ACT III | THE TYRANT'S HUBRIS
CHAPTER XXI | REVOLT
THE ARABIAN SPRING
BAGHDAD | IRAQ | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES
The air was thick with fury.
Farhaan's heart beat steady.
One hand polished the pistol, as he looked it over in the dim light. It didn't matter that he'd never fired a gun before. He'd figure it out fast, and he was far from the only one. He glanced with contempt towards the tied up Indian soldier they'd lynched off the street. Everything had been stripped off, leaving the man bloodied, bruised, and half-conscious.
A short distance away the rest of the men sat around the table, speaking and muttering in low voices as words were translated into plans, and plans into action. Holstering the pistol, Farhaan rose to join them, though not before spitting at the chained Indian.
The man was lucky they hadn't skinned him and tossed his corpse for the vultures.
That might come later.
All of them deserved it.
The Middle East had lived under occupation of one form or another for decades now. The rulers changed, but their fates were always the same - servitude. Ottoman, European, Indian; they came, they conquered, they lied, they betrayed, and in the end, they always destroyed. They could never risk Arabs building something of their own.
So they did everything possible to beat them down. If they could not convince, they bribed, if they could not bribe, then they would strike. When numbers were lacking, they relied on technology. Through economics and money to starve them. All that was needed to strike, and strike, and strike until they submitted.
Life was easier when they submitted.
They'd just wanted to live.
Survive.
He sat down at the table, and joined the conversation. His brother, his father, their grandfather, and uncle. Even his older sister was here. So too were their neighbors and his sons. All of them gathered for something unprecedented. To speak about something they had not even allowed themselves to dream of.
Men always had limits though.
There had always been people who resisted, of course. Men and women who were at best assumed to be doomed, and others who disliked the futile crusade, as they knew that resistance would only make life harder. They had families. They had lives. And bad as they were, they did not want them to get worse.
Even as life got worse all the same.
There had only been one spark of hope.
One that had died as quickly as it had appeared.
The arrival of an alien seemed to ultimately make little difference. Did it matter when it seemed to align itself with the Triumvirate, and grant them more power, more technology, and more authority that was immediately turned against them?
It was the same story, one where they knew the ending, it had happened many times before.
A better outcome was not possible.
No one was coming to save them.
No one cared. No one could be made to care.
The only ones who could save them – were themselves.
And that was where the second hope had sprung from.
It had started with stories and rumors. Legends that had been born from whispers from the Yemeni desert. Rumors that spoke about how one of them, who was doing more than just resisting against the Triumvirate, and their Indian rulers. They described one who was winning - enough to where they felt the need to send the most notorious butcher to stop them.
They cracked down. They struck to demoralize.
The Sandman didn't take it. He didn't submit.
Instead, he struck back.
More of their people were freed. They were armed. They joined the ranks. Resistance was no longer as taboo, it wasn't as impossible. Not when the enemy could bleed. When they could be hurt.
And then Egypt had happened. Cairo turned into cinders.
The senseless, aimless destruction. The sheer power and horror unleashed upon the defiant. There was no other action that could demonstrate just how worthless their lives ultimately were to the Triumvirate. No one could just stand by as such atrocities were carried out.
It was a silent war that had been declared. It had raised an important question.
At what line would it become unacceptable?
How long could they endure like this, no matter the risks?
How long before resistance wasn't a matter of pride, or defiance, but one of survival?
And still many had held their tongues. Stilled their hands. Hid their weapons.
For giants appeared invincible.
As millions had watched the showcase of the Triumvirate's power; its advancement, its ultimatum to the world – the old fear set in again. Until their screens had turned on – just in time for them to see the man of rumor and legend appear to them. A man who seemed to come from a different era.
A different time.
A time where they had control of their own destiny. When they had stood tall and proud in the world. He was the embodiment of all they could be, and all they could strive to be. And that man pleaded with them to take that step, and to not just fight for their liberation, but a better world.
And so Arabia had watched, enraptured.
Farhaan had felt much the same. The third hope budding, the spark ready to be set alight.
Right as he watched the machine crush the life that defied the Triumvirate; defied their authority.
Without hesitation. Without mercy. The illusion stripped away. The truth they had always known revealed to the world; lies shorn from the grinning skeleton that brought only death to the defiant.
A symbol that had been killed for no reason but to break them. To demonstrate the futility of their struggle.
Instead, there had only been one though in Farhaan's mind.
Enough.
Families had gathered; men and the unmarried older women, mostly sisters and students, grabbed what they could from their homes, from kitchen knives to tools like shovels. Mothers stockpiled foods, comforted children, moved the elders to safe rooms, as they did what they could to protect the homes.
His family had done so. He knew they were not alone.
Preparations taking place in a thousand homes, across the region. Friends talked to friends, communities united as they had not been since the invasions decades ago. Old veterans broke out the weapons hidden long ago. Sons kept watch for Indian patrols. There was no communication, no coordination, but everyone was of a single mind of what to do.
Strike back.
They would no longer submit.
They were nothing to the tyrants who ruled over them, they only existed to serve them - And if there was no reason to live, then perhaps it was better to die for something real. It was better to die standing than submit.
For there was a cause that was just. That was worth defiance.
If the Triumvirate wanted to burn the world, and butcher them, they would make sure the Indians burned alongside them.
The soldiers were uncertain, and jittery as the days followed. The one they'd abducted was far from the only one taken in recent days – many more soldiers were kidnapped and executed by bands of men in the night, who stripped the soldiers of their weapons and uniforms, and used them for future attacks.
Farhaan and his family moved outside as the sun was set. Tonight was to be the demonstration, with weapons in their hands, and their faces covered, dozens poured out onto the streets. Chants and prayers joined together in a chorus of defiance; turned into a chorus of rage, grief, and fury.
The tinderbox was lit.
It didn't matter who fired the first shot. That was all that was needed.
The spark had been struck.
Baghdad went to war.
Farhaan roared as the molotovs were thrown, and those with firearms took aim at the Indians, while the rest were mobbed by men with whatever weapons that could find in their hands. He saw men beside him die, but he saw more Indian soldiers perish as well. He could not predict what would come next.
He could not predict that Baghdad would be the first to be consumed by a fire that soon gripped the entire region, and the world to follow.
He could not predict that within days the entire country would fall when the collaborator government would be found dead, poisoned by their Arab cooks during an emergency meeting.
He could not predict, but even if he could, he would have still joined in the uprising. An uprising that let his heart sing as it executed justice. One death only emboldened them, and soon those who had held the authority became the hunted; as the chains broke and revolution followed.
Indian control fragmented as a hundred small wars broke out in every city. Groups of men hunted, isolated, and executed soldiers one by one.
Baghdad was only the first city to fall - and all in the Triumvirate remembered when they saw the Arabian revolutionaries, on their own, with no support, planning, or coordination, burn the Indian, American, and Soviet flags, while raising the long-retired flag of Iraq atop the Baghdad city hall.
With the almost-forgotten flag of his home raised in the air as the fires burned, and the revolutionaries sang their anthems, Farhaan knew that there was a message they would send to the world.
The time of submission had ended.
The Arabian Spring had begun.
THE NOTHING
The sands stretched out as far as Fang could see; shimmering dunes that shone the lightest of blues, under a starry sky. The portal that Xûr had manifested had brought them into the middle of seemingly nowhere. The alien had merely gestured around them. "Lead the way, Fang Sov."
This had been after he'd prevented Shadow from entering – although the reasoning had been that if the Ghost had been allowed, it would have gone inert from being separated from the Traveler. Fang hadn't been especially happy to learn that after entering – but he hadn't really had a lot of choice here.
Xûr wanted him to lead the way.
So he had.
They trudged through the sands, at first in silence, and it was only after a short while that Fang felt that something was peculiar about all of this. It wasn't just that here Xûr was far less disconcerting to him. Or perhaps it was because the Light felt…different here. As if it was a copy; an artificial manifestation.
Maybe it was here that Xûr was natural, and he was the alien. There was certainly something in this place that resonated…wrongly with him. He looked at the alien. "How long have we been walking?"
The alien chuckled. "A moment. An hour. A day. A lifetime. How long indeed, Fang Sov? Tell me."
Fang pursed his lips at the cryptic answer. "Not as long as it should."
"You are close, but wrong." Xûr stated. "For time to pass, it must exist. It time does not exist, it cannot be measured, no?"
Fang snorted. "This isn't a real place, is it."
Xûr appeared to also find that amusing. "It is as real as the reality you inhabit. Or as imaginary, if you prefer. Entities like us walk between them differently, and adapt to them differently."
"That's not…" Fang began, then shook his head as they kept walking. "There's a difference between the real and imaginary. One has rules, the other is dictated by something higher."
"Then how would you define yourself? For you are one who bends reality to your will in the dimension you inhabit." Xûr said. "If we accept your definition, has your reality become imaginary to those who cannot touch the Light. Because you can shape it?"
"That's not the same thing," Fang answered, though less convinced than he would like. "I can alter the rules temporarily, but they always revert."
"Do they?" Xûr challenged blandly, tentacles idly waving from his hood. "Life cannot spring from nothing. Material cannot appear out of thin air. The dead do not return from the beyond. Your actions, Guardian, remain. Tell me, how weak must rules be for you to defy them as you will them? Tell me when you draw upon the Light, that you hesitate for even a moment to consider the rules that you break."
For the first time, Fang paused to consider what the alien was saying – and begrudgingly realized he had a point. A somewhat disconcerting point. "If laws do not define reality," he asked. "Then what does?"
"You are only partially wrong," Xûr said. "Laws dictate reality to the lesser. The life that is trapped to their singular existence. The definition of reality is simple, Fang Sov. It is the imposition of Law through Will. Sometimes this reality manifests on its own. Other times it is created. And beings of higher powers seek to override reality to their wills."
His lips twitched. "You are leading to a certain point, Xûr. Make it."
"Answer me a question, Fang Sov," Xûr said, voice musing. "The Celestial calls your kind Guardians. What are you protecting? Whom?"
"Humanity," Fang answered without hesitation.
"From?"
"The Triumvirate, the Darkness," Fang shrugged. "Anything which threatens our species."
Xûr hummed. "No."
Fang raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"Why do you think the Traveler choose you, Fang Sov?" Xûr wondered. "Is there something unique about your species? Something special that no others can compare to?"
"Unlikely," Fang answered. "Is that not something She does to the species She encounters?"
"You do see more clearly, some are deluded into thinking they are special, chosen by cosmic divinity," the tentacles of Xûr's face waved, as the glowing eyes met his own. "You are close, but you have not answered the question of why you were chosen. And it was not to protect a species which is cosmically irrelevant."
