Au début, un lien sur Google+ : « Jeu vidéo : la flip­pante pré­dic­tion d’une par­tie vieille de dix ans ». Dans l’article, on parle d’un red­di­tor (un pos­teur sur Red­dit) qui a posté...

Au début, un lien sur Google+ : « Jeu vidéo : la flip­pante pré­dic­tion d’une par­tie vieille de dix ans ». Dans l’article, on parle d’un red­di­tor (un pos­teur sur Red­dit) qui a posté une his­toire qui pour­rait deve­nir un film : How One Res­ponse to a Red­dit Query Became a Big-Budget Flick. La voici :

DAY 1

The 35^th MEU is on the ground at Kabul, pre­pa­ring to deploy to sou­thern Afgha­nis­tan. Sud­denly, it vanishes. The sec­tion of Bagram where the 35^th was gathe­red sud­denly reap­pears in a field out­side Rome, on the west bank of the Tiber River. Without sub­stan­tially pre­pa­red ground under it, the concrete begins sin­king into the mar­shy ground and cra­cking. Colo­nel Miles Nel­son orders his men to regroup near the vehicle depot — nearly all of the MEU’s vehicles are still strip­ped for air trans­port. He orders all heli­cop­ters air­borne, belie­ving the MEU is trap­ped in an ear­th­quake. Nelson’s men soon report a com­plete loss of all com­mu­ni­ca­tions, inclu­ding GPS and satel­lite radio. Nel­son now believes some­thing more ter­rible has occur­red — a nuclear war and EMP which has left his unit com­ple­tely iso­la­ted. Only a few men have rea­li­zed that the rest of Bagram has vani­shed, but that will soon become appa­rent as the trans­port helos begin cir­cling the 35^th’s loca­tion. Within an hour, the 2,200 Marines have regrou­ped, stun­ned. They are not the only moderns trans­por­ted to Rome. With them are about 150 Air Force main­te­nance and repair spe­cia­lists. There are about 60 Afghan Army sol­diers, mostly the MEU’s inter­pre­ters and liai­sons. There are also 15 U.S. civi­lian contrac­tors and one man, Frank Dela­croix, who has spo­ken to no one but Colo­nel Nel­son. Mira­cu­lously, no one was killed during the ear­th­quake but seve­ral dozen people were inju­red, some seriously. All fixed-wing air­craft and the attack heli­cop­ters were ren­de­red inope­rable by the shif­ting concrete, although the MEU did not lose a single vehicle or trans­port heli­cop­ter. As night falls, the MEU has esta­bli­shed a per­ime­ter. A few locals have been spot­ted, but in the chaos no one has yet esta­bli­shed contact. Nel­son and his men, who are crip­pled without map­ping soft­ware and GPS to fix their posi­tion, begin attemp­ting to fix their loca­tion by obser­ving stars. The night is cloudy. Nel­son orders four heli­cop­ters back into the air at first light, to tra­vel along the river in hopes of loca­ting a settlement.

DAY 2

Nelson’s helos launch at dawn. As they rise into the air, one crew spots a dis­tant pillar of smoke and exci­tedly begins bea­ring down on this sign of life. Meanw­hile, the mys­te­rious appea­rance of the Marines has not gone unno­ti­ced. Pea­sants have fled to the home of the land’s owner, Sena­tor Aulus Teren­tius Varro Murena. It is 23 BC, and Murena is about to form a Repu­bli­can conspi­racy against Augus­tus Cae­sar. He and other Sena­tors are dee­ply sus­pi­cious of the Impe­ra­tor and fear that he will swamp their ancient order with newly min­ted Sena­tors from his swel­ling armies. The appea­rance of a small but appa­rently com­petent armed force — with a vast array of what appears to be bizarre siege machi­nery — on his land makes him fear the worst. He dis­patches seve­ral spies to moni­tor the visi­tors and orders his retai­ners to avoid the camp. He also sends mes­sen­gers to his co-conspirators in the Senate. At noon, two Sea Knight heli­cop­ters roar over Rome at 12,000 feet. Stun­ned, the pilots swoop in lower and lower. After a half-hour of sight­seeing, coming in as low as 1,000 feet, they can no lon­ger deny the evi­dence of their eyes — this is not the place or time they had occu­pied the day before. They leave to report. Behind them, they leave a city in chaos, as ter­ri­fied Romans flee the awful crea­tures in the sky. Sacri­fi­cial pyres fill the city with smoke, and priests of every reli­gion shout in the streets. Impe­ra­tor Augus­tus Cae­sar observes all of this, first as the Senate emp­ties in the middle of a speech and then on hor­se­back as he grimly fol­lows the crea­tures to the city’s bor­ders at the head of a gro­wing body of hor­se­men. As they recede into the dis­tance, Augus­tus whirls and begins snap­ping orders. The hor­se­men vanish, and soon the city mili­tia is cal­ling for order. The three cohorts of the Prae­to­rian Guard march from their bar­racks. 1,000 men take up sta­tion on the wes­tern edge of the city, while 2,000 more res­tore order, cra­cking heads where neces­sary. Cae­sar returns to the Senate, where Murena and a few men exchange kno­wing glances. « My fel­low Romans, » he says sim­ply, « those were machines, not crea­tures. I’ve seen enough cam­pai­gns to know the dif­fe­rence. » Grizz­led mili­tary vete­rans in his audience are smart enough not to dwell long on the dif­fe­rence bet­ween their field expe­rience and his. « It appears, gent­le­men of the Senate, that we have a war on our hands. »

