Femme Supreme and the Vangels — Issue #1: The Raid

Thando Bhebhe / Lead Infinitum Writer

Sehrin, 1973, Africa Minor  


High up in the black sky with twinkling stars, the wind whirled, spun and swirled, warning.  
We heard the call, the cry of wolves.  
They were here.  
They went by many names, legendary names.  
Some called them Amazons, like the old warriors of Greek legend.   
Others called them Valkyries, like the old warriors of Norse myth.  
I even heard them being called Sirens, like the old temptresses from fables of the sea.  
Really though, they were all of these, together, united, one.  
Angels, brought together by she called Venus.  
Mother of them all.  
They were Vangels!  


The helicopter’s blades spun through the cold air, the whooshing swirls echoing as soldiers readied for what was to come.  

These were Vangel Amazons.  

They dawned dark purple fatigues, vests, helms and armaments, stifling them to the teeth.  

Prayers were made, whispers to goddesses uttered, but there was no need, for one sat amidst them.  

Her name was Venus, daughter of Mother Venus.  

She was known as Warriess, princess of war and commander of all Vangels to her warriors.  

On this day, Venus and her Amazons rode the air in Vangel Valkyrie helicopters, ready to play saviour as salvation was nigh.  

“Sisters!” shouted Venus.  

“The mission is simple. Innocents have been captured; we are here to save them.” 

Venus looked into each Amazon’s eye, their stares level, meeting her glittering green eyes with no fear, utterly filled with faith, faith in her.  

The helicopters dipped, the desert horizon swirling, dancing at the whirling blades.  

Boots touched the ground, Venus landing first, Amazons leaping from the chopper behind her.  

She stood tall, her large claymore blade sheathed behind her, stainless silver seaming with crimson curls. Amazons joined her line, their guns hanging heavy, a silhouette of black shadows revealing under the night sky.  

They stood atop a desert hill, a tiny village below them, shimmering like an oasis in the desert darkness.   

To the unknowing eye, it looked like a paradise. Palm trees stood tall, while sandcastles and steads connected in tiny streets, all revolving around a single center. At the heart of this village sat a stone fortress, and to this fortress’s north sat Venus, staring.     

The Atlantic Ocean swooned to the fortress’ south, meeting the desert upon the village’s beaches. Venus’ stare fell upon these beaches as well, waiting.  

“Byrd Intel says they’re being held down there,” said a soldier.  

The Byrds were Vangel’s intelligence wing, run by Aphrodite, the mistress of spies, daughter of Mother Venus.  

While Venus held herself as Warriess, princess of war, Aphrodite was Fataletrix, ward of whispers. Venus disregarded all that, however, calling her sister “Phrodie.”  

This was a privilege only she could exercise, lest one desire to feel the lady of secret’s wrath.  

“Byrds have no exact location of where the innocents are being imprisoned within the village,” continued the soldier.  

“Not yet…” replied Venus, staring south of the stone castle, the ocean’s waves crawling on and off the village’s beaches.  

Inside the ocean surged a storm, a wave of Vangel Syrens swimming in the waters, approaching the village, led by Fataletrix.   

Some Syrens swam in dark purple swimsuits strapped with various armaments and topped off with dive masks and rebreathers. Others, like in the fables, were native to the sea, living legends armed to the teeth.  

They emerged from the depths, floating heads rippling towards the beach, guns held high, glittering on the sea surface, lit by moonlight.   

At the front stood Fataletrix, touching the sand as she skulked out of the water, and Syrens followed behind her as shadows walked onto the beach. As Fataletrix and her Syrens knelt in melting sand, their faces masked in goggles and breathers, their scared eyes would see a landing legion of “frogwomen,” and they did not come in peace.  

Fataletrix took off her diving mask, a foreigner to the sea. Her platinum pink hair fell as loose, wet strands hung above her gray eyes.   

