Author's Note: The 365 Project is an experimental project to write and post at least one short every day for the next year, not including my semi-regular bi-weekly updates. This is The 365 Project, 17 March.
A short one-shot based on the classic Sunbow series episode "Worlds Without End". Everyone always seems to focus on the named Joes when they write about "WWE", but what about the Greenshirts?
Disclaimer: "G. I. Joe" is the property of Hasbro and used for entertainment purposes without permission or intent to profit.
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"The Wearing Of The Green"
By J.T. Magnus, 'Turbo'
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In any other time and place, it might have seemed innoculous; just a simple green shirt - long sleeved and cotton - and a pair of cargo pants in the same color, only made notable by the crimson color of the collar and cuffs. In this time, at this place, it was a death sentence just to possess it. What the person standing in front of the closet was about to do would guarantee him a fate worse than simply death, he would probably die screaming, tortured slowly and without mercy after being forced to watch everyone he loved killed before his eyes.
But he had recieved the message, it was meant for his dead father, but it had been recieved by the son. Five characters, two simple words, but they had more meaning to some people than epic poems and grand speeches.
'Yo Joe.'
For that message to be sent at this time, it meant that the time had finally come for all those who believed in freedom to rise up against the totalitarian regime that had held the world in its grip for so many years now. His first thought upon recieving the message had been to think that it was about time, his second was to regret that his father hadn't lived to see the day come. Officially, he had died of illness, but the son knew better. Despite surviving the opening salvos and obeying the order to go into hiding, to take cover under his civilian identity, the man had died from a broken heart after seeing the American flag lowered from flying over the White House, destroyed and replaced with that red on blue monstrosity of Cobra's. The man hadn't lived to see this day finally come, he wouldn't be there to fight to bring freedom back to his - to their, the son mentally corrected - homeland, but he could be there in spirit, at least.
Nodding his decision, the son reached out into the closet and removed the uniform to lay it on the bed so that he could begin changing.
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Looking in the mirror, he gave the red collar one last tug, adjusting it to sit right against his throat; the uniform had been tailored for his father and it was impressive, and perhaps a testament to how alike they really were, that it fit him this well.
"You're going to do it, aren't you?" A voice asked from behind him, the speaker's face reflected over his shoulder in the mirror before him, "Don't. You're not your father."
"Maybe not," he answered without turning, "But I am my father's son. And my grandfather's, and my great-uncle's, my great-grandfather's... I can hear their voices calling out to me, saying 'don't let our sacrifices be in vain'... Do you know when Cobra won? It wasn't when they nuked the major cities or when HiSS tanks and Vipers paraded down the surviving streets. They won long before that when people stopped standing up for themselves, when we started letting other people tell us what was right and wrong, what we could and couldn't do, we surrendered our rights for safety and peace and all Cobra had to do to win was replace the government with itself. Nothing really changed, just the names of those in charge and the uniforms their troops wear."
"And you think putting on a uniform is going to fix any of that?"
"I think taking responsibility for myself for a change and doing what's right instead of just hoping someone else will is going to fix any of that," the son countered, turning to face his mother and picking up the helmet that lay on the edge of the bed, running his thumb across the name printed along the bottom of the back, "'Is life so dear or peace so sweet as to be bought at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me; give me Liberty or give me death!' Do you remember those words? How the old man used to recite them all the time? I do, I remember all the things he taught me when I was growing up; Duty, Honor, Country, Freedom, Responsibility, Respect."
"What about what I taught you about knowing when to pick your battles?" His mother demanded to know.
"Yes, you taught me to pick my battles, mother... but he taught me to fight them," the son answered as he lifted the helmet to sit it on his head and secure the chinstrap that would hold it in position.
Walking back over to the closet, he reached deep into the back and lifted out an M-16 model assault rifle with underslung M-203 grenade launcher. He knew there was no ammo for the M-203, but released the clip and confirmed that there were rounds in it for the M-16 before replacing it and reaching up onto the shelf in the closet for the ammo box that contained the extra rounds for when those ran out. With rifle in one hand and ammo box in the other, he turned back to his mother.
"And if having a chance for the United States to be a nation once again instead of merely part of the 'Cobra Empire' isn't a battle worth fighting, then nothing is," he informed her, "If he were here, he'd understand that."
"He's not here!" She snapped, "He died for that same government you hate so much; he died for nothing!"
"He died for his Country, not for its government," he corrected sharply, "Governments come and go, but the Country lives in the hearts of its people. It lived in his heart, in the heart of every member of the G.I. Joe team living or dead... and it lives in my heart. I'm going, mother. That's all there is to it."
"And what happens when you don't come back?"
The son's lips managed to twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, "I'll have died in good company."
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Twenty minutes later, after covering the uniform he wore with a non-descript windbreaker and hiding the helmet, rifle and ammo box under the front seat of his car, the son was preparing to leave to rendevous with those others who are preparing to act when he saw something faintly out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't be sure because there was nothing there when he turned his head to look, but it had seemed to be a group of men in uniform; one wearing the grey of a Confederate soldier, another that of a World War I-era calvaryman, two men in green uniforms like those worn in World War II, Korea and Vietnam... And one man that could almost have been wearing the same uniform that his son now wore, and they were all saluting.