DAY 3

Nel­son and his com­mand staff are stun­ned. Not one of his men speaks more than a dozen words in Latin. Nel­son begins assem­bling a list of pos­sible inter­pre­ters from his Spanish-speaking sol­diers, and at the sug­ges­tion of a clas­si­cally min­ded major he adds the dozen or so Marines fluent in Ger­man. He pores over the inven­to­ries. His avia­tion fuel won’t last lon­ger than six months, the high-octane fuel neces­sary to run the Hum­vees maybe ano­ther year after that. He knows that he could tech­ni­cally rig machines to run on wood gas or even coal, but that seems highly imprac­ti­cal. He has ammu­ni­tion. He has fuel. He has food. He has medi­cal sup­plies. But he doesn’t have that much of any of these things. The 35^th MEU was going to be dependent on a vast logis­ti­cal pipe­line from the first day of its deploy­ment. He com­man­ded one of the most power­ful, ter­ri­fying forces in the world — espe­cially in what appea­red to be its new (old?) world — but it was one with a short half-life. He calls in a few of his senior com­man­ders. And Dela­croix. A deci­sion has to be made soon. The men are increa­sin­gly ter­ri­fied and stun­ned by whis­pers of what the seques­te­red Sea Knight crews dis­co­ve­red. Soon, demands for infor­ma­tion will come. After that would come the rea­li­za­tion that any of these men had the power and know­ledge to lead a king­dom in this world. « We need a mis­sion, and fast, » Nel­son says. « Or we’re going to disin­te­grate and spread a civil war over this empire that’ll leave it in such ruins the Mon­gols won’t bother stop­ping here a thou­sand years from now. » Dela­croix steps for­ward and says, « Colo­nel, I may have an idea. » As the confe­rence pro­gresses, a slight man is plu­cked from the swamp by two Marine sen­tries. His insistent decla­ra­tions are in no lan­guage they reco­gnize, although Pri­vate Hec­tor Menen­dez finds some­thing eerily fami­liar about it. What he wants is easy enough to unders­tand, howe­ver — he wants to be taken to their lea­der. And 50 miles to the east, the Prae­to­rian Guard assembles at the head of a has­tily assem­bled force of volun­teers and grey-headed vete­rans recal­led to the stan­dard. A ban­ner snaps in the wind. A horn blows, drums roll, and 10,000 men begin mar­ching west.

DAY 4

The slight man is Six­tus Murena, the son of Sena­tor Murena. It took most of the night, but his offer has emer­ged: the Repu­bli­can fac­tion of the Senate is willing to offer the 35^th MEU a sizable fief­dom in return for atta­cking the Prae­to­rian Guard and top­pling Augus­tus. Through his inter­pre­ters, Colo­nel Nel­son remarks dryly that a deci­sion like that is above his pay grade. The Prae­to­rian Guard cove­red five miles on Day 3, and ano­ther twelve on Day 4 — a third of the dis­tance to the 35^th MEU’s camp. Augus­tus him­self is in the camp. He is also revie­wing a steady stream of mes­sages. Emis­sa­ries have been dis­pat­ched to every gover­nor in the empire to be on alert, but only two legions have been recal­led — Augus­tus is firm in rejec­ting rumors of super­na­tu­ral powers and his calm, mea­su­red res­ponse is hel­ping to soothe ter­ri­fied Romans. The Senate has autho­ri­zed the for­ma­tion of two new legions from vete­rans of the Civil Wars. The ques­tion of their com­mand is a pri­ckly one — Augus­tus has no desire to inflame the Senate by pro­mo­ting one of his favo­rites, but with the Prae­to­rians on the march he can­not leave a Repu­bli­can in charge of the only mili­tary force in Rome itself. He assi­gns Gene­ral Mar­cus Agrippa to head the new Legio I Ita­lica, and leaves the ques­tion of the second legion’s com­man­der open for the moment, tas­king Agrippa only with over­seeing its for­ma­tion. Nei­ther will be ready for deploy­ment within a month. Two Marines vanish from Camp Tiber (one of seve­ral unof­fi­cial names, along with Camp Ame­rica, Camp Future, and Won­der­land; Nel­son is too busy to bother with an offi­cial one yet), as does one Afghan natio­nal. It is assu­med they have struck out in search of adven­ture, or even in hopes of rea­ching their homes. Colo­nel Nel­son is for­ced to order sen­tries to shoot to kill anyone ente­ring or lea­ving the camp.