She was also a foreigner to the Sirens, being the commander of the Byrds. Her spies had unearthed the capturing of the innocents, tracking them back to this village. The Vangels now raided upon it, desperate to rescue the innocents. Yet this was no ordinary rescue mission, and these were no ordinary innocents. The gravity of the operation was so dire that it demanded that the Queen of Spies embed herself within the Syrens, leading them from the south, while her sister Venus was to charge the fortress from the north, hidden in the desert hills.  

With all their warriors in position, the two sisters stared at one another from across the distance, their eyes meeting at the center of the stone fortress, the most likely location of the innocents, the target of their looming assault.  


The stone castle was ancient, just as old as the Vangel legends that now surrounded it. In its heyday, it had once granted refuge to an empress, having been built by her. She had conquered lands far greater than this mere village.   

She was known as Alexandria the Great, the first empress of Sehrin and many more lands. Sehrin was not only where this village sat; it was Alexandria’s most prized possession, the origin of her glory, the land where the desert met the sea. Stories of how Alexandria achieved this feat are shrouded in myth, ones that cast her as more goddess than mortal.   

Alexandria, like the Vangels, had female legions of her own. She called them Semyscyrans and she built an empire with their blades. She was a warrior queen, the tip of her army’s spear, and in the myths, another power charged at the tips of her fingers, one that shocked and sparked like Zeus’ bolts… Lightning!  

With lightning in her veins, Alexandria was said to be able to tame the mighty bolts to her will, launching bolts from the sky, her blade and even the tips of her fingers. It was said that if an enemy fell in her view, the bolts would leap from her eyes, cindering him into mere ash.    

While she controlled lightning from the skies, other myths claimed she could control the very skies themselves, launching storms at her whim. True or false, Alexandria made her mark on history, her empire being as real as the very sand the Vangels scurried on as Fataletrix stealthily led her Syrens into the village, sticking to the shadows, blades and silenced gun barrels dispatching foes.  

These foes held the innocent’s captive, wanting to erect their own empire in the vein of Alexandria. Like her, they possessed her mythical powers — the Vangels seemed to believe as much, at least.   

Fataletrix’s 12-strong squad of Syrens split into two teams: the Alpha team, which searched out anti-aircraft installations with orders to charge them with explosives, and the Bravo team, which Fataletrix led. The Bravo team reconned the village, searching for the innocents as they slipped into the streets and steads, even capturing foes of their own to interrogate information out of them at knifepoint. Venus remained in the hills with her squad 12, awaiting Fataletrix’s signal.   

Laying on the hill prone, Venus and her Amazons observed their Syren sisters in action. The enemy was completely caught by surprise as Vangel’s vengeance was served right under his nose, not a single alert alarmed….  

Behind the resting Amazons, hooves stomped as sand raised, the trotting trickling into an Amazon’s ear as she turned back, her eye blooming in panic. She raised her rifle high, slipping her finger onto the trigger, ready to squeeze  

“Wait!” shouted a figure emerging from the night shadows. His arms raised and he came in peace.  

The Amazon held back her finger, her sisters joining her in aim as the Amazons pointed their guns at the man that slowly etched closer to them.  

“Freeze!” shouted another Amazon. “That’s close enough.”  

The man ceased at command, his face shrouded in a veil. His eyes gleamed in the darkness, Venus meeting them as she marched toward him, her Amazons covering her from behind.  

“Who are you?” asked Venus, facing him undeterred, her huge blade still sheathed.  

“I come with gifts,” said the man. “Courtesy of the goddess of beauty.”  

“Which one?” replied Venus.  

“She told me to tell you that her name was Phrodie. She said you would understand.” 

Venus knew she could trust the man because Phrodie hadn’t struck him dead after sharing her name. She then turned back to her women.  

“Stand down sisters, my sister bears us gifts!” 

Behind the man emerged a herd of horses, neighing and grunting in restlessness.  

“These are 13 of my best steeds, all battle proven. They will serve you well, this I promise,” said the man, resting his palm on his chest as his head bowed.  

