[l0neW0lf]

A few months ago I wrote what was supposed to be a one-shot story set in the G.I. Joe Universe. The question was, what kind of socio-political framework would need a G.I. Joe world aimed at modern audiences?

That first story was intended partly as a tribute to the franchise?s legacy, and partly as social commentary. But then I realized it needed a follow-up. So I wrote one. And then it evolved into something bigger.

G.I. Joe: The Blacklight Protocol is an anthology of standalone stories set in a shared continuity. Each entry can be read independently, but together they form a larger narrative arc that slowly unfolds, building toward a conclusion.

The first two stories follow an original character who also stars in another tale. These act as a sort of prequel. After that, the Blacklight Protocol itself starts, bringing new stories and, eventually, a final chapter.

Characters with completed stories so far include: Storm Shadow, Tomax & Xamot, Spirit Iron-Knife, Buzzer, and my original character. I may add others over time.

What to expect? My favorite parts of G.I. Joe - besides the action figures, of course - are the Sunbow cartoons and the early Larry Hama comics, when there were real countries, real enemies, and the Joes and Cobra were part of a broader, believable world. I?ve tried to capture that same sense of authenticity, with grounded geopolitics, ?what-if? scenarios, military tactics, gear, and vehicles. But I?ve also tried to capture the humor and lightheartedness of the cartoons, and there are nods to the toys as well. My characters are the Sunbow versions in an authentic, modern world, essentially.

For now, I?ll post small excerpts and provide links to the first two full stories on AO3, Wattpad, and my personal website, where they?re available as free EPUB downloads. Everything is 100% free - no monetization, no tracking, nothing.

Starting with the prologue, I?ll likely begin sharing full content directly here on HissTank. The reason is that the first two stories feature strong stances that could be interpreted as political views. However, these are just part of the character?s journey. That being said, I believe there are elements in them that might be relevant to some. Sometimes all it takes is really just one word. If I can reach even one person, that's mission accomplished.

The world has changed a lot since the comics and Sunbow were made. My goal was to create a G.I. Joe world that could feel relevant to younger generations as well. I hope I succeeded.

One last note: if any artist out there would like to contribute original cover art, feel free to reach out. I?d really like to feature fan-made art alongside the stories.

[l0neW0lf]

The Day I became a Joe

"I check the altimeter on my watch: 1200 meters. It’s going to take around 20 seconds to get to break-off so I wait, the adrenaline pumping hard in my veins. At 500 meters I hear the alarm from the watch, to hell with it, I say to myself, I’ll show you guys what I’m made of. Pretty sure they’ll check the deploy altitude for each of us. I have a surprise for you..."

Links:

Wattpad
https://www.wattpad.com/1498120262-t...-g-i-joe-story

Archive of our Own
https://archiveofourown.org/works/61...ters/156296560

Full download
https://sites.google.com/view/virtualxp/books

[l0neW0lf]

On second thought, I probably overthink stuff. I'm sharing the full stories in order.

[l0neW0lf]

I
Hawk is inspecting the new recruits, scanning us from head to toe with his cold stare and aquiline nose.
The first thing he tells us when we introduce ourselves in front of the General is:
?Being the best is not a guarantee of becoming a G.I. Joe. It?s the bare minimum requirement.?
When he passes by me, I don?t move a muscle. The other recruits in line show some sign of weakness - a nervous twitch, a drop of sweat, a barely perceptible tremble - but not me. Hawk seems to have a special gift for spotting people?s vulnerabilities. When he gets in front of me, he glances briefly but lingers longer than usual, as if to assess my resolve. I don?t flinch, cold as a reptile, focusing instead on his countless scars. Apparently, the General doesn?t like sitting behind a desk. Finally, he moves on, giving a nod to his lieutenant, Beachhead, who responds with a silent gesture of agreement.
Hawk leaves, telling us we won?t see him again until the swearing-in ceremony. Or so he claims.
?If any of you make it, of course,? he adds, ?and judging by the look on your faces, I highly doubt it. Anyway, there are plenty of other military units waiting for you out there?.
He puts on his helmet and disappears. By the time he turns the corner, he?s surrounded by multiple officers carrying dossiers on a tablet. The G.I. Joe have a new mission, and as always, it?s up to him to assess the intel and assign roles and rules of engagement.

