire until I give the signal."

He stepped inside the chopper and quickly inspected everything inside. At least a dozen men sat inside, their anxious faces awaited the outcome. There was one operative beside him, a bald-headed Caucasian with a serious attitude. But what caught Roger's attention was the name badge by his collar.

Hi, my name is Kotschenreutherlegel­steinhausen­berger

"What the hell is that," Roger asked and snatched the nametag off Kotsch's shirt.

Kotsch's raised brow proved even he was unsure of how that got there. "I don't know how that got on me."

Roger tossed it aside and gritted his teeth. Something here wasn't making any sense. What's with all the random humor beginning to arise in the middle of all this tension? His stomach ached from the uneasiness.

"Tell the others to initiate liftoff." Roger kept his voice quiet, and Kotsch nodded.

Kotsch turned his head and gave the order through his handheld radio. Meanwhile, Roger looked back at Trinity and eyed her again. She had a hand to her thigh, right over her holster. Her other hand, however, touched a strap around her arm. It wasn't something he had ever seen before.

He kept his focus on her just as he heard the distant helicopters. His men were evacuating, and he's next. This was his only chance left. Finally, he whispered one last order.

"Open fire."

Kotsch was the first one to obey. The others followed behind and took action against Kent and the Division.

Bullets rained against the Division agents, and they sprung to life. While Kent remained in his spot, the agents beside him hastily performed combat rolls and prepared to return the offense. They were fast, much faster than Roger had expected. Despite being fashionably dressed, their reflexes kicked in like a performance-enhancing drug.

A few more seconds of gunfire ensued until it ended. Their barrels smoked from the fire, and Roger panted in between breaths. He couldn't believe it.

Not a single agent suffered a wound. Every bullet had missed as the agents swiftly dodged everything. Kent didn't even move out of the way. He remained standing in place with a disappointed look. His hands stayed in his coat pockets.

Kent turned his head towards the nearest agent. "Get me a Victoria bitter, would ya, mate?"

Somehow, they already had a bottle ready for him, and Kent immediately popped the bottle top off and chugged a bit of the beer. Then, his eyes focused back on Roger.

"Well, here I was hoping you wouldn't do that." Kent nudged his head towards Tron. "Commence the protocol."

"Bet." Tron nodded and smiled. Something about his damn smile seemed unnatural, and Roger had a terrible feeling when Tron stepped forward. But it wasn't just Tron he had to worry about.

From all corners of the base, figures suddenly appeared from behind corners. Every single one of them wore a fashionable suit and tie and masked their eyes behind shades. There were at least a hundred of them or so. In synchronized unison, they all reached for their waists and held some form of firearm. Each agent took turns in grinning exactly like Tron before lifting their guns to take aim.

"Funny thing is, mate," Kent said, "I really was gonna let ya go peacefully. I meant every word I said. But, sadly for you, you've now made yourself a prime enemy of the Division. And these clones of mine are programmed to eliminate anyone they deem a threat."

Roger glanced at Kotsch, and even his ally seemed unnerved. They didn't have the firepower to deal with such a threat. If they stood their ground and fought, they'd each receive a bullet to the head within seconds. But evacuating might have been impossible too. It's quite easy for the Division to bring their chopper down.

But upon looking back at Tron, Roger's eyes widened. In Tron's hands was a bazooka, aimed right for him.

"Taste rocket launcher, bitch!" Tron pulled the trigger, and a pop emerged alongside a foggy trail of smoke. A whistle sounded in the air, heading straight towards Roger.

There was no time to dodge it. The rocket distracted him so much, he never even noticed the metallic object gliding through the air alongside it. It reached him first, clawing the side of his face and piercing his skin. A powerful tug yanked him down, just in time to avoid the rocket that zoomed past him, inches away from his body. It flew through the opened doors of the helicopter and out the other side, exploding upon contact with the backwall of the Division base.

Roger yelled in pain as he tried to get the hook off his face, and it finally retracted, but not without ripping across his cheek and scarring him. Kotsch placed a hand to his shoulder and tried to pull him back. Instead, Roger shouted at him, "Go! Get out of here!"

When he found the strength to look up, he noticed the agents focusing on the helicopter. None of them were shooting him, because he was already caught by the best assassin the Division had to offer.

Trinity stood over him, the hook retracting back to her arm-strap. It was a grappler, one that Kent must have made for his new army. She held a silenced pistol to his head, and her eyes glared with a burning fury.

He wanted to speak, but the scar made it difficult to do so. Instead, Trin punched him with her other hand and lifted him up by his neck. Around them, the agents fired at the chopper. Any minute now, it'll burn and crash.

Trin kept him close, and despite how serious her expression seemed, she gulped. Then, she whispered, "hit me."

