I am writing 'Ragnarok Conspiracy' out in the open. As I posted a few chapters earlier in 2nd draft form, I am now posting my first draft of a possible prologue. I'm cramming quite a lot of history into this short prologue that takes place about a decade before the main story, and though I've tried to do so in a way that is not to dry and telling, I don't know if I succeeded. John is a minor character in the main story (thanks Owen R. O'Neill ) whose actions end up playing a pivotal role in the plot though. The history density is meant so I can greatly reduce this kind of backdrop heavy writing in the main story. Please leave comments if this prologue draft is working or if its a mood killer.
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"Our house so big, you can't find your way to the kitchen?; Woman, where is me dumplin?"

As he witnessed his drone formations plummet towards the earth, John remembered his dad's last words. The word his father had spoken in his regular frivolous way just moments before being killed. Any hint of chauvinistic quality in his words instantly evaporating as a result of the friendly smile that came after it. He had spoken these words in his friendly but heavy west indian accent only a fraction of a second before a miniature quant-drone, only fractionally bigger and similar shaped to the little bananaquit bird that was so common to the islands, had blown a hole through his chest the size of a cricket ball. At first glance the drone looks just like the happy little grey birds with their bright yellow chests feathers that were always so busy in their family house garden. Only looking at it better revealed the miniature pentacopter wings that actually carried the fake bird. Each time John recalled his fathers dead, his hatred for the quants grew. What kind of sick minds would devise such a killing device?

As his computer helmet went pitch dark, John snapped back to the present. EMP! Those blasted Ottomans! After years of fighting just the quants, things had now changed. Johns fighting tactics had not adjusted to match yet, and this was the worst of times to come up short. The South Atlantic GNU Defence Alliance and the New Ottoman Free Trade Alliance had gone and sign a peace treaty. A peace treaty with those horrid quants! And now those blasted Ottomans had apparently even gone and share their Electromagnetic pulse battle tactics with the quants! Those bastards! Peace with these monsters?! Never! How could they?

After what they had done to him, to his family, all that John really wanted now was to avenge his dad.

His dad, John Bridgewater senior, had been a simple dock worker in Willemstad, Curacao . A hard working man without any interest in politics whatsoever. A simple and gentle soul. Although occasionally John’s mom may have disagreed with him on that while his dad was still alive. According to John's mom, John's dad had been a “lazy pig”, a “pothead” and “inveterate womanizer” and some other things John did not care to remind himself of. Those viewpoints had all been washed away though after his dad was murdered. Killed by a quant-drone! John senior, according to everyone, would most likely have been secretly involvement in the New Zion movement. John's mom today could speak nothing but praise about her late husband. He had been a hero and a saint. A freedom fighter who died to set his people free. John could not make himself take these delusions away from his mom by telling her the truth.

John knew there was absolutely no truth in his mother's words. The quants had no reason to murder him like that. no reason at all. Dad died for nothing and it was all his fault. It was him, John "Junior" that, while only 16 years of age at that moment, had enlisted into the ranks of the New Zion freedom fighters. The quants had murdered his dad, also named “John Bridgewater” in a tragic case of mistaken identity.

Pushing back his emotions, John quickly took of his computer helmet and disconnected himself from his now dead computer interfaces. Stumbling a few times he made his way out of his van. Quickly grabbing a glider backpack on his way out. He knew that without the protection of his drone army, he was a sitting duck up here. While John would gladly have given his life to stop the launch from happening, without his drones, without even a handgun, anything that he could now do is try for a strategic retreat. Their mission had failed, the other fractions were about to end the war at a terrible price that, for some reason, only New Zion fully comprehended. Despite of his own deep hatred for the quants, it was their quantum-computer slicing technology that allowed the world to finally see the the centuries old Babylon conspiracy. It had shown that his mad old rastafarian granddad had been right all along with his crazy rantings about Babylon.

This launch, this new weapon, it may end the war with the quants and incept a new peace, but at what price. New Babylon may have fled to Mars-One, a rudimentary and small colony on Mars built to house only a quarter of the amount of people who ended up seeking refuge there. The other fractions were grossly underestimating the nastiness and cunning of New Babylon. New Babylon were not rendered harmless. They were plotting from up there right now. Plotting and scheming was their way of life. Ending the war like this would leave the planet vulnerable. As John carefully landed his glider in the reeds of a small forest lake, he realized there was a new and long struggle up ahead. A struggle to keep New Babylon from regaining control of Earth.