DAY 5

First contact. Six­tus Murena remains in U.S. cus­tody, des­pite his increa­sin­gly agi­ta­ted demands to return. Sena­tor Murena begins to regret his rash deci­sion to approach the Inva­ders: what if their camp is over­run, and Six­tus is dis­co­ve­red there? What if Augustus’s spies have already noted his absence? He and his fel­low conspi­ra­tors debate and debate, but decide to do nothing but wait; they are com­for­table men, and tem­pe­red by years of legis­la­tive expe­rience to talk and observe. They are not men to seize the net­tle. The fact that Augus­tus has an infor­mer among their ranks is almost irre­le­vant. The Prae­to­rians close ano­ther 15 miles. The pace is exhaus­ting for the has­tily scraped-up auxi­lia­ries, but mar­ching on fine roads near Rome, even under 100-pound packs, is child’s play for a Prae­to­rian, a man who has never known air-conditioning, never sat in a cushio­ned chair, never gree­ted tro­pi­cal storms or arc­tic gales with any­thing but Stoic resi­gna­tion because he has never had a choice — unlike the men of the 35^th, whose tem­pers are fraying under the stress of their pre­di­ca­ment and their utter iso­la­tion. At 4 in the after­noon, with humid tem­pe­ra­tures roas­ting Ame­ri­can and Roman alike, a unit of 50 Roman cavalry in glit­te­ring metal armor appear on the hori­zon. Ser­geant Alvin McCand­less shouts to his men, who take up posi­tion behind a line of sand­bags. M16A4s are trai­ned on the Romans, and a SAW is locked and loa­ded — .50-caliber bul­lets. Within five seconds, enough fire­po­wer to anni­hi­late a legion is concen­tra­ted on Ful­vius Bas­sus and his men. Bas­sus approaches cau­tiously but holds his head high and keeps his horse trot­ting at a confi­dent pace. The Inva­ders shout some­thing, but he pays them no heed. They’re too far away for a par­ley, and he’s not even close to bow­shot range. He will uphold the honor and dignity of Rome, and he will come in close enough to talk. There is a sud­den flash of light. Some­thing erupts in a cloud of dust in front of his horse. A split-second later, loud reports echo through the air. Now the Inva­ders are shou­ting again, their voices now unbe­lie­va­bly loud, with a strange his­sing behind them that dis­torts the sounds into some­thing inhu­man. By reflex, Bas­sus and his men draw their swords. They should now return and report. But Bas­sus is years remo­ved from ser­vice, and he is still get­ting reac­quain­ted with the art of subor­di­na­ting him­self to com­mands. It is no lon­ger easy for him to ignore the squirt of fear run­ning through him, making his heart pound and his palms sweat. He repeats his orders. They will advance and par­ley. The Romans move for­ward. They are still far from bow­shot, and his reflexes are honed by years of civil war against his fel­low Romans. He expects the call to par­ley, not a fight. He has a hun­dred paces to go. Ser­geant McCand­less watches the Romans advance, igno­ring his war­ning shots and calls to halt. Their swords are drawn. He does not know the range of a Roman bow. He only knows that they are clo­sing. He doesn’t know what kind of wea­pons they have. He doesn’t know how to talk to them. His nerves are frayed after four days without sleep, night­mares about his family rip­ping him out of the few minutes he can eke out before taking ano­ther go-pill. « STOP! » he roars. « FUCKING HALT! NOW! » Five seconds. « FIRE! » The bul­lets arc for­ward. Marine marks­man­ship is the finest this world has ever seen, and Bas­sus and his men, trot­ting for­ward six abreast, make a fine tar­get. They all drop. Horses and men shriek. McCand­less orders men for­ward to take pri­so­ners and dis­patch the horses huma­nely. Within five minutes, a Hum­vee roars up. Nel­son roars at McCand­less furiously. He is relie­ved. Urgent confe­rences are cal­led. 50 horses are coun­ted — and 49 Roman corpses. It is war.