"Irrelevant," Fang said. "Until we have been uplifted."
"Uplifted to serve," Xûr emphasized. "You are not a Guardian of Humanity, Fang Sov. You are a Guardian of the Traveler."
"Are you insinuating we are just tools?"
"Do you disagree?"
Fang thought for a moment. "No."
"And this does not bother you."
"Should it?"
"I cannot ascertain your own mind and values," Xûr said. "I can only say that I have seen many reactions. Those who prize and cherish freedom take the realization that they are mere weapons in a divine conflict…poorly. The more clearsighted understand that this is how all things, are, and always shall be."
"Including yourself."
"You have more agency than I do," Xûr admitted as their walk continued. "Your own will is retained. Yet your soul belongs to the Celestial, just as mine belongs to the Nine."
Fang cocked his head, at the shift in conversation. "I don't think my soul - presuming such a thing exists - works like that."
"Ah." Xûr hummed. "Your species is not religious, I presume."
Oh dear, he wondered where this was going. "Some of us are, some of us aren't."
"And you fall into the latter category," Xûr ascertained. "A worldview that is simple, grounded and binary. The life given is the one lived. A life where death is the end. Logical. Where Something cannot be created from Nothing. A neat, defined, and understandable world. Do you believe, Fang Sov, that you are simply a collection of organic matter? Tell me what separates you from a machine."
"That is a ridiculous question," Fang shook his head. "One is alive, one is not."
"If all that separates you is the composition of your molecules, then what stops the Traveler from merely transforming metal into flesh, circuits into vessels, and oil into blood?" Xûr challenged. "The machine that has aligned with you has more mental capability than hundreds of your species together. Yet you would determine it is not alive. You know this, on an instinctual level, but you do not know why."
"But I assume you have an answer."
One finger tapped Xûr's chest. "I have no answer, I have the truth. The Traveler will not deny this. There is an essence of each living being, one that is greater than any singular vessel. All consciousness comes from this primordial Void, and upon death it returns, and once more joins the chorus of voices that sing in the Nothing. Sometimes, a consciousness once freed, can be captured before returning to the Void."
He glanced to Fang's shoulder, where his Ghost would normally be hovering. "That is the purpose of your machines. To ensure your souls do not reach the Void, for there is no return past the event horizon. Not even the Light can reclaim that which has returned to the Nothing."
Fang pursed his lips. "Then death is not the end for anything alive. Guardians are not special."
"No, you are not special," Xûr agreed. "You are chosen. To live a life in service to the Celestial, where your repeated deaths do not matter."
"Then if the 'soul' is real, and it can be captured," Fang said slowly. "Then it also means that it can be attacked."
"Correct, Guardian," Xûr nodded, voice rasping in agreement. "It is one thing to fight an enemy like the Triumvirate. You need not fear the mortal. They will always lose. To fight the paracausal is to not merely fear the blade or bullet, but that which strikes deeper. The mortal death one can recover from. The soul death cannot be."
There was a certainly a lot to consider here, and Fang was going to have a lot of questions for Shadow and Valentin when he returned. He wasn't quite sure why the alien was telling him this – it didn't seem malicious, but he wondered why this had not been shared earlier. He did not think he was lying either. There was no reason to do so, especially when he could very easily verify afterwards.
However, it did sound like a mixture of recruiting pitch, and strategic undermining of his current loyalties. Well, the alien would be disappointed if that had been the goal. He had no intention of abandoning the Traveler – or the Light.
"Ah, we are here."
A temple seemed to materialize before them; a place that was the lone structure in the sands. It had a clean, simplistic design. Some banners waved atop it, despite there being no breeze. "What's inside?" Fang asked.
"Truth," Xûr said, clasped his hands in front of his body. "Your conviction must be strong. Your will unbreakable. Yourself known. Enter, Fang Sov. Only those who possess all three will emerge with this power of this realm. Those who are Hollow will be consumed. This is your final opportunity to leave."
He wondered if Xûr expected hesitation. Regardless of expectation, Fang did not hesitate, and entered the temple without another word.
There was little inside; the walls were as minimal as the exterior. The floor of the interior was also covered in the sand, and the hallway was rather short, and he soon entered a triangular room. In the center of it was a small circular platform, atop which a small orb floated around chest-height.
It was an orb of pure nothingness; something much deeper than blackness. An orb which seemed to call forward. He knew what he was expected to do, and after a moment of hesitation, reached out and grabbed the orb.
The breath left him as the orb collapsed like water, and coated his hand, and like a creeping virus, began spreading up his arm, until his entire body was covered in the pure nothingness. With each millimeter claimed, it seemed as though he was being unmade.
There was no pain, there was no feeling at all. Soon he couldn't even feel himself anymore, it was like he was just a vague consciousness that inhabited an immaterial form, one which had been reduced to absolute nothingness. Yet even personality he was unsure he retained, as already consciousnesses seemed to be merging with his own.
Already he was starting to fade away.
He heard something new; the consciousnesses now having voices. Nothingness was being replaced by something else.
Comfort.
As he grew more and more relaxed, the louder the voices grew, and the calmer he felt. The form he had once been was coming to an end, and he could just barely perceive the place he was around him. Presence was no longer confined to a singular place, as he felt as though he was everywhere, and nowhere all at once.
But some part of him held on; some part of him was preventing him from drifting fully apart and letting the Void take him.
Duty.
There was still a mission to complete. A promise to keep. People to follow. A cause to fight for. He had been returned for a specific purpose, and he could not abandon that purpose so easily. It did not matter if he could not remember who he'd been once, it did not matter if no one had ever known him.
Because he knew who he was.
My name is Fang Sov, and I am a Guardian of Humanity.
It was at that declaration, that seemed to shift the momentum in the opposite direction. The voices were pushed out, and the forces that were ripping him apart were being repulsed. Slowly, he was coming back into his previous form. He was a Human. He was alive, and the Void that had tried to dissolve him into nothing would not claim him.
Not today, not ever.
With his physical form returned, and a new intricate understanding of the Void, he forced the blackness that had consumed him back. Like oil it flowed off him, as he willed the Nothing to return to the form it had once been - until it was a small black orb once again – now one which hovered over his hand.
He closed a fist, banishing the orb.
And he knew he had succeeded.
He turned behind him to see Xûr standing, approval clear in his stance. It was difficult to read the alien, whose expression was hidden by the hood – but he felt the alien was quite pleased with the outcome. Xûr inclined his head. "Well done, Fang Sov."
Fang exhaled. "What now?"
"Now?" Xûr spread his hands. "You have touched the Void. Now you must learn to control it. Come with me. We will begin."
THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE BRITISH ISLES
PORTSMOUTH | ENGLAND | THE UNITED KINGDOM
The soldiers were ready. The barricades were in place. The guns were manned. The citizens were prepared.
The air was heavy over Portsmouth, as it was all across the British Isles. Auxiliaries, militias, and other volunteers were running throughout the city and ports to make all the last-minute adjustments necessary before the fighting began. Positions were being manned, defenses were being operated. The final preparations were taking place for the onslaught that was to come.
And there was no mistake about it.
The assault would begin shortly.
The Union Jack flew proudly over many buildings, hung over many barricades, as the strong winds made it snap in the air. Scottish and Irish flags also hung, though they were less common. Together, all of the British Isles were united in a singular cause.
Making the Soviet offensive as costly and bloody as possible.
Queen Alexandra II surveyed the preparations from atop one of the skyscrapers. The elevation afforded her a perfect view over the soon-to-be battlefield. The irises of her eyes were ringed with gold as she used her Light-enhanced vision to see everything. Her armies; her citizens; her country. Preparations, bunkers, and barricades that had been built to stand against the tyrants from across the seas.
It was down to this.
Today, the hammer would fall – and she would shatter it.
She breathed in, and out.
"Your Majesty," a man greeted, behind her. She turned to the man in armor, one of the Guardians who had been placed under her command. More Guardians were spread throughout the Isles, in critical cities on the coasts where offensives were expected. London, Dublin, Plymouth, Newcastle; cities that could not fall.
They stood out, but none of the soldiers truly knew who or what they were – yet.
The British High Command was more aware of the situation – though even they were unsure if it was going to be enough. Today was going to be a proper demonstration of what, exactly, just a few Guardians could do. They were not many – but they were enough.
They would have to be.
"Bates," she turned, inclining her head. "Are we ready?"
"As ready as we can expect, Your Majesty," Timothy Bates answered, as he scratched his bearded chin with one gloved finger. His helmet rested under one arm, a dull silver, similar to the rest of his armor, with red and blue accents painted on – and of course, the SAS emblem. Special forces boys never forgot their origins. The entire suit he wore was sleek, though clearly oriented around protection. Many of the Guardians who were planning to fight on the fronts were adopting similar attire.
Though for Bates, she knew his methods were slightly more unorthodox.
A pistol was holstered on his waist. Many of the Guardians were still using firearms of some sort, despite the power they held at their fingertips. It wasn't out of laziness more than the fact that most were not as imaginative as her or Bates. The Light was an intuitive thing to her, something that made the world a canvas. It wasn't as easy to most others, even Bates couldn't quite do what she could.
It was fine. Any Guardian was superior to any conventional soldier.
Though today, she could not help but feel the twinge of nervousness and uncertainty she had not felt in a very long time. Today would be a test – one she had trained for – but it was still a test. She had not anticipated being a soldier, but that was what she had to be now.
The process to prepare had been one of the most intense experiences in her life – and now she had to hope that all of the preparation would translate to victory. This was her first battle, and it would be the same for many of the Guardians.
In a way, it would be a learning experience just as much for them as the Soviets.
"Do you have an update?" She asked, returning to look over the city – and then to the English Channel where the warships – or missiles – would come from.
"I do, MI6 just sent a confirmation," Bates swallowed. "The offensive has begun. A full-scope campaign. They aren't hitting one of the major coastal cities – they're hitting all of them. Three hundred thousand soldiers have been mobilized to invade."
"They want to take the Isles quickly," Alexandra murmured thoughtfully. "And they'll come after the barrages."
"Yes, and batteries have been put on the highest alerts along the entire European and Scandinavian coasts," Bates confirmed. "We don't have enough defenses to stop all of them."
"I know," she said quietly. "They'll have to come. And when they do, we will pull back."
He walked up beside her, his voice unhappy. "A lot of people are going to die."
"We've done all we can," she said. "We have our plan. We will follow it."
"I understand," he said, idly fiddling with his helmet. "The lives they take today will be repaid. We will be sure of it."