Venus approached the lead steed, a great white horse that heaved and hooved tensely. She took over the harness from the man’s servant, resting her palm on the beast’s nose. Her touch calmed the horse as it relaxed, a smile slipping as she met its eye. She turned to the veiled man, nodding in gratitude, then turned to her Amazons.   

“Sisters, tonight, we ride!” 


As Alexandria’s empire rose, so too did its fall. When she sat upon the throne, she had made herself many enemies, enemies with great armies and greater pride. They could not stand to be bested and ruled by her, not only because of her might but also because she was no man. To many of them, only a man could rule, especially if they were to be the ones to kneel.  

Alexandria was surrounded, both inside and out of her own empire. She fought wars on seemingly infinite fronts, yet as mighty as her Semyscyrans were, they were still mortal, merely mortal. She held to her last breath, choosing to fall on her feet, in that epic glory of battle.   

But all war is hell.  

At her demise, the few Semyscyrans that survived found themselves hunted, their heads suddenly now fetching a fortune. The captured ones would serve as King’s pets, their days numbered as they lived at the mercy of their capturer’s caprice. The ones who escaped hid deep in the deserts of Sehrin, slowly disappearing into myth as time passed, whispers of a desert oasis ruled and inhabited solely by women being the last of their vestige.   

The Semyscyrans were not Alexandria’s only legacy, however….   

Alexandria was a queen of plenty. She brought plenty back to Sehrin from her conquests, making it a paradise. Yet just as much as she gave, so too did she take. She had legions of lovers and harems of wives and husbands, all dedicated to her pleasure. When it came to descendants, though, she was more conservative, spending more time ending lives from her blade instead of creating them. Yet create life she did, bringing forth daughters and sons into the world, all successors to her throne.  

When her throne fell however, they were the first to be hunted, far more vehemently than the Semyscyrans. Semyscyrans tried to save as many of Alexandria’s children as possible, further adding to their bounty. If they could save a successor then that offspring could one day grow into a powerful queen or king, leading them once more, ready to retake Sehrin, armed with that same power of gods that once flowed through Alexandria’s veins, their birthright.  

Yet because of this birthright, Alexandria’s line was intensely hunted down. Her enemies killed her children with swift mercilessness, refusing them a chance to grow into their power. Alexandria’s progeny, like the Semyscyrans, disappeared into dead legend, struck down by the ever-flowing arrow of time.  

But just as the ancient stone castle still stood, within it also stood one of Alexandria’s descendants, their line having been survived for centuries in secret. Now they were held captive by enemies that desired to use their powerful birthright for their imperial ends, and the Semyscyrans were not here to save them.  

The Vangels were however, Fataletrix finally learning where they were being held.   

“If you talk, you’ll be spared,” whispered Fataletrix, holding a foe down in a headlock while her Syrens pointed silenced barrels at his head. Shrouded in the darkness inside a barracks room filled with dead comrades, the man had no options.   

“She is in the commander’s office, in the basement of the stone castle. These used to be the dungeons, you will find the other ones there too.”  

“Do you lie to me?” said Fataletrix, speaking in the man’s tongue.  

“All I have is the truth.” 

“I’m afraid it won’t save you!” said Fataletrix, reaping the sharpened claws of her steel finger nails into the man’s neck, ending him. His body then thumped to the ground, Fataletrix swinging her arm as his blood splattered to the ground, the nails retracting.  

A Syren then rested a final bullet in his temple, ending his drowned croaking.   

With the location of the innocents found, Fataletrix headed to the rendezvous point with her team, Alpha team uniting with them as the lead Syren confirmed that they’d planted charges on all AA installations.  

“We’ve got them all set, even marked some enemy hotspots that the Valkyries can take care of,” said the lead Syren. Everything was going according to plan, without a single Vangel casualty yet.  

“Well done sister, Venus should have gotten her present by now, so everything’s in place,” said Fataletrix.  

She then checked all her women, not a single scratch upon them, the fire still burning in their eyes. All Fataletrix had to do now was give the signal to command, and all Vangel vengeance would be let loose, raining down upon the village stronghold.   