The first days of training are brutal. We sleep in massive barracks packed with fifty recruits. I never thought so many people would want to become a Joe. The competition between us becomes fierce right away.
On the second night, they wake us up in the dead of night, just after we?ve finally fallen asleep, exhausted, while we are in the heaviest part of our slumber. The barracks are flooded with blinding lights, and the general alarm blares, piercing through the muffled haze of sleep.

Sergeant Slaughter, wielding a megaphone, shouts like a madman, ordering us to get into battle formation immediately while lacing his commands with unspeakable epithets. Some recruits stay in bed, pulling the blankets up to their necks and curling into fetal positions. A day and a half of training has already broken them. The sergeant gestures to his lieutenant, Gung-Ho, who grabs the stragglers and throws them out. We never see them again.
The rest of us scramble into uniform and start running laps around the base for nearly an hour before being sent to the training course. The guard spotlights are trained on us, explosions thunder all around, and a platoon of Marines fires blanks inches from our feet as we navigate the obstacles. Some recruits drop out, but I keep running, massive beads of sweat streaming down my face.

Sergeant Slaughter orders us to scale a wall barehanded while Barbecue, wielding a massive flamethrower, roasts the backsides of those who aren?t fast enough. Luckily, I?m not one of them. I?m the first to clear the wall.
A river of mud greets me on the other side, with barbed wire strung barely thirty centimeters above the ground. It wasn?t there yesterday. They must have set it up during the few hours we were asleep. I throw myself to the ground, trying not to be blinded by the spotlights, while bullets from M27 IAR machine guns rip through the air just inches away. Breathing in the acrid scent of gunpowder, I slither like a snake under the wire, emerging first on the other side.
I sprint toward the green sign marking the exit from the training area. For a fleeting moment, I think I see a satisfied smirk on Slaughter?s face. But when he notices I?m watching him, he barks at me to wash up and get to bed.
?The training starts in a few hours,? he shouts.
?Wasn?t this training?? I say to myself. But I keep my mouth shut, mutter a quick ?Yes, sir,? and hurry off before he can say anything else.
For tonight, it?s finally over. But I can?t sleep, the roar of grenades and bullets still ringing in my ears. The other recruits come in in a disorderly manner, half burned, some with cracked ribs, others with their skin completely torn by the barbed wire. A few of them keep complaining, muttering they are going to leave the next morning. I cover my head with the blanket to block them out and try to close my eyes.

But I still haven?t introduced myself. My name is Robert. Robert La Marmora. To some, I?m a mafioso. To others, just a pizza eater. An Italo-American born and raised in the alleys of Little Italy, with roots buried deep in a land I?ve never seen. My grandfather was a guinea, as they called him here, a proud Italian who fought for the Fascists in World War II. Captured by the Americans, dragged across the ocean in chains, he ended up staying in the land of his captors, working jobs no one else would take, eventually building a life here with a shy Italian girl that used to go to Church every morning. My father though? He wanted to mix his blood. He married an American woman who left him when he needed her the most. That?s where I come in.

My life, like the lives of millions of my peers, has been insignificant up until now. But I grew up with the dream of doing something for my country. Becoming a hero. So, after enlisting with the Marines, a few months ago I applied to join the G.I. Joe special forces. They accepted my demand, and now here I am.

Next: Sgt. Slaughter weeds out the new recruits. Also, meet Roadblock, the weapon expert.

[l0neW0lf]

II
Since the age of reason, I?ve asked myself why so many things around me are falling apart like this. I?ve always found the education we were given in school unsatisfactory; the teachers rarely seemed motivated and didn?t take us seriously, as if we were all destined from birth to remain insignificant. Everything I know, I learned on my own, taking advantage of every opportunity offered by the internet and artificial intelligence. I became a nerd. I wanted to go to college, but I didn?t have the money, so I enlisted right away to escape a life of hardships. A life of crimes, perhaps. I?m a mafioso after all, and nobody has ever believed in me.

I watched friends lose their minds overnight, destroyed by drugs. I?ve often wondered why the state allows them to spread. What kind of freedom is there in becoming completely unable to choose? Because that?s what happens with drugs: you just stop choosing. You become a slave to the next dose, living in its shadow. Your physical abilities decline, your mental faculties deteriorate to the point that you can?t even understand the simplest cause-and-effect relationships. No, I really don?t understand why a country that calls itself civilized allows this poison to spread, even among children, through TV stars and singers, these ministers of this slavery cult. ?The 'explicit lyrics? warning, you say? Do you really think that red sticker is meant to keep kids away rather than draw their inquisitive minds like a magnet?