DAY 6

Nego­tia­tions must begin. Nel­son selects six men to head the team. Cha­plain Gar­rity, the one man Nel­son knows speaks Latin, is hun­ted down. He is found in a latrine, his wrists ope­ned. The first sui­cide. Nel­son selects Pri­vate Menen­dez to take his place as an inter­pre­ter; Menen­dez has been assi­gned to guard Six­tus Murena and has pro­ven a quick study. The Marine nego­tia­ting team heads east in an armed convoy; three Hum­vees with two heli­cop­ters riding shot­gun. Nel­son is uneasy about this show of force, but he can’t take the chance of losing a single man in a fight against an entire empire. He is wat­ching the stock of MREs dwindle rapidly, and the camp is bur­ning through its fuel to boil the Tiber’s water. Engi­neers have devi­sed char­coal fil­ters, but Fort Won­der­land is low on wood, along with almost eve­ry­thing else. And now he has got­ten word of what appears to be a case of mala­ria. At noon, they meet a Prae­to­rian patrol, dou­bled in strength since yes­ter­day. Bas­sus was some­how uns­crat­ched. His report has sent the first real spasms of fear through Augus­tus. The Prae­to­rians have begun adap­ting. They ready bows and jave­lins, not swords today. They are ten miles east of Won­der­land. Roman spies have already esta­bli­shed a screen around the camp, tigh­te­ning the noose. Thou­sands of vete­rans are strea­ming into Rome as news of the Inva­sion spreads. Nelson’s second-in-command steps out of the lead Hum­vee, waving a white flag. He walks for­ward, his hands open. The Prae­to­rians waver. Tales of Bassus’s encoun­ter have become rumor and legend already. The Inva­ders cur­sed him with magic. The Inva­ders broke a flag of truce. The Inva­ders devou­red the corpses. All it takes is one fool. One moment of rash ter­ror. But the Prae­to­rians are the best their Empire has to offer. They are an elite, just as the Marines they face are. They are patriots, and they are cool tac­ti­cians. Eye to eye, the Marines and Prae­to­rians take each other’s mea­sure. Today, things make sense. « I am sorry, » says Major Ter­rence Washing­ton. He holds his hands open. « On behalf of the Uni­ted States and the U.S. Marine Corps, I apo­lo­gize dee­ply for the misun­ders­tan­ding. » His gaze is level and honest. He has fought in Panama and Iraq, Afgha­nis­tan and Iraq again. He has dealt with men who place honor above life. His eyes say what his words can­not. Jave­lins are lowe­red. As are rifles. Across a hun­dred feet, and two thou­sand years, two men walk for­ward and clasp hands. And Sena­tor Murena hears of this that eve­ning, wat­ching the glow of the Prae­to­rians” camp torches from his veranda, and seethes.

DAY 7

The Prae­to­rian corpses are disin­ter­red and retur­ned, with full mili­tary honors. The first 21-gun salute in the his­tory of the world is fired. Augus­tus Cae­sar stands at atten­tion. It takes all of Colo­nel Nelson’s trai­ning and expe­rience to stop him from sta­ring. After a brief break­fast, Augus­tus tours Won­der­land. He is given the honors due a visi­ting head of state. He glances over the machines with a stu­diously cool eye. Only the sligh­test qui­cke­ning of breath betrays his exci­te­ment when he sees the heli­cop­ters. Nel­son admires the Imperator’s reserve. He sup­presses a smile once, when Augus­tus betrays shock — at the sight of Lieu­te­nant Chou, next to Ser­geant Gun­ter­sen and Pri­vate Gomez, all stan­ding at atten­tion. Augustus’s eyes slide over to mea­sure Nel­son, and Nel­son hopes he misses the moment of levity. Nel­son rea­lizes that these men frigh­ten Augus­tus more than any machine. They speak of an empire vas­ter than his own. Augus­tus can ima­gine the threat posed by a heli­cop­ter. An invi­sible empire whose sub­jects come from across the earth, its inter­pre­ters jost­ling with his own in frag­ments of two dozen lan­guages… Nel­son regrets his deci­sion to allow the tour, even if he has pre­sen­ted him­self as an apo­lo­ge­tic and acci­den­tal guest on Roman land. He has not given Augus­tus rea­son to res­pect the Marines as duti­ful figh­ting men. He has given Augus­tus rea­son to anni­hi­late them. Augus­tus makes excuses and cuts the visit short. Nel­son hides his fear behind a stony exte­rior. Murena sum­mons the conspi­ra­tors again that eve­ning. They talk, and now Murena urges them to action. By night, a cloa­ked figure approaches the Prae­to­rian camp. Whis­pe­red signs are exchan­ged. The figure is ushe­red into the pre­sence of Augus­tus. He details Murena’s plan. Augus­tus glo­wers. He dis­misses the infor­mer. He does nothing.