Fataletrix made the call, radioing command as she gave them the green light. She then made haste with her 12 Syrens, having found a scarcely guarded entry into the stone castle, awaiting chaos, ready to move amid madness.   

From atop the hill to their north, Venus sat upon her white steed, her Amazons resting on their horses, guns clenched, horses held tight, as they awaited Valkyrie vengeance. Only in the Valkyries wake would they march.  

The last heir of Alexandria’s salvation was at hand.  

Deep in the Atlantic, miles away from the Village stronghold, the VSS Verticordia sailed within the great ocean, mighty and grand; it was the Vangel Syren’s flagship aircraft carrier. Within this beast of the sea sat mission command, they’d received Fataletrix’s green light. It was go time! Valkyrie pilots sprinted into action, Valkyrie Fighter Jets and Helicopter gunships readying as rotter blades spun, while jet engines roared.   

Within the marching, Femme Supreme emerged, Mother Venus herself, her dual blades and guns sheathed, bandanna tied as afro flared, eyes burning brown. Alongside her marched Valkyrie paratroopers, specialized in air and ground assaults, they went by the moniker of Viqueens, and they joined Femme Supreme, mounting the helicopter gunship, ready to serve at her command.   

The aircrafts leaped and lifted into action, soaring toward the stronghold, ready to rain hell and salvage salvation.   


In the fall of Alexandria’s empire, foreign kings would always hold Sehrin’s throne. Its age as vassal stretched until seemingly forever, but forever came to a sudden cease as Sehrinese rebels began striking against these foreign empires that held their land. It was the spirit of the times as foreign Kings everywhere found themselves usurped by the natives, liberation reigning everywhere.  

One such liberator were the Libros, short for Liberated Ones. They emerged from the deserts with weapons of revolution and hope for an independent Sehrin. They broke away from the imperial lies of an eternally subservient Sehrin, tapping into their rich history of Sehrinese Kings who ruled with absolute power, absolute glory. The Libros now aimed to turn back the clock, back to that glorious age, fighting to resurrect their own former empire.  

Mother Venus fought for liberation too. But liberation for whom, that was the question.  

Her helo transport soared high up in the sky, the blue waters beneath, her eyes on the approaching shore. A tiny glittering caught her eye, a Valkyrie Jet screeching in her ear as it zoomed past her, headed for that same glint, the village, the stone fortress.  

Within the stone fortress, deep in the belly of its dungeons, the stench of death littered the air. Women and girls sat on a cold hard floor littered with rotting corpses. Some of the women peered out through the bars that held them in while many resigned themselves further back within the shared cell, especially the children. If their captors did not see them, they would not choose them, they would not take them.  

Dungeons filled with girls and women ran from side to side, a thin hallway separating them. To this hallway’s very end sat a door. Within that door, a commander rested, crates upon crates of guns and munitions littered within his office, one that felt more like a throne room, grand and wide. The crates had a myriad of weaponry, all stamped with a range of flags. There was an American flag, a British flag, a West German flag and many more western states, the self-proclaimed heralds of democracy.  

Among the caches of munitions, there was also stacks of money and gold bricks. It felt like the mythical Dragon’s cave, one where a brave adventurer would discover a hill of golden coins and trinkets, all waiting to be claimed, if he could only best the beast. In this commander’s case, his beast was the Irian Federation, the ruling authority within Sehrin, and many more African states.   

The Irians first came to Africa Minor as European explorers, desperate to pillage and plunder, but soon, they didn’t just want to take, they wanted to own, to settle and thus, the Irian Empire was born.   

It dropped the imperial title, becoming a federation, desperate for its western fathers to see it as a fellow progressive, democratic state unworthy of these distasteful insinuations of being “oppressive.” Yet the change was skin deep, for at its core, the empire still reigned, long live the empire.   

The Sehrinese felt the empire as they were deemed free, instead of being a colony, they were now a federated state within Iria, Irian Sehrin. Yet Irians ruled them and Irians owned everything, discouraging them from resisting, that would be terrorism.   