The wind blew and whistled atop the skyscraper. Alexandra's hair flickered in the wind as she stood, hands clasped behind her back. "Indulge a question about the intel that was intercepted, Bates. Did they ever settle on a name for the operation? I know there were a few being debated.
He chuckled. "They did."
"Do tell me, so I can enjoy the future irony."
A slight pause followed.
"Fall Britannia."
OPERATION: FALL BRITANNIA
THE YOSEIF | ENGLISH CHANNEL
The sight of missiles streaking over the sky and across the sea was glorious.
In a thunderous symphony they launched from the shores of France, Germany, Norway and the Netherlands. Like an avalanche of falling stars, they sped towards the British Isles, targeting everything from military bases to power plants to refineries.
Anything that could allow the British to mount a comprehensive defense.
The barrage of missiles were met with by the British anti-air defenses which thundered as they responded. The skies were alight with explosions as missiles and counter-missiles raged; creating colorful starbursts in the air. On the Isles themselves, explosions rocked the grounds as missiles struck. Buildings were reduced to rubble. Fires broke out and spread. Sonic screams of overhead missiles became a common sound as the British Isles were pelted with missile after missile.
Rita Vinther watched from the Yousif, one of the Soviet carriers that had been mobilized for the operation. The shores of the British Isles were in her sights, a smile rested on her face, and her heart beat with a firm, proud patriotism. Harsh it may seem to some, cruel to others, and unnecessary to the ignorant – but it was exactly what was needed.
The British had been given every opportunity to submit and surrender - and had refused. For decades, they had enjoyed their independence. They had enjoyed unrestrained tyranny by their pathetic monarchy. It had been far past time they were put in their place. It was time the Revolution be brought to them.
If the entire British Isles must be flattened to achieve this, then so be it.
Today, the Red Army would finish the job, and unite Europe under the red flag.
Rita and her platoon conversed amongst themselves as they observed the anti-air defenses grow more and more infrequent as the hours passed, while the waves of Soviet missiles continued unrelenting. Through binoculars, she saw that the initial beachheads the British had spent so long carefully cultivating had been reduced to scraps, with the soldiers manning them long-since fled.
She snorted, and handed the binoculars to an eager friend.
So much for the grand British Army. They had been warned that the British were more dangerous and competent than they might expect – though against the might of Soviet technology, it didn't seem to matter much. Overconfidence was a concern – but she was growing more confident all the same.
She rolled her shoulders, marveling at the flexibility of the hardsuits they now wore. The knowledge the alien had gifted them was truly extraordinary, and she'd never dreamed something like this would be developed. It was strong enough that only armor-piercing projectiles could penetrate it, and conventional fire could be shrugged off.
It was far from the only piece of Soviet technical prowess on display. Exos were also embedded in their ranks, particularly the KGB models who had replacing the commissars. It was something she wasn't exactly a fan of – she'd had a good rapport with their previous commissar, but the new Exo was nice enough, if a bit more strict. Probably a field test of some kind.
It made sense. There was a war here, if one she expected would be over fairly quickly.
She'd heard the rumors of how quickly the high command was expecting to take London. Supposedly, it was to be taken within three days. She personally felt that was a bit bullish, even with their overwhelming advantage – but right now, with smoke rising from Portsmouth in the distance, maybe it was more reasonable than she'd thought.
Then the missiles stopped.
Their time was approaching.
She gripped her rifle, and at the orders of her officer, began boarding the invasion convoys. Together with two dozen other Soviet Marines on board, the convoy began speeding towards the shores, alongside nearly four hundred other vessels. The majority were carrying infantry, but the others carrying Exos, tanks, and other armored vehicles.
Behind them, atop the carriers and destroyers, the remaining MARAUDERs planted themselves on the decks, and fired volleys of micro-missiles towards the shores, to ensure that anything left on them was broken, disorganized, and softened. More missiles streaked over them, to the war cries of the Soviets, Rita included.
Portsmouth would fall, and soon after that, London. Soon the last defiant nation would fall to the Revolution.
The European project would be complete, and Humanity united under one order.
She'd never felt prouder and more prepared than now. This is what she had been made for, this was what was meant to happen. She felt the convoy slow and then grind against the shore. She clutched her rifle, as the officer readied them to move.
The ramp lowered with a clang and buried itself on the sand as the Red Army charged outwards into the beaches, with helicopters following, gunners firing into the city, and more landed to deploy additional soldiers.
There were still a few British stragglers who tried to put up a fight – but only a few Soviets were wounded, and the British were executed in hails of gunfire. The first blood spilled, and the beachheads were secured soon after, with the ports similarly follow.
Already, the first objectives had been secured. Rita did not waste time in joining the front as more convoys reinforced the first wave. Officers were already organizing to begin the urban sweeps, and she paid close attention as the plans were adjusted and finalized. As that was taking place, she glanced towards one of the British corpses, reflecting on something curious she'd noticed.
Namely, that all of them were wearing cold-weather gear.
THE RIO REVOLUTION
RIO | BRAZIL | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES
Crowds roared, shouted, and chanted in the streets. They'd told him that there'd never been an event like this before since Brazil joined the Confederation decades ago – not anything that had been allowed to become sustained, at any rate. He'd spoken with many of the older members of the Brazilian Resistance over the previous weeks, and others who'd lived through the fall of the Latin American nations.
They all looked at him with an awe and respect that should have been for another man. One who had died fighting against the regimes that had imposed their rule upon the people. One who had been a leader, guerilla, and revolutionary – and subsequently died as one. One who was who they expected him to be.
He'd told them that wasn't who he was now. That the man they revered was dead and gone - but that did not deter them. It could not kill the respect and deference; respect that felt unearned. He knew that many of them would follow him without question merely because he had the face of someone who had been better.
Perhaps though, he didn't have to be better.
Perhaps he just had to do his best – and the longer he lived, the more he was certain of one thing.
This was what he was born to do.
Injustice anywhere was a threat to justice everywhere. He may not have been the man they knew, but he was going to live up to his legacy in every way possible. Not just for the man he had once been, but because he intrinsically knew that it was right. He did not know how anyone could view the world so objectively, and not wish to tear it all down.
Burn it to cinders, and build something better.
He had been their bane; their terror once. He had been a symbol when he was alive, and had been remembered after he had died a martyr. A man who resisted tyranny and empire to the very end, betrayed and abandoned for the sake of power and pragmatism. This was more than just a revolution, it was justice long overdue.
Yesterday it had been the Arabs rising up in revolt. Now it was their turn.
The empires would fall, their tyranny smashed, and it would be one of his hands that wielded the hammer.
Heavy soldier presence today.
The voice of his Ghost was relaxed, as usual, despite the context surrounding everything. She was like that, and more dry and sarcastic than he was to boot. He found it more pragmatic to keep a serious head, especially now - though Celia's levity was something welcome.
Ernesto snorted all the same.
Never would have guessed the Americans would boost their numbers today. He answered. Wonder what could have triggered that. The declaratives were very intentional.
Celia's response was just as dry..Need to work on your sarcasm. You gotta be subtle.
He kept the smile to himself, as he moved through the crowd. Spread out behind him, also working their way through the crowd, were other guerillas; hardened ones from Brazil, Bolivia, and Argentina. He was the only Guardian of this group, and there were others preparing and executing operations elsewhere in South America.
He was all they would need today.
Above him, his Ghost flew; cloaked and hidden from any onlookers, and who relayed information and visuals of the environment.
The streets of Rio were packed, as for the first time in years, the people were marching on the places of government that had been propped up by sham decrees and traitorous collaborators. It was an illusion, like how all the Latin American states were in the Confederation.
Promises of equality in the union, of votes and rights. But the arrangement was ultimately one where only Washington benefitted. And today, the people were united in saying enough.
Anyone present could sense the emotion in the air; the fury; the desire. It was now or never; and good people could not stand by and do nothing, not when they had seen the display on their televisions, and saw the revolutions taking place across the sea. They were seeing men rising against the order, and knew this was their time to join the struggle.
It did not matter that the reprisal would be swift and brutal. Some things were worth fighting and dying for. That was something he knew the man he had once been would agree with. That conviction still remained a part of him.
Concealed snipers on roofs, Celia noted. Also I'm identifying a number of plainclothes agents in the crowd.
Where?
She let him know, and he subsequently informed the rest of the guerillas through his earpiece. They all wore heavy jackets, hoods, coats, and clothing that let them easily conceal weapons, explosives, and medical equipment. Ernesto was similar, but for the beret he wore. One could only hide for so long - and today was going to be violent, bloody, and long overdue.
American soldiers, with the mechanical PATRIOT Exos intermixed with them, stood outside the legislature, part of a heavy presence of hundreds of soldiers. They patrolled and stood on the streets, resided on the rooftops. All of them fully protected and armored, carrying automatic weapons of an advanced nature he'd only heard speculation of.
Behind the first line were trucks and land-drones, equally armed to the teeth and ready to be unleashed against a defenseless crowd. But there were only hundreds of Americans and collaborator soldiers present. In this crowd, there were thousands. The minority could never rule forever.
Everyone just needed a push.
Despite wearing the beret, he wasn't doing anything more to draw attention to himself. His face was exposed, but all he did was move his way through the crowds. Some of the people caught a glimpse of his face, and for many there was a reaction. Many froze, others stepped aside, a few didn't react, but intuitively recognized him as one of their own and gave short nods of acknowledgement.
Those who had recognition in their eyes quietly said his name, or the name of the man who had died. It was in disbelief, in awe; their eyes wide as he passed them, single-mindedly focused on his mission and what he was prepared to do. However the closer he moved to the front of the line, the more he was recognized. Cameras and phones were turning towards him now, even as he paid them no mind.
One of those watching was a young soldier. A Brazilian boy, in the uniform of an American, with the patch of the Confederation on his arm. It was likely his first assignment, or maybe a test of loyalty. Pitting countrymen against their own. Doing that was a special kind of evil, only matched by the men carrying out atrocities on their own.
He walked over to the soldier, who simply stared at him in frozen disbelief – and fear.
Ernesto sized him up, meeting his eyes. The boy didn't speak, only held his gun tightly, tense as a statue. "[Think about who you want to be, comrade,]" he said in a low voice, putting one arm on the boy's shoulder, a light pat. "[And make your choice soon. This revolution will not spare the traitors.]"
He did not wait for an answer, and returned moving through the crowd.
A bit ominous, don't you think? Celia chided.
This time, there was no humor in his answer.
No. Everyone must choose a side, and those who side with the oppressor will receive no mercy.
Yes, but many of them are young. Boys like that one.
They are, which is why I gave him a chance.
Celia didn't say anything more.