Roger could barely understand her, and that's when she strangled him harder. "Fight back. Hit me, and make it believable."

He didn't want to argue against it. His whole plan was falling apart anyways, and he was as good as dead. Despite his heartfelt feelings for her, he forced himself to construct a fist and punch her back. Upon doing so, Trin flinched and lowered herself. Her arm bent and her grappler activated. It fired behind him, launching upwards into the sky until it caught something.

Roger narrowly turned his head to look, seeing the hook attached to the rising helicopter. His eyes widened, and by the time he glanced back at Trin, she quickly leaned forward to kiss him. Her strap came off her arm, but not without her tapping at it. He just now realized the device had a small screen on it, and she tapped a button that had a lightning bolt symbol.

Once she pressed it, a deep rumbling echoed from within the base. All the gunfire stopped as a result despite the agents keeping their fingers pressed. Their guns all jammed, refusing to shoot anymore.

With everybody distracted by the sudden outage, Trin handed Roger her grappler. He didn't get a chance to speak when the chopper tugged him along, and his feet rose from the ground. He grasped the hook's cable and went along for the ride as the helicopter narrowly made its escape with the rest of his crew.

Tron threw his rpg away in rage. "Nah, that's some bullshit! Roger still owes me fifteen dollars, he can't get away! I'm the one wearing plot armor, not him!" Just to prove it, he ripped his suit off to reveal a white t-shirt that had the text 'Plot Armor' on it in dark-yellow.

Cuntfield walked over to Trin as she kept her vision fixed on Roger's escape. "You alright, Trin? Didn't think he could outsmart you like that."

"I'm fine," she said, her head lowered.

"We'll get him some other day." Cuntfield turned back. "The Division was built to house predators, for that is who we are. He won't escape us forever."

Tron walked over to him. "Poor choice of words, Director."

Cuntfield sighed. "Never mind that, I have important matters to attend to. Got to figure out why our guns jammed randomly. You're all dismissed."

He left them all behind and made his way back towards the hotel that acted as head of operations. A secret door near the back of the lobby led to the lab, where hundreds of more agents gathered in the dark carrying candles. They were trying to restore power.

One of the agents spotted Cuntfield. "Director, we were hacked! We're not sure if it was Roger, one of us, or if it was a rogue koala. I'm sad to say, however, that our current lead heavily implies it was the koala."

"Capture the suspect, and feed him vegemite until he confesses." Cuntfield continued down the corridor until the lights were restored. He entered his own private quarters where he often goes to relax.

He collapsed over his sofa and exhaled deeply. Despite being alone in the room, he stared forward and narrowed his eyes. Then, he spoke aloud, "it's done."

"I know."

A figure emerged from behind Cuntfield. It's a man with dark, curly hair. He wore a navy-blue jacket atop a black shirt, and for the added flair, had a flashy purple bowtie at his neck. He walked beside the Director, scrolling through his phone temporarily before putting it away in his pocket.

"You don't need to worry about the EMP crap, it was me," he said to Cuntfield. "It goes against what we agreed upon, I get that, but I felt a change was necessary."

That's when he turned and faced the Director. Cuntfield stared back at him, noting the sudden nametag that appeared on the man's jacket. It only contained one name.

Cyber.

I grinned. "This is the start of something beautiful, Director. You should smile."

Cuntfield reached for a bottle of ale on the desk in front of him. He inspected it. "The cloning revelation was pretty great, mate. The weapons you made for us, all the fancy suits and whatnot. Everything is quite perfect, and I'd smile, was it not for losing my brother."

"You'll have your reunion someday, that I promise," I said, as Cuntfield took a sip of ale.

I stepped in front of him and pulled a boomerang out of my ass. I handed it over to him. "But until then, you and I both have got one hell of a story to tell first."

Cuntfield paused and grabbed the boomerang. There were many things I could have implied with this. A traditional Aussie tool? A callback to the nuclear trip around Asia? A potential future killing point? Or perhaps, all of the above? Who knew? Well, obviously me.

But my characters? My world?

They didn't need to know, not yet at least.

Cuntfield chuckled. "Crikey."

"Anyways, I shall be on my way. The next time you'll hear from me, I'll have an assignment. There'll be a Korean BTS singer flying via helicopter across the Californian borders two or three years from now. I believe Tron is the perfect candidate for that mission. I'll let you know more about it when the time comes."

I straightened my bowtie and quickly saluted. "Hooroo then, or whatever the Aussies say."

"Not exactly the right demographic, but oo'roo to ya." Cuntfield raised his bottle.

I disappeared into nothingness, leaving the world alone to progress without my interference.

But nothing in this world could last without me.