The old adage now rang true, for the Irian’s terrorist was the Sehrinese’s liberator, thus was born the Libros.  

Televisions sat inside the Commander’s office, his face blaring bright on the screens. He watched himself, his signature black beret flailing in heat of his passionate address. He remembered that day, when he delivered his now famous speech, calling on the world to help him save Sehrin. It was in New York, and his comrades had smuggled him out of the country, he was the most wanted man in Iria. There he then stood, addressing the world at the United Nations, defiant, brave, honorable, a true leader.  

The Irian government called on the United States to extradite him back into their hands in chains, the firing squad awaiting. Protests swelled outside his address however, the flag of the revolution being hoisted high, his face in the middle, the title: Liberator seating under him. He had won the world, and America’s heart.   

Commentators would say it was just politics, the Americans had just tainted their righteous image in Vietnam and here now stood a liberator, desperate for support. It was the perfect comeback, from imperial vanguard to revolutionary aide, how could they not resist? The Irians weren’t doing themselves any favours either, what with their apartheid segregations and the company they kept, South Africans and Rhodesians. It all reminded them a little too much of themselves, back when they were building their own empire, on Indian land.  

This was a new world, a new age, that of the revolutionary, and America had one more chance to be on the right side of history. The Commander now rested his feet on American gifts, a tag attached to one of the crates, it read  Give them hell! The free world sends its regards.  

History had been written.  

But what of herstory?  

A woman begun coughing, her rasps wet and phlegmy, it was likely pneumonia. Such a case was treatable, but why waste resources on her, she would die there, under the secret headquarters of the liberated ones, men who bravely fought to free Sehrin. In her place, another woman and girl were being stolen  even being gifted to the revolutionaries, a prize for their righteous mission.  

The greatest prize however, slept inside the Commander’s office, granted a bed, clean clothes and fresh food to eat, but most importantly, unlike the others, she would never be taken. The Commander had claimed her, seeking her out, for within her veins ran the legendary blood of Alexandria. She was the warrior queen’s last descendant, and she could gift the commander his desired empire. This empire would stretch as far as all of the Irian Federation, once the Commander usurped them with lightning wrath.  


The girl awoke to what sounded like an earthquake. The ground shook and dust fell from the ceiling, the televisions broadcasting on as sudden booms began blasting above. Frightened, the girl escaped from her bed, running toward the general who held his golden AK-47 in hand.   

The weapon had been a gift from the soviets, back when they were trying to splash some red on his revolution. The Commander was smart enough to refuse them, branding his revolution as strictly political. Economically, however, he would inherit the colonizer’s system. He assured the Americans that business would remain booming, even more so under his lead, he was one domino they needn’t worry about. This was all behind closed doors of course; he had an image to maintain.  

The golden gun dripped with sweat, the Commander’s mind running manic on who had betrayed him. Had the Soviets taken flight, were the Americans switching sides or had the Irians finally found him? Whomever it was, they must’ve had access to some serious air support, for this was unmistakably the sound of a bombing run. Who was dropping the bombs though?  

Above the dungeons, outside the stone fortress, Valkyrie jets screeched in the air, scorching the village with bomb after bomb. Fataletrix’s team had blown up the AA installations, letting lose hell on the Commander’s men. It was a bloodbath, the village spurning bright in flames, Libros crying in their doom.  

Venus watched the mania, the last Valkyrie streaking through the air, the gates of Gehenna leaking under it, blood boiling in burn.  

“Sisters, ours is at hand,” said Venus, finally unsheathing her great blade. Her Amazons watched her raise the sword, some wondering how her single arm could hold such a huge weapon, it was beyond mortal. Venus’s white horse now grew restless, swaying and neighing as she turned it backwards, addressing her women. She looked into their eyes, the fire, the faith, still burning.  

“Let us liberate our fellow woman, and let glory shine her light upon us, onward sisters!” she shouted, turning her steed forward, toward the burning village. “Onward to battle  CHARGE!”  