The time of action was approaching. The point of no return; the point which would signal the death of the old world. The crowd was growing quieter now, word had spread of him, and people were parting like water as he approached the steps of the legislature. The soldiers saw his face, and they paled.
The dead were not supposed to walk among them.
The murdered were not supposed to return for justice.
Snipers are taking aim. Celia warned.
Just like we practiced.
He inhaled.
The positions of the snipers were firmly pictured in his mind. He let the Light fill him; saturate him in its warmth and brilliance. Each cell and molecule infused in the sheer expansion of creation. He had been nothing but bones; recalled out of nothing to finish the work that his past self had been denied.
He was luminous; a mutable, flexible collection of molecules, and this made him invincible.
He knew what the soldiers saw; what the people saw. They saw a man whose skin seemed to glow with an unnatural brilliance. Eyes that were filled with swirling golden light. An aura of power, of defiance, of a divinity channeled from something far higher than he was. He stood before the army, one which was prepared to spill blood on the innocent in the name of power and imperial authority.
He would not let them.
"Soldiers of the occupation," he began, the Light giving his voice the weight, authority, and presence that allowed it to be heard throughout the crowd. "You have carried out your oppression, your tyranny, and your rule for decades. Today, it will end, and this land will be returned to the people from which it was stolen."
The soldiers raised their weapons at him, as every eye was turned to the commotion. The crowd began backing away, murmuring in hesitation. He stood unmoved. "Return to Washington. This will be your only opportunity to leave alive. The revolution has begun; the reckoning is here, and your crimes will not be forgiven. We will not stop until the Confederation is shattered, and the Triumvirate is torn down brick by brick, with the ashes scattered to the winds."
The words seemed to give the crowd more courage, as they took another step closer to him.
Gunshots sounded behind him.
He did not flinch as the bullets moved through his flesh harmlessly. They should have been enough to destroy his brain, and his heart. However, he had learned a few tricks since becoming a Guardian, and when infused with Light, it was not so difficult to make your body as water.
Two holes now embedded the steps, much to the shock of the soldiers.
He met their eyes once more. "So be it."
My turn.
His hand raised, and in his mind visualized the weapon in his hand. It was no firearm that existed, it had its own intricacies and complexities, but it was something completely unique. Perhaps it didn't make complete architectural sense, but the beauty of the Light was that not everything had to make sense.
One only needed the imagination and will to do it.
The golden gun materialized in his hand, bright and brilliant. Fitting and burning with ethereal fire as it sang a plea to be unleashed against the enemies of Light. There was nothing more left to say, as the Light around him grew more intense, and his guerillas prepared to strike.
He aimed the weapon of Light at the nearest soldier, and fired. The gold-white projectile screamed through the air, burning a hole through the head of the soldier leaving a cauterized trail, before flying to the second soldier and killing her. Each shot would only be able to kill a few men before burning out. He fired a second projectile, and a third, and a fourth, each in different directions.
In only seconds, the entire defenses of the legislature had been killed.
Ernesto turned back to the crowd, the illuminated weapon still burning in his hand. "[Do not stand idle!]" He called to them. "[Come! It is time for you to take your country back!]" He raised the hand with the golden gun into the air.
The people roared in affirmation, basking in the aura of victory, fury, and revolution. They charged forward and began stripping the soldiers of their weapons and armor. More sounds of fighting erupted through the city, as the guerillas began executing their directives.
Bathed in Light, the flaming gun in hand, and a smile on his face, he turned to follow the sounds, and claim a first city for a free Brazil.
The torch was set aflame, and the revolution had begun.
CLARITY CONTROL | BRAYTECH INSTITUTE OF XENOTECHNOLOGY | NEPTUNE
Merida was the first one who stated the obvious.
"So, it's a statue."
Normally, such a statement would be banal, and rather underwhelming. Micah had never really been impressed by artifact like that. Statues may have been impressive hundreds of years ago, but now they were everywhere, easy to create, and were glorified pieces of decoration rather than meaning anything.
However, this one was captivating for some reason.
The return to Neptune had been uneventful after the artifact had been secured, and she'd observed it's transfer into Clarity Control – the wing of the BrayTech facility responsible for the containment and study of all paracausal artifacts and technology. Micah had only gone through a few of the areas on an initial tour, but actually standing inside a containment facility was significantly more fascinating.
It was almost a bit scary how fascinating it was, to the point where she'd lost track of time.
She didn't know how long she'd just been standing and watching in rapt attention as the scientists had conducted a variety of methods, beginning with the studying, scanning, and finally opening of the sphere. The sphere exterior itself had been even more elaborate upon seeing it in person; there was a level of detail engraved into the metal that possessed an otherworldly sheen when the light struck it.
To the surprise of everyone present, the sphere had ended up being fairly easy to open, and had revealed something unexpected inside.
A statue.
Music once more manifested unbidden in her ears, no longer on the edges of her consciousness, but something more tangible. No more were they random notes, but were melding into a refrain; a motif that always seemed to become just a little more refined each time it repeated. That strange music that had fleetingly entered her head on the Eye of Jefferson hadn't gone away.
If anything, it'd only grown stronger on the trip back.
She did not know why, but it seemed to intensify when she kept her eyes on the statue; as if it was becoming sharpened with an object in focus. She felt like that should be concerning, but it strangely made her feel…calm.
The statue itself stood almost three meters tall. It evoked images of warriors and knights from the older eras of humanity. The statue was humanoid, clad in armor with a detail and ornateness that was genuinely beautiful. It was honestly difficult to tell where the armor ended, and the body underneath began; it seemed to her like it was fused together so organically there was no division.
In the right hand it held a longsword, one that was pointed up and outwards, as if challenging an enemy beyond. Each hand had six fingers, and each finger had an extra joint - so clearly whatever individual this was representing was not a Human. The other hand was at its side, clenched in a tight fist.
The entire statue was oriented in a confrontation stance, echoing the challenge the raised sword represented. A cape, hewn from the same material, fell from its shoulders, captured in a single movement. It was fascinating how much it looked like cloth or another flexible material, but instead was carved like the rest of the obsidian statue.
The head was the biggest mystery, from what Micah could see. Unlike the extravagant detail of the rest of the statue, the head was…nothing. No helmet, no detail, it was just a shining obsidian orb devoid of eyes, nose, mouth, or any other features. The shape didn't even represent a head properly, like a mannequin would. It was too elongated and, well, it reminded her more of a balloon than a head.
She'd not been much for art, so what she was feeling now was alien to her. She was actively examining the details, pondering on the potential symbology, and reflecting on what exactly all of it meant. The song in her head was helping with this; it stirred feelings and conjured images as she looked upon it, with the music refraining in her mind.
Glory. Triumph. Conflict. Power.
The last feeling seemed to resonate strongly enough that for a moment, it overpowered nearly everything in a thunderclap.
Then it all faded to almost a whisper.
She shivered, shaking her head, and rubbed her eyes. She really needed to get some sleep, and she would once Papa finished up here. Dad had also met them here, at the invitation of Merida, though unlike the rest of them who were excited about the entire ordeal – he looked suitably unnerved. He'd been staring at it for long enough that she almost wondered if he was hearing the music too.
Should she ask?
She considered opening her mouth, thought for a moment, and closed it. No, probably not a good idea. It felt like something wrong to do.
"I don't like this," Dr. Hector Abrams said after a moment, as scientists milled around the statue, taking pictures and scans while all of them stood a fair distance away.
"It's a bit strange, I agree," Merida said, consulting a tablet. "Actually, very strange, but that's the entire point of this operation. It's-"
"You're misunderstanding me," Hector turned to her. "I want this thing chucked into the sun, or at minimum stashed in a vault a long way from here. Are you not seeing just how different this is from any other artifact we've found?"
"Hector…" Papa frowned. "That's a bit much. It's not even that strongly paracausal, especially compared to several other artifacts here. We didn't even need to turn on the Reality Anchors for this one."
His eyes widened. "What?"
"For the love of God calm down," Merida interrupted sharply, rubbing her eyes. "Hector, I respect you. It's why I asked you here so you can make sure there's no psychological effects from this we're not seeing – but frankly, you have absolutely no right to be telling us to do our jobs." She snorted. "If you've got a problem with our storage processes, take it up with BrayTech. Until then, you do your job, and we'll do ours."
Micah felt like she should say something, and normally when dad was like this she knew it was better to let it go – but she was feeling brave enough to act. "Dad," she stepped forward, resting a hand on his arm. "I think it's alright. I don't think it's dangerous."
He looked down at her, his eyes softened, and he sighed. "Yes, I suppose you know what you're doing," he said quietly, briefly closing his eyes. "Apologies, I understand all of this. It's just…this gives me a really bad feeling."
"Much as I appreciate that, we can't make decisions based on bad feelings," Merida said. "Still…" she muttered something under her breath. "I'll make sure we keep a close eye on it for at least a while."
"Thank you," Hector said.
Papa seemed eager to return the subject of conversation to the statue itself. "Is there anything useful from the scans?"
"Not the initial ones. They've not been able to identify the material," Merida said with a shrug. "For all intents and purposes it seems indestructible – however the shell it was found it seems to be made out of the exact same material."
"Strange, very strange," Papa rubbed his chin. "There must be a subtlety we're missing. I wonder if there are elements that are paracausally attuned. The degree of detail and response to external stimuli implies it might be the result of some type of paracausal forging."
"Bit early for theories, personally," Merida said. "Though I'd give that one some weight. I'm sure we'll learn more in the next few weeks."
"Hopefully, if we're not distracted by other things," Papa agreed, and frowned as Merida loudly sighed. "Problem?"
"Don't know, but it's not going to help," she lifted her tablet. "Just got word that there's problems on Earth. BrayTech communication with instructions for all Earth-based personnel. Security protocols changing due to 'elevated risk of terrorist threats.' I suspect that will distract the Triumvirate until that's resolved."
"That may be better for us," Papa said. "Less chance of interference. Get some work done."
"True, true," Merida yawned, glancing at the clock. "Your husband has a point - it's been a long day; way too long for me at least."
"I have a few things I need to do still, but we can reconvene tomorrow," Papa turned to Micah and Hector. "Go get some rest, you did great through all of this." He smiled. "I'm surprised you didn't touch your phone once when they were taking it apart. It was that interesting to you?"
"Avoiding work," she admitted, quietly. "Got stuck. Just…can't get through it."
He turned his full attention to her, which here, and considering everything, meant that he was concerned, and keeping it quiet. "Have you been getting enough sleep? Do you need help with it?"