I?ve read all about the MK-Ultra experiments, the CIA?s top program designed to develop mind-control techniques. Funded by American taxpayers' money, it saw an unknown number of unsuspecting victims subject to all kinds of psychological manipulation, psychoactive drugs, and even electroshock. I know all about spies and suspicious deaths, cover-ups and misdirections, and how the program used the hippies, rock and other alternative lifestyles of the '70s as a cover for its operations. I know because nothing has changed. A friend of mine was one of those hippies still getting high in the outskirts of our cities. He died of an overdose a few months ago. His mother called me, desperate because she couldn?t bring herself to identify her son's body. In the end, I went. He was unrecognizable, the drugs had eaten him alive.

Sergeant Slaughter blasts his whistle in our ears. From fifty we?re down to twenty. There are other recruits in other barracks, and all together we?re just over one hundred. But we keep dwindling. Just a few days were enough to decimate us. But those who made it this far are tough as nails. I feel a certain camaraderie with them, I recognize them as my kind.

I?m starting to understand the reason for all these trials. It?s not just training; we?ll have plenty of that anyway, and these were all individuals who were already exceptionally fit physically and mentally to begin with. This is about finding those who, with sheer willpower, can rise above any difficulty. Those who are willing to go beyond the human.

The Sergeant?s attitude, after the first culling, has shifted from hard to calmer, almost respectful, I?d say. He knows that what he has in his hands is top-quality material. Whether we?re good enough for the G.I. Joe is still to be decided, but without a doubt, the U.S. military can make good use of each and every one of us. As for me, I?ve never had second thoughts. I only want the Joes. I don?t care about any other unit.

We?re trained to fight in any situation and not to back down from any adversity. Beachhead makes us crawl through the mud for hours without saying a word, while Roadblock is our guardian angel as we try all kinds of conventional weapons, from assault rifles to machine guns.

The M16A4 feels heavy in my hands, with a sharp recoil after each burst. The M4A1 is lighter but still kicks hard.
?You may need to retrieve some AK-47 on site?, Roadblock tells us, ?so you might as well learn how to use it?. It?s pretty straightforward and reliable, but its stock digs into my shoulder as the rounds come fast and furious. I?d rather take an FN SCAR-L with me - steady and balanced - or better yet an M4, but hey, in life you can?t always choose.
As we train on the LMGs a huge grin appears on Roadblock face.
?Everybody out of my way?, he shouts, ?I?ll show you rookies how it?s done?.
I try to imitate Roadblock but it?s no use: the M249 SAW forces my arms to strain with each burst, spitting rounds like it has a life of its own. The RPK-74 and PKM are powerful as well but yet again, they feel too weighty to me. I try to keep my arms steady on the M2 Browning but it?s a lost cause; the thing is a monster, its power almost too much to handle. When you need a wall of fire these are all solid choices, but it?s just not my thing.
Roadblock grins at me bringing an M2 around like it?s a toy.
I?d rather use some SMG, I prefer to stay on the move. The MP5 is my first choice: it feels light and lethal in my hands. I also like the Uzi, it is nimble, and the P90 ? well, the P90 is so damn cool. The CZ Scorpion EVO 3 has a smooth kick, while the PP-19 Bizon?s odd shape is deceiving: it shoots fast and hard. MP5 it is.

We train on all kind of handguns as well. I like how the M9 feels clean, its recoil quick and sharp, I like it better than the Glock 17 or the otherwise excellently built SIG Sauer P320. The Colt M1911 is always a solid choice, but the Desert Eagle steals the show, if you can handle the recoil that is. And when all else fails, the shotgun might just be your answer. We train on the Remington 870 and the Mossberg 500 - these two hit like a freight train - while the SPAS-12 makes you feel every round, its blast nearly knocking you back.
If it shoots gunpowder and spits lead, Roadblock is the man you?re looking for. We couldn?t ask for a better instructor.

Next: Sci-Fi walks us through some classified high-tech stuff, but the past keeps haunting Robert.