A huge cry followed as Amazons roared into battle, galloping fervently, guns blasting, drums of death beating.  

Fataletrix and her Syrens breached the fortress entrance, the ensuing chaos offering them enough cover as Libros ran manic, desperate to understand what was going on. Many would fall at Amazon blades and barrels, while others cindered under Valkyrie bombs, attacked utterly by surprise, Vangel vengeance raining!  

Women and girls beneath the fortress started crying, shouting and pleading for help, salvation at hand. This annoyed the Commander as he gambled in thought, having hoped his attackers wouldn’t search for him under here. What king had his throne in the dungeons? It was the perfect cover, yet these women were giving him away with their cries.  

He left his office, gun in hand, the little girl watching through the gap as the door closed. If only it had fully closed, her memory would’ve been spared. Above, a Valkyrie helicopter gunship hovered above the village, its guns blazing as it picked out Libros beneath.   

Femme Supreme and her Valkyrie Viqueens descended from it, slipping down ropes as they entered the fray. Venus and her Amazons attacked from the North on horseback, Fataletrix and her Syrens stealthily scouring the fortress from the south and Mother Venus landed dead in the middle of battle, blasting her dual pistols, covered by her Valkyries.    

Within the dungeons, the little girl watched as the Commander cocked the golden gun, ordering the women to remain silent, lest they wish to die. They’d been told to be silent all their lives, told to bow and hold their tongue, no matter what it is that happened to them.   

They were ignored and disrespected, and they were to remain silent.    

They were abused and neglected, and they were to remain silent.  

They were stolen and discarded, and they were to remain silent.  

That was their duty, their purpose, their nature.  

Not today.  

All the women stared down the barrel, the corpses of their sisters laying beneath them, some with cut tongues. They would not be silent today.  

As salvation reckoned above, the women screamed their loudest and deepest scream, defiant. If they were to die tonight, they would die on their feet, loud and proud. And so they died.  

The Commander blasted his gun, bodies flaying and fluttering in red mist, the little girl’s eyes blossoming wide, maturing in her knowledge of humanity and its inhumanity. Bullet shells cluttered onto the ground, above and beyond as lead leaked, wrath exhaling. Yet it also sparked within the little girl’s fingers, buzzing, blooming, awakening at the sight of injustice, inhumanity. Something had to be done, someone had to save them, some had to stop him!  

As electricity pulsed within her, the girl opened the door, the Commander staring her down as he reloaded his gun, moving onto the next dungeon, the women crying in fear, while others rebuked in rage. As the little girl walked toward him, he marched on, cocking the gun, hoping to scare her back into her place. She’d never once opposed him before, he had trained her well, yet she kept walking, the buzzing growing louder, the fighting above ceasing.  

The women in the dungeons saw him march toward the little girl and they screamed and shouted, trying to grab his attention, be the ones to take the bullets, not her. Yet he marched on, locked and loaded, the girl finally stopping. The commander also stopped, aiming his gun from the hip, still wearing his black aviators and black beret.   

Silence then rained, beneath and above, all eyes on the two, a standoff ensuing like those seen in wild westerns. A woman then resisted, running from the back of her cell, clutching the bars and spitting into the Commander’s face, rebuking him, redirecting his wrath.  

He turned to her, enraged, taking off his glasses, the spit dripping on their helms. Angered, he then blasted her, gunning her entire cell, the little girl’s eyes sparking bright as she too blasted. The bolts of Zeus sprang from her eyes and fingertips, bodies thumping to the ground, the Commander’s among them as he too fell, charred and smoking.   



Silence remained even after it, the women silent, in disbelief of the horror that had just taken place. The girl’s lightening culled, nothing but tears emitting from her as she stood above her captor’s body, nothing but the scars remaining.   

Noise then came as all heads turned to it, Fataletrix and her Syrens entering with their guns up, everyone too shocked to do anything. As she realized she’d found the captives, she ordered her women to lower down their arms, announcing to the captives that she had come in peace.  

“We are here to save you!” she shouted, but she received no reply, silence reigning.   