"No I can't do it myself, everyone else did it by themselves," she said. "It's not fair I get you to help me every time I get stuck. It's just…"
"Micah," Papa put a hand on her shoulder. "You're working on third-year collegiate-level problems. I'd be more worried if you weren't getting stuck here and there. That's what I'm here for. Science is a team sport, for every great man, there's many who help him get to that point."
"Everything is so hard," she whispered. "Everything before this was so easy. I don't get half of it. Most of the classes take me three, four tries to start getting it."
"It'll get easier," he promised her. "I promise you that - and I'll be here to help you. Ok?"
"I want to do it with my own hands, alone," she said. "It doesn't feel right otherwise. It has to be me, me accomplishing it."
Her focus returned to the statue, a pleasant soft rhythm manifesting once again. Comforting and soft; solace from what had so often been chaos and pressure outside. Her thought…yes, there was something calming about here, and when she focused on the rhythm and details of the statue.
"Otherwise, it wouldn't feel like I belong here, more like I coast along," Micah let out. "I didn't know I'd find this so interesting. Do I have to go back?" She wasn't sure why she said that, since she was definitely tired.
But…she also didn't want to leave.
"Everyone has difficulty, Micah. But if you think it's for the best," Papa chuckled. "Well, at least if all goes wrong, you can work as my coffee girl. Then it won't be the last time you see it, I promise."
She laughed, dry, annoyed laughter.
"Cheer up," Papa said.
It actually made her feel better to hear that, she would have been genuinely sad for some reason if she'd not been able to. It made it easier for her to answer affirmatively, as if some part of her had given permission to depart. "Alright, I guess so. Dad?"
"I'll take you home," Hector smiled. "Want to get take-out on the way home?"
"Yeah, that sounds good."
They walked to the exit, though not before she took one last look at the statue, admiring it's detail, and watching the chest imperceptibly rising and falling as it breathed in and out-
She blinked, and nearly stumbled at that sight registering in her brain. She immediately tried looking for it again – but no, that definitely wasn't the case. The tune in her head seemed to grow just a bit louder, and she relaxed a bit more. Yeah, definitely her eyes playing tricks. If she was seeing things, rest was a good idea.
She turned away, and followed her dad out of Clarity Control, humming the tune-
Wait, no. It wasn't her humming the tune.
It was Dad.
He seemed to be doing it absentmindedly, and what immediately struck her was that it was in a key and tempo that was perfectly complimenting the one she'd had. "Where did you hear that?" She asked.
He stopped. "Hear what?"
"That, uh, what you humming," she said.
"Oh," he paused for a moment, brow furrowing. "You know, I'm not sure. Think I heard one of the scientists playing it as I came in here. Been stuck in my head ever since. I should ask for it. It's rather catchy. I like it."
She wondered about that now, some more questions rising to her mind – but there was also a comfort too. So he could hear it. That was good. It was safe then. "Yeah," she nodded, as they exited the building. "I like it too."
THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE BRITISH ISLES
PORTSMOUTH | ENGLAND | THE UNITED KINGDOM
Alexandra quietly observed as the Soviets launched their attacks.
Attacks without regard for those within the cities, be they civilian or soldier. It was fortunate she'd ensured that precautions were taken and as many civilians as possible had been moved deeper inland or resided in shelters. It was a small comfort, as there was nothing she could do to prevent the destruction of their homes and livelihoods with every missile strike.
She doubted that the Soviets knew of these preparations, and she suspected that even if she had not, it wouldn't have changed anything. All that mattered to them was victory, no matter how many had to die in the process. As many missiles, men, and firepower would be utilized to achieve this end.
So many decades later, and the Soviet methods of war were just as barbaric as ever.
She'd listened as casualty numbers began to come in, not just in Portsmouth, but across the British Isles. She'd watched soldiers bravely holding the line as long as they could, and buying time to lure the Soviets into the trap.
The retrograde had been planned, but it was not without its costs, no matter how much they had tried to mitigate casualties. The best that could be done was ensuring that each death was not in vain. She held each death in her mind, letting it harden her resolve, and fuel the fury that was growing.
She wanted to end the charade, and bring the Light down upon the Soviets. But not now, now yet. She would be restrained until it was time, no matter how hard it was.
Just a little longer.
More and more Soviet forces were being landed on the beaches. Heavier equipment now, tanks, armored cars, anti-personnel vehicles, as well as MARAUDER Exos. Artillery was also being unloaded, indicating a planned siege of the city if necessary. They were committing, and sending more and more to ensure the end of the British.
All according to plan.
They'd taken the bait.
By her hand the guillotine would fall.
All of the beachheads were lost now. She saw the smoke from the ports, and reports from the front had confirmed the complete retrograde. The Red Army swarmed like vermin over them, and helicopters were making patrols around the perimeter to begin encirclements and conduct probing attacks.
Even more convoys with additional armor and tanks were approaching, and that which was already landed was already moving into the city. Fighter jets streaked overhead in the skies to establish air superiority, portending the eventual arrival of bombing runs.
It was a textbook invasion, one executed almost flawlessly.
It was likely the first phase, but the early phases were the most important. No doubt they thought that the British had been broken by this by now. She looked further out into the British Channel, seeing the carriers and destroyers moving ever closer, and even more convoy ships arriving with more soldiers and equipment.
No conventional army could hope to defeat the sheer numbers of Soviets that were coming forward. They could wait until the Isles were as saturated as possible, but the numbers they'd already sent were sufficient to define it as a costly investment.
They'd waited long enough.
"Bates?"
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
"Do you see that bomber fleet approaching?"
"I do, Your Majesty."
"Rectify that problem, would you?"
His helmet was on, but she could imagine the smile under it. "With pleasure. Good hunting, Alexandra. Kill them all."
The air turned to static as lightning began running along his armor, glowing blue and with dozens of permutations a second, with a barely-perceptible sheen of Light over it. The electrified Guardian took a few steps, breaking into a running sprint and blasted off into the sky with a thunderclap.
Alexandra smiled as she watched the blue streak fly across the skies.
He'd give the air force some trouble.
Now…
She returned her attention to the city, and let the Light flow into her; drawing in the paracausal sight that had become a growing comfort in recent days. Her body glowed with a luminous sheen, as the world morphed from the static reality all resided in, to the infinite space of possibility.
The air around her turned cold.
In her hands formed a staff out of ice, forming and growing in her hands to the exact image in her mind. It felt fitting, for a woman in her position. Frost emanated off of it, and she held it with both hands before her, the end resting on the ground. Ice began expanding on her hands, covering them, then her arms, and finally her body.
The clouds above began to gather and darken.
Around her, the storm began to manifest, one which heralded a glacial grave for the Soviets who dared invade her home. As snow flurries began to fall, and the sub-freezing winds began to tear through the city, she never lost her focus. There was only one sentiment she felt, as she prepared their tombs.
My turn.
THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE BRITISH ISLES
PORTSMOUTH | ENGLAND | THE UNITED KINGDOM
"They're coming!"
Patrick McCarthy heard the warning shouted, and braced himself. He genuinely did not know how much worse this day could get for them all. He'd held some expectation that they'd have been able to hold the Soviets off for at least a little while. Reality had slapped them hard in the face – not only had the Soviet offensive shattered their beachheads and forced them to retreat, they were already in the city itself.
Some of the guys were saying that the Soviets had even brought on tanks. The helicopters and airstrikes were bad enough, but if they had armor this was all going to get much, much worse.
On top of that, it was bloody hot.
He didn't know why they'd been ordered to don their cold-weather gear before the offensive had even started, but it certainly wasn't making any of their jobs easier. Not that they hadn't trained for uncomfortable conditions, it was just annoying. He could ignore it though, because frankly, they had much larger concerns.
Specifically, the Red Army bearing down on them.
He'd seen the pictures, but there was something captivating and unnerving about them in the field. They looked like something out of a futuristic movie – walking supersoldiers in armored hardsuits of black, silver and red.
They carried weapons with enough power to outright punch through their barricades, making them about as effective as cardboard. They were also irritatingly operating smartly. Not blindly charging forward and putting their faith in their gear, but utilizing cover and steadily advancing, all while knowing the British weapons couldn't blunt their advance.
Patrick had scored at least a few direct hits on one of the soldiers during their retreat from the beach – and the soldiers had stumbled. Stumbled. The stumble had saved his life, but if direct hits from a rifle weren't good enough, he didn't want to imagine how badly outmatched they were.
"Heavy! Heavy incoming!" Another man shouted, and Patrick quickly got out of the way as a couple soldiers carrying rocket launchers came forward, took position, and fired towards the Red Army lines. He heard Russian in the distance right before the impact, which took out an entire block.
The British defenders cheered, as the smoke cleared, and a half-dozen of the soldiers lay in pieces. Good news? The Red Army wasn't immune to RPGs. The bad news? If they needed rockets to take down standard Soviet infantry, then they were going to run out of those pretty fast.
Better than nothing.
His heart sank as he saw more soldiers rushing in to stopgap the losses. Soviet battlefield engineers erecting their own barricades, as the Soviets held back to get their lines in order.
British reinforcements were also coming, and took advantage to plug gaps, pull back wounded, and resupply their weapons. Given the state of Soviet gear, those carrying heavy-caliber weapons concentrated their fire on specific soldiers, while the rest of the British suppressed the rest.
More Soviets fell due to sheer blunt trauma from this tactic, but not enough; not fast enough. Even more British were falling, and Patrick was preparing to have to retreat again. The Soviets would soon realize that if they performed a charge forward, they could easily take this position.
Patrick fired fruitlessly. He threw his last grenade which missed. Reload and fire again.
It wasn't going to be enough.
Yet he fought all the same.
He was so engrossed in holding the line that at first he failed to notice the temperature steadily dropping. He only vaguely noticed that the skies above were growing grey, then black, as clouds manifested – with an almost ethereal golden aura throughout them. It took a sight so shocking to make him take not that something was off.
It's snowing?
He wasn't the only one who noticed the falling snow – something which definitely should not have been possible at this time of year. Not only was it snowing, but to his amazement, it was starting to snow hard. Now he was now acutely aware of the frigid temperature, and was suddenly very glad he was appropriately dressed
How the hell did they know?
Freak weather like this wasn't just weird, it was borderline insane. Even stranger was the fact that the cold for some reason seemed to be affecting the Soviets even worse. The blizzard that was forming seemed intense – yet it specifically seemed to be concentrated around the Soviet positions. Weather didn't work like that, right?
The cold was visibly affecting their speed, as they called out frantically in Russian, their words drowned out by the wind. He held his gun, almost petrified in confusion and the frigid temperature itself, while exchanging incredulous looks with his friends who were just as befuddled as he was.
It was when he started to see them freeze did his shock turn into a dawning horror at what was being witnessed. It was not a simple metaphorical freeze. He watched them visibly freeze. He watched ice creep up their armor like some kind of growth. His skin crawled at the unnatural sight, and could only imagine the terror the Soviets felt.
They certainly were expressing their feelings. The Soviets were freaking out now, trying to claw at the growing ice, the edges faintly outlined in a bright glow. The ice spread, reinforced, and hardened, and repeated until the Red Army that had nearly killed them were turned into living statues.
What the actual fuck is happening.
Had God himself personally come to save them? Was there any other explanation other than divine intervention?
"Patrick.." one of his friends squeaked. "Look."
He turned behind him, to look upon a sight he did not initially believe was real.
Before him, descending in the middle of the street, was Queen Alexandra – but not the head of state they were familiar with. This Alexandra was not simply a head of state, a leader, or even a monarch. There was no other explanation for what stood before him than something that was divine. An aura of power surrounded her that had no earthly explanation.
The armored robes she wore were covered over with a purely transparent ice scales, which seemed to continuously shift and remake themselves as she moved. Every inch of her was covered in the icy sheen, including her face. It was like looking at a statue come to life, yet one with eyes of pure, golden light.
A staff hewn from the same living ice that protected her body rested in one hand, one which emitted a white mist around it. It was beautiful, and he also suspected that if he touched it, his hands would get frostbite.
She initially did not seem to notice them, and instead her eyes fell upon the frozen Soviets. One hand lifted the staff, and tapped it on the ground. The air seemed to implode, following a nearly imperceptible shockwave emanated from her.
His eyes tracked the shockwave, which traveled so fast it might have been a trick of the light, as it seemed that the moment the end of the staff had touched the ground, the frozen Soviets shattered.
They shattered into shards of armor, flesh, blood, and organs. Like delicate sculptures of ice, they had been reduced to frozen splinters that were already getting caught up into the growing blizzard. He could not quite comprehend what he was seeing now; he felt that this had to be a hallucination.
He did not know what power the Queen now wielded; yet the realization dawned on him that now they had a chance.
Divinity was their salvation today, and he muttered a quick prayer to himself, as he saw other soldiers make the sign of the cross as they also beheld their Queen.
Her eyes then fell upon them, as she levitated into the air. Thankfully, the eyes were warm – but blazing with protectiveness and righteous fury. "To me, soldiers of Britain!" She called, her voice echoing both in his ears and his mind. Orders that he would obey without hesitation.
"Today, we drive them to the sea!"
THE BUCHAREST UPRISING
BUCHAREST | SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF ROMANIA | SOVIET UNION
The man surveyed the city; in the aftermath of the battle that had taken place within it. Gunfire continued to sound in the distance, as sporadic firefights between the Romanian Resistance and Soviet forces continued. Sirens from emergency vehicles blared as ambulances and firetrucks rushed to address the fires and injuries which had broken out.
They'd been permitted to continue operation, along with the international medics that were in the city.
Supervised at gunpoint, but permitted.
The last holdouts would be dead or captured soon; the few that had not already fled the city when they realized the inevitable was going to happen. He idly wondered what stories the would tell when they returned, when their voices trembled as they recounted facing the Man of Fire.
Well, maybe they wouldn't say anything. Those who had faced him were charred corpses now, but one could never discount what might have been missed. No doubt images and videos had already been taken, and were going viral on the Internet. More would follow, he intended to make sure of it.
He smiled to himself. A thin, grim smile. His primary objective had been accomplished.
Bucharest had fallen.
He'd had a name, in a previous life, but it was a name he had no connection to. None of his family remained alive. None of his friends had endured. In this new world, he was alone; given purpose and power to reshape it, and correct the injustices past. The man he'd been had died.
He had a new name now.
Radegast's eyes swept the now-pacified streets of the city square, which had become clear with chaos having since been resolved. Other Guardians were working with the Romanian Resistance to patrol the city. All of them had not expected to execute the plans so quickly – but things had quickly spiraled beyond their control when rebellions and revolts appeared across the world.
The Romanians had seen this as their best chance. It had been his call in the end. Two options – stick to the plan, or strike.
They had struck.
The Romanian Resistance was a conglomeration of underground movements both old and new, which had only begun being organized by him and several other Guardians into a singular coherent entity. From democratic movements to the remnants of the Iron Guard, what ideological differences existed were minor in comparison to the overarching goal.
The overthrow and expulsion of Soviet power.
The Romanian Soviets had been caught completely off-guard by the ferocity of the resistance. From snipers who assassinated officers and officials in broad daylight to the undercover operatives who mobbed isolated Soviets, to the brigades that formed and began securing Bucharest street by street, the Soviets had been unprepared for any kind of organized resistance.
They could not match their ferocity. They could not match their insight. They could not match their lethality.
He didn't remember who he'd been before awakening.
But these people did. They had lived it.
They'd told him much about life under the Soviet rule. The history before and after the conquest. He hadn't only taken them at their word – they could never give a balanced perspective, but he had spent some time among the city as a regular person. He'd witnessed the banality of life the people lived under.
He didn't remember his old life, and from what he understood about how he had likely died in the first place, perhaps that was a blessing. Like every government in this world, they hid their sins and secrets well. The people could not know, but if they did, it was not enough to matter. And what they had done to him, he knew, was only the very tip of their crimes.
No. There would be no redemption for the Soviet Union.
There would be no second chance.
There could only be judgement.
It would be shattered into a thousand pieces. It was one of the four oppressive, evil regimes that had enjoyed the passive support of the world and those who were not directly affected. Apathy, he'd seen, was almost a greater symbol of the utter corruption of the institution than the crimes themselves.
As the uprising had happened, there had been only a few of the nearby civilians who had actively joined. As the streets had turned to shootouts, they had hidden away. They had not opposed them, but they had not helped either.
Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps cowardice. Perhaps both. There was good reason to fear the Soviets, especially after what they had done to this nation, and to Europe as a whole. In the end, he could not blame them. The blame fell to those who supported the system; who collaborated and maintained it. It was them who would be shown no forgiveness or mercy.
The Romanian Resistance had seized the government buildings after the initial battle. Once inside and with access to the systems, they had quickly identified the leadership and managers of the savage bureaucracy that had kept Romania under Soviet rule.
After that, the raids had been quickly planned, organized, and executed.
He had led a few of the raids; the first in line as the doors were kicked in and the traitorous bureaucrats dragged out one by one. Those who fought back were executed, those who resisted were beaten. He felt no guilt or hesitation as he watched and participated in these actions.
It was permissible.
The ones who were captured had been bound, and returned to the city square, where all of the captives were being held, with a perimeter guarded by the Romanian Resistance.
The rows of captives also included a few Soviet soldiers, though only those that had surrendered. Many were native Romanians, who'd joined the Soviets for a multitude of reasons. If these collaborators had been captured, it had been at the sole discretion of the Romanians - many others had been terminated in field executions.
Radegast had not cared or dissuaded them. They had made their choice, and they were soldiers. They had lost, and the consequences would be earned and just. Even for those that lived, he did not expect the judgement to spare them.
More people were emerging from their homes, now that the fighting had died down, though still kept close to their homes. Right now most of the chaos was coming from the younger Romanians celebrating their victory by roving around the city, and toppling and smashing the many statues of Soviet figures and Romanian collaborators.
Flags of the Soviet Union and Romanian Socialist Republic were burned to their cheers, with patchwork flags of Romania raised in their place. Already alcohol was being shared, and Radegast permitted a smile as he watched. It was fine for them to celebrate today, though for him his work was not over.
There were matters to attend to.
The prisons had been a priority objective for the Romanians, and they were directly assaulted. Those offensives were successful, and the prisoners inside freed, armed, and liberated, before the prisons themselves were set aflame or demolished.
He remembered how they had looked at him when with a gesture he'd set the prisons aflame. As a figure of legend, a deity of fire who had come to liberate them. The Man of Fire with a sword as brilliant as the sun itself. An angel who had returned to Earth to slay the evil that had taken hold.
He did appreciate the symbology, and it had been quite satisfying to smite the Soviets who'd stood in their way.
There was a commotion behind him, he turned to see one of the Romanians rushing up, a beaming smile on his face.
"[Sir,]" he said. "[We got him.]"
Radegast looked behind the man to see a trio of Romanians practically dragging another figure before him, an older and out-of-shape man who was sweating profusely. He recognized him immediately. Petar Diaconu, General Secretary of the Romanian Communist Party. His famous glasses had been lost, and his eyes showed only fear.
"[We almost missed him,]" one of the men commented, shoving him to the ground. "[Nabbed a few other traitors at the same time.]"
Radegast waited as Petar staggered to his feet, mouth opening and closing as he tried to stammer something coherent. "[Please, you do not need to hurt me. I promise, I am worth more to you alive.]"
Radegast appraised him with contempt. He did not answer right away, and let the judgmental silence persist for an uncomfortable period. "[Do you think I care of your worth, General Secretary?]" He finally asked. "[Do you think you can talk your way out of this. Clovis Bray himself could promise all of Europe for your life, and I would refuse.]"
He lifted a hand to forestall the pleas he knew were coming. "[Do not give me excuses. Do not give me platitudes. It has been your hand which has kept Romania under Soviet rule - and there will be judgement for this.]"
"[Please, sir, think!,]" Petar pleaded, voice shrill and desperate. "[If you kill me, then this nation will be thrown into chaos. The people will not support mob justice, not against me, or those who have merely done our jobs! We are not evil, sir. Please, do not punish us for the crimes of others!]"
One of the soldiers, a woman, spat on him. One of the others snorted, another chuckled. None of them bought his attempts to excuse his role. Nor did Radegast.
"[The evil, and those who serve them, always plead ignorance when standing before their judges,]" Radegast stated, arms crossed as he stared down upon the traitor. "[You do not know who I am, so I will enlighten you. I am Radegast, arisen from the hell of the Pitești Prison, now Guardian of Humanity, and avenger of the nation of Romania to which I was born. I have been tasked with cleansing this nation of evil. That task begins now.]"
He turned away from the man, once more facing the empty city hall. "[Take him to the square. Put him with the others.]"
He ignored the pleading of the man as he was dragged away, and instead surveyed the hall to which the bureaucracy of Soviet rule resided. All those inside had been expelled, captured, or fled. All that remained were empty offices, classified papers, and useless supplies. Such a banal expression of power, dull in its evil.
The nests of evil could not be repurposed, they could only be burned.
And in its place rise something pure.
The Light allowed him glimpses of the world as it could be – and so he made it reality. The glow of possibility permitted him the insight, and all that was required was the will. He lifted one hand, one wreathed in golden-white flame, and closed a fist.