It was only after her Syrens had broken the chains, leading the captured women out of their cells and covering them in blankets, that cries finally released. The women wailed, mourning what they had lost, while tears flushed for what they had gained. Fataletrix spoke in their tongue, assuring them that it was all OK now, embracing them, gracing them with humanity.  

Venus and her mother joined Fataletrix in the dungeons, their Amazons and Valkyries joining the Syrens as they tended to the women, gracing them in care and love.   

Vangels bearing salvation.   

The little girl found herself in the arms of Mother Venus, her tears flowing upon the woman’s dark purple uniform, the insignia of the Vangel flag swaying as Mother Venus caressed the child, whispering to her that it all be OK now.  

“You are safe my child, I will protect you and care for you as if you were my own daughter,” Mother Venus kissed the child, her child.  

“You are safe daughter, you are safe.” 

The child’s heaving ceased and she calmed, holding her new mother tightly. Finally, for the first time in a long time, she felt safe, she felt loved.  

“What is your name child?” 

“Qleopatra, my sisters called me Qleo, I never had a mother to name me.” 

“Now you do my child, come, I will show you your new sisters.” 

Fataletrix and Venus then joined their mother, embracing Qleo.  

Amazons, Valkyries and Syrens joined too, welcoming a new sister, a new Vangel.  


Once the Vangels had exfiltrated, leaving the village with the little girl and her fellow formerly captured women, nothing but the sound of burning remained. The village cindered on, the wrought of vengeance being the last remnant of the female saviors. Yet within the dungeons, past the Commander’s dead body, further down the hallway of empty dungeons, inside the underground throne room, the television blared on.  

Right after the Commander had delivered his speech for Sehrinese liberation, Femme Supreme took the podium, the United Nations Assembly gathered before her, the world watching.   

Like the Commander, Femme Supreme had been a revolutionary too. Her native country had been ruled by foreign kings and groups like the Libros had risen, claiming to liberate everyone.  

“Everyone but women!” she declared.  

“The rebels marched into battle and they fought the colonizer, but once they returned home, they ruled their wives and sisters with the same oppressive fist, and no one batted an eye.” 

“For too long, the world has ignored us women, we are relegated to the background of history, never allowed to tell our herstory, for our story is one of oppression under man’s hands. Not anymore!” 

Like the Libros and all other liberators, she launched her own revolution. This would not just be a revolution against imperialism, this would not just be a liberation from white supremacy, but it would be a liberation from all supremacy and all empire.  

“The oppressive supremacist empire of patriarchy!” said Femme Supreme.  

She led the march, selling her revolution to the world like the Commander, but unlike him, no one would listen to her, as they listened to the men who promised to liberate her land. It was the men who chose between Soviet guns or American guns, the men who were plastered on flags and banners, the men who made history.   

“I wanted to be a revolutionary too, and I wanted to liberate everyone, everyone!”  

And yet she was ignored.  

So, she wrote her own herstory.  

Men might’ve ignored her, but women took notice, the idea of a free and fair society for all people, for all races, for all creeds, all sexes, was just too good to let go.   

So, they seized it!  

While her counterparts received international guns and aid, Femme Supreme got that and more, as women everywhere volunteered, willing to fight for her dream of equality.  

Thus, the Vangels were born.  

The armies and infantries of the Vangels were deemed Amazons.  

The air forces deemed Valkyries.  

And the navies deemed Syrens.  

Women everywhere from all over the world dawned the dark purple, the color of royalty, as a new queendom was built, the United Queendom!  

Femme Supreme and her Vangels built this queendom, usurping their colonizers and besting their rival liberators and making herstory!  

“We Vangels are not communists or capitalists, we are humanists, Feminists! And living to the ideals of feminism, we seek to liberate the world for everyone, men and women, together, united as one!”  

“This Commander may say he is a liberator, but I ask you this: Who is he liberating?”  


Thando Bhebhe / Lead Infinitum Writer

This story was originally published in print Volume 23, Issue 8 on Thursday, April 4.

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