He bore witness as the hall became immolated.
Flames seized every centimeter of the building, burning with paracausal fervor. It burned with the vengeance and hatred of all those it had claimed from within its halls. The crowds who were present cheered as they saw it light up. The flames would continue until the building had burned to cinders.
Radegast turned from the inferno to the square behind him, where the captives awaited their fate.
It would be simple to merely perform a summary execution. Render a judgement upon them with no charade or illusion. Everyone knew the proper answer – but he would not be the one to decide. That would be the easy path. If judgement was to come, let it come from those who had suffered under the tyrants.
A small council had been selected from prisoners, resistance members, and citizens. Those who had participated in the uprising, at least. Those who had refused to take part had no say, for they had not risked anything. This small group had been deliberating, and as he approached they ceased speaking.
"[Have you reached a decision?]"
The oldest one, a bearded man whose hands still shook from his years in prison, nodded. "[It is unanimous, Guardian. They deserve death. Cleanse this evil from our nation forever.]"
There were affirmations murmured and nods from around the small group. Radegast did not need more prompting, he could practically see their anticipation; their hope that finally there would be justice done. He inclined his head. "[Then so it shall be.]"
"[The guilty must burn,]" the man murmured, a refrain echoed by several others. A refrain that stuck with him as he marched closer to the square.
The multitude of captives, ranging from military officers, to bureaucrats, to party officials, to the heads of state themselves awaited their fates, bound and fearful. Crowds composed of citizens and the resistance were gathered. Phones were out, and even some of the local media stations were broadcasting.
The entire world would see what was going to happen.
He took a breath, letting the sounds of the fires crackling behind him fill in the silence before he addressed the crowd – and the world.
"[Today, marks the end of Soviet rule of Romania!]" Radegast began, the Light amplifying his voice so that it could easily reach the ears of all who were attending. "[Today, those who have subjugated and imposed their wills and ideology upon the people have been toppled. Their rule has ended, and portends their fall across the entirety of Europe.]"
Cheers from the soldiers in the crowds. "[This era of tyranny and oppression will end,]" he continued. "[And those who stood by, who executed without question the will of Moscow, will not be spared the judgement to come. Let there be no mistake, of what awaits them. There will be no negotiation. There will be no amnesty. There will be no mercy for those who have enabled evil. There will only be judgement.]"
The cheers were louder.
The guilty must burn.
"[Those today who stand before us have been judged,]" Radegast said, his voice lowering as he gestured at the captured Soviets. "[They have been found guilty. Let the cinders of their bodies serve as a warning for those who serve and enable evil. The Light shall not only protect the innocent – it will cleanse the rot.]"
The roars of the crowd grew louder in fervorous approval, drowning out the final pleas from those who were about to die. Ignoring the cheers and pleas alike, Radegast moved through the captives until he was in the center of the square. He put their pleas, cries, and begging out of his mind. For them, he felt nothing.
Men made choices, and so to they must face consequences.
The world could not move forward if the evil were allowed to be forgiven. There was no negotiation one could have with evil. There was only one answer to it. To uproot it by root and stem, and cleanse it through the purifying fires of the Light.
A sword of pure Light manifested in his hand, heatless white flames running up and down it's blade. The Light itself enveloped him, wrapping around his body and turning him into a living pyre. A warm, comforting heat filled him, as the power returned to his hands; power which required direction. The sword turned in his hand until he held it in a reverse grip, and without ceremony, plunged the sword into the ground, the tip sinking into the concrete.
The square he was standing in was set alight.
The heat was strong enough that anything within its radius would spontaneously combust. He was the center of this power; the expression of the sun, and all judged were to soon be reduced to ash and cinders. He did not look away from the carnage as those within the sphere of his power burned.
He watched as their bodies turned to ashes as the flames consumed them inside out. He listened to the last pleas and screams as their souls were condemned to the hell to which they belonged.
The Light had judged them, and found them wanting.
It had judged them, and found them guilty.
They would be the first.
The judgement of the Triumvirate would be realized in Romania. Soon it would spread to all of the world.
Today they saw the price of serving evil.
An open hand to Humanity.
Let them see, and let them fear.
A closed fist to evil.
OPERATION: FALL BRITANNIA
OVER THE ENGLISH CHANNEL
"[PUMA-7, do you copy? We're getting some strange weather readings.]"
Natalya frowned, glanced over her sensors and flipped a couple switches and turned a few dials. Odd. Very, very odd. "[Hard copy,]" Natalya answered slowly, doing a couple more checks to make sure there wasn't a calibration flaw. "[It's well past the snow season, isn't it.]"
"[Well past it. Confirm visual, over.]"
It didn't take long. She'd seen the massive storm that had gathered overhead. It wasn't unheard of for weather to change rapidly, especially this high up, but she had enough experience to know that something was very wrong. The clouds had an unnatural shimmer to them, which stood out in the grey-black skyscape.
"[Confirmed,]" she said. "[Instruments reflect visuals. Temperature is rapidly falling; preparing for blizzard conditions.]"
That was something she hadn't had to recall in a very long time. All of those sorties in Siberia were actually coming in use for once
"[Where the hell did it come from?]" Vlada asked incredulously. "[Storms like this don't appear out of nowhere.]"
"[Cut the chatter, PUMA-2,]" Captain Zherdev interrupted. "[Mission objectives remain. Confirm payloads functional.]"
"[Confirmed. Payload ready to go,]" Natalya confirmed, after a few checks, as the bomber flew into the crowds. "[Going to be relying on instruments for this one.]"
Ahead was the storm, one that had quite literally manifested out of nowhere. On what was supposed to be a straightforward mission. The objectives were fortunately simple – conduct bombing runs over Portsmouth, and later the rest of the British Isles. It had taken much longer than it should have, but they would finally be assimilated in the new order. At least this mission was less stressful compared to the last one.
The less she thought about Cairo, the better.
She preferred it that way.
Although the storm was threatening that assumption of simplicity. Still, it wasn't anything she hadn't done before, and as long as she maintained her focus and kept her bomber steady, she'd do fine. One last war, one last conflict to bring about unity. At least after this mission, there were no hard questions to face, or things that would give her nightmares later.
Just a simple, straightforward enemy.
"[Heads up, bogey approaching,]" PUMA-5 suddenly called.
"[Fighter? AA countermeasures?]" Vlada asked.
"[No – PUMA-2 pull up now!]"
"[Wha-]"
Natalya barely had time to process what was happening, and saw Vlada just begin to pull up before a blue streak tore through her friend's bomber. A belated explosion followed as the destroyed aircraft immediately plummeted into the Channel.
It had happened so fast that she'd not even had time to process that Vlada was dead.
"[Evasive maneuvers!]" Zherdev ordered.
The blue streak then tore through his bomber, also sending it plummeting below - and this time she actually saw what it was.
Impossible.
It wasn't a missile, a laser, or anything that could be rationally explained – it was a person.
A person clad in armor, with power and lightning running across their body like water, cocooned in golden light. They were somehow flying, without any propulsion or jetpack system she could see. She immediately steered to the side, steered it anywhere but the glowing man.
Her heart pounded, as she desperately considered countermeasures, even as she understood that there was nothing she could do that would be fast enough.
She let out a shriek as the man suddenly landed on the cockpit, and the momentum immediately sent it into a downward trajectory. Without hesitation or difficulty, the man ripped open the cockpit with one hand, and with the other yanked her out of the pilot's seat. The air roared and whistled as she was held suspended as the battle raged below.
The air was thin, especially as she'd lost her helmet as she'd been ripped up. The entire air was charged with electricity, to where her hair stood on. The mask of the man was emotionless, as the lightning somehow wasn't electrocuting her despite him gripping her throat – which she held onto for dear life..
For a moment, just a brief moment, she wondered if he was going to let her life.
Then he spoke.
The words were not audibly heard, it was too loud for that, but they resonated in her mind; emblazoned as a final condemnation.
Burn in hell, Russian filth.
The hand that was holding her became engulfed into golden flames, and every pore of her body simultaneously combusted a moment later. She screamed as her body immolated, the white-hot pain mercifully lasted only a moment as her nerves were burned to their roots in only seconds.
The man holding her burning body then tossed her as fast as a missile somewhere. If her eyes had not been melted, she would have realized she was careening towards yet another bomber, and moving with enough velocity to destroy it. Yet all comprehension had faded, and all that anyone saw was a burning projectile screaming through the air like a star.
She burned until the impact.
Oblivion followed.
OPERATION: FALL BRITANNIA
PORTSMOUTH | ENGLAND | THE UNITED KINGDOM
The cold consumed.
Rita had felt cold before. She'd experienced it's pleasant bite in vacations, it's harsher lessons in training, and as a fact of her daily. She even liked the cold, at least more so than her siblings. There were fond memories she had of snowball fights and building forts in the yards.
The cold had been a companion; a friend in some ways. At worst it had just been a part of the natural world, with no malice in it. A storm was a storm, cold was cold. Nothing more or less complex than that.
It was nothing like this.
This cold was not an old friend.
It was an aggressive, pervasive element. It was a malicious force, one which seemed to want to kill her.
None of them knew where the snowstorm had come from. She'd seen the clouds darkening above. She'd felt the temperature drop. She'd heard some of the officers chattering about the rapid weather shifts. Yet only when the flakes had begun to fall, and fall, and fall did she realize that something was happening.
Something wrong.
Something unnatural.
This couldn't be right. None of this was right.
The snow turned into a blizzard that seemed to specifically hunt and blind them. The cold seeped into their joints and bones like a virus, one which only intensified with every passing minute. It was so powerful that she could barely move, or raise her weapon.
She didn't even know if her weapon worked anymore in these conditions. She joined most of her comrades in a stumbling retreat; order and protocol broken. She needed to get back to the shore, away from the cold. Always from the vicious maw of winter. As she ran, she feared.
There was something more to all of this.
It was more than the physical cold; it was something that seemed to weigh on her mind; on her soul itself. The cold was not just physically felt, it was an oppressive presence; something that instilled the terrifying feeling that there was something watching. The cold whispered and offered; telling her to lay down, curl up, and submit. That it was over.
No.
She gritted her teeth, and kept stumbling forward.
She could barely see now. Ice was coating over her helmet now, which she quickly tried to wipe off. One hand up, and she pushed her way through the snowstorm, and saw a figure in the distance. A figure shrouded, but for an aura of golden light.
She hesitated.
The figure turned, and she saw two twin golden lights. Eyes.
In the hand of the figure held a staff; a scepter. They hovered just slightly above the ground. Surrounding it were other figures. None of them moved – leaving the implication that they were frozen statues. They lifted a hand, and just as quickly as it had started, the snow dissipated as if it had never been there.
To reveal the Queen of England, eyes glowing golden, and with a Ghost hovering at her shoulder. In ornate armor she floated, a staff of ice in her hand. A layer of ever-shifting and forming ice covered her body, including the face, giving her the appearance of an ice sculpture that had come to life.
As she hovered in all her ethereal glory, the cold only seemed to deepen.
To Rita's dawning horror, she saw the true situation she was in. She had somehow managed to find her way back to the beaches – but there was no solace or hope here. The beaches were filled the Red Army who had been turned into frozen statues by the being who hovered before her.
Was this some kind of hallucination? A dream?
Alexandra floated to the ground, her stern face holding nothing utter contempt. Rita forced her frozen fingers to grasp her pistol, and with shaking hands, lifted it towards the monarch. Alexandra snapped her fingers, and Rita screamed as her arm exploded. Blood frozen into needles erupted from her arm, reducing it to meat.
She clutched it, as the cold deepened. She could barely move; barely breathe.
She could not stop her.
Alexandra's hand moved forward, and Rita watched as a smaller baton manifested before her eyes, a torch of ice that projected some kind of droplet towards her. Just as quickly as it had appeared in the Queen's hand, it vanished as the droplet landed on Rita.
Upon impact, and with a golden spark the droplet froze, and began to spread across her body, encasing her in a frozen prison, until she could not move a single muscle. The cold was so strong as to numb the pain, but she could still see.
She could not speak. Could not even scream.
Yet she was aware.
She watched as Alexandra lifted the end of her staff, and once more let it touch the ground.
The last thing Rita heard, was herself shattering into a thousand frozen shards.
The darkness then claimed her.
THE FIRST BATTLE OF THE BRITISH ISLES
PORTSMOUTH | ENGLAND | THE UNITED KINGDOM
With the Soviets on the beach shattered, and the veil of snow lifted, Alexandra surveyed the remains of the battle.
All that was left were dead Soviets, both full corpses, and pieces of armor, flesh, and ice from whose she'd shattered. Snow mixed with sand, blanketing the collection of corpses and wreckage. Tanks, MARAUDER Exos, and other destroyed vehicles were strewn, and she could see the English Channel was also filled with floating wreckage.
The few Soviets that had managed to flee were speeding back towards the carrier in the distance, and the other battleships and naval craft were in a similar retreat. From the skies planes still fell, crashing into the waters.
British soldiers emerged behind her, having followed her lead once she'd entered the battlefield. They wasted no time in recovering their countrymen, and stripping the dead of their armor and weapons – the ones that weren't utterly destroyed, at any rate. The Light was a powerful force – and did not mix well with the delicate advanced technology the Soviets had possessed.
The Soviet Union had been repulsed here.
However, today there would be no partial victories.
Every Soviet that had come to invade today was going to die.
She jumped into the air once; ascending until she could easily see both the city, and the Channel beneath her. With that, she suspended herself in place – something she'd become quite good at, for it was simply a matter of will. She let her scepter dissolve into mist – and extended her hands towards the Channel.
With the Light, she saw.
With the Light, the possibilities were infinite.
With the Light, the world was hers to shape. She could do so much.
She could summon a hurricane, and sweep away the fleet in a torrent. She could manifest a whirlpool, and let it break them apart. She could freeze the Channel, trapping everything inside in an icy tomb. There was nothing she could not do.
She needed more.
The Soviets who were sent today were not enough. They would not sate this need for justice for the crimes they had committed. No, this was not going to be a simple mop-up, there would be a message sent today to the Soviet Union, one that their propaganda and lies could not hide.
What she did must be remembered.
The Light extended from her hands, and the water became tinged with gold as she began imposing her will upon the world. Slowly, drawn by the paracausal forces greater than nature, the water began rising. Up, and up it rose, until it was the height of most multi-story buildings. Up and up it rose, until it was nearly to her own height.
Under her feet, a wall of water churned and begged to allow gravity to reassert itself and let it fall. In the distance she saw the European coasts would be. With a single motion she would let this tsunami fall and wash into their rotten and degraded nations. There were none who were innocent in this conflict, and all she needed to do was let go.
And they would drown.
The tsunami stayed in place, held by the will of the Guardian, ready to crash and crush all that was beneath it. Alexandra gritted her teeth, knowing what she should do, yet finding something holding her back with letting it go. And she should not hesitate, for this was what was deserved for decades of pain.
Yet it wasn't going to fix it.
The Soviets were fine with sacrificing their puppet states if needed. So long as Russia remained protected, all else was expendable. Her enemies were not in Paris, Berlin, or the other European states – they were in Moscow.
She closed her eyes, and slowly allowed the water to recede back into the channel at a controlled rate so that it did not trigger a smaller flood. She noted that the remains of the Soviet fleet had at least been fully destroyed, so at least that objective had been achieved. Finally, the Channel was returned to its normal size, and she lowered herself to the ground.
She felt tired, but it was done.
Behind her, she saw that many of the soldiers, militiamen, and volunteers were staring at her with a mixture of awe, triumph, and terror at what she had demonstrated. Bates was among them, helmet off, and the Light faded from him for the moment. She allowed the power to fade as well, as he approached.
"Remind me, Your Majesty," he said. "Never to make you angry."
She chuckled. "How does it look?"
He glanced up. "Well, I took care of the bombers."
"So I see," she exhaled, letting herself relax for the first time since this battle had started. "And the rest of the Isles?"
"Might be a bit premature, but everything I've heard suggests a full rout of Soviet Forces," Bates grinned widely. "One might even say we've won."
The soldiers cheered, and Alexandra knew that there would be many well-earned celebrations tonight, at the first of their victories against the Triumvirate. Today they had been on the defenses.
Tomorrow would be the start of the retaliation.
Do no mistake this action for mercy, Clovis.
Tomorrow, I will begin my march to Moscow.
And your people will drown.
HEADQUARTERS OF THE AFRICAN UNION | ADDIS ABABA | ETHIOPIA
The African Union was something that few believed in anymore.
It was an obligation of sorts for the nations of the continent. A formality, one made to promote an idea that no one had any remaining faith in. There were a few true believers in the project – but even the most ardent had not deluded themselves about roadblocks standing in the way.
Africa was far from a united region. Old territorial disputes persisted. Ethnic tensions remained. Corruption and waste dominated. Inefficiency plagued administrations and militaries alike. And the Generals and Colonels remained in the wings, ready to step in if the ambition struck them – and continue to let such a threat hang over those who led the nations.
There was no hope for growth. No chance of improvement. It was a spiral of degradation and stagnation, which corrupted each other preventing any sort of progress.
There were times where he'd despaired at this seemingly unmovable reality.
Prime Minister Essayas Awash found some irony in the fact that the legacy of colonialism had done more to divide the continent after they had left, than when the Europeans had ruled. In a way, it was an insidious gambit that had paid off, as the old world became subsumed by the new powers, so to did the methods evolve to keep Africa chained to foreign influence.
The methods were different of course; more refined and cloaked in the language of mutual benefit. Economic investments, loans, advanced technologies – in return for favors, deals, and favored statuses – with the threat of military intervention for those who did not cooperate. There were always rebel movements, terrorist organizations, and ethnic nationalists who were more than willing to become pawns of the CIA and MSS in return for power.
They faced this ultimatum, and had no recourse. Their nations were poor, despite the potential for vast wealth they were owed. Wealth that they couldn't tap into without the modern technologies needed. The superpowers of East and West alike had been more than willing to assist – in return for a majority of the resources.
And so they'd chained themselves to this exploitative deal – because the alternative was worse. It had not been pragmatism or simple greed that had driven so many to bowing to the foreign powers.
It was fear.
Everyone knew who ruled the world. There was no unity on the matter of the Triumvirate because there were no real options they had. To stand against the Triumvirate was to sign your own death warrant. It was easier to accept the Triumvirate as an immutable, inevitable power.
And when such was accepted, it was easier for lesser issues to bubble up to the surface. Until the continent was consumed by these minor, petty, unimportant matters, as they slipped further and further into decline; as the malaise of stagnation took over.
There was no hope. No drive. No opportunity. This was the only future they had.
Why try to change or challenge when failure was inevitable?
Thus, the African Union existed – and contributed almost nothing to facilitating even the most basic of functions. Essayas had learned of the United Nations as he'd grown up, and had come to the conclusion that the Union was somehow less useful than even the United Nations had been.
An illusion that everyone saw through, nothing more.
And yet, he still held onto a naïve hope that it could be more.
The potential was there. Ethiopia, together with South Africa, and previously Egypt, were the nations which, out of all of them, had the best chance of forging some kind of African unity. There had been closed-door discussions, musings, and dreams between each of them – but in the end, they always hesitated before taking any step. It was too risky. It was too dangerous. There were other problems to manage.
Always other problems.
Then Egypt, and all of North Africa had fallen to the Triumvirate.
And they had done nothing. The fear had petrified them from action. All in the vain hope that this would be where the Triumvirate drew the line.
Clovis Bray had dispelled that notion.
The General Secretary had declared, with no ambiguity, that all of the world was going to unite under the Triumvirate – by treaty or by gunpoint. The eyes of the Triumvirate were returning to Africa, and this was now an existential crisis for all of them. This was their last chance for them to do something.
Perhaps it would not be enough, perhaps it was too late.
But if that was to be their fate, he would rather face it as a united continent, than seeing the nations fall; divided and alone. For the first time since he could remember, there was a somber understanding in the air.
Every single member of the Union was present today, every head of state and their entourages. The disputes and issues between countries remained of course – but a chill had settled over all of them as they realized just how little those issues mattered.
Such disputes meant nothing if they were dead, and their nations destroyed.
It was time.
Essayas rose from his seat, and made his way to the center of the chamber, as he readied himself to address the Union; to state the reason for this session. They all knew, but his words would either bring his continent together – or there was nothing that could be done.
News outlets from domestic and foreign outlets alike were in attendance, knowing that this was going to be a watershed moment for the continent. They would all soon find out what path they were going to take – for better or worse.
"[My friends, colleagues, and brothers,]" he began. "[The world stands on a precipice today, and the future of the African continent is at stake. We have all listened to the ultimatum of the General Secretary of the Soviet Union. We have heard his intention to bring all of Humanity under a single banner – that of the Triumvirate, and the imperial powers that comprise it. This was always their plan – but those who resist have forced the truth to surface.]"
His eyes swept over the gathered assembly, all paying rapt attention. "[We have pretended for years now. Pretended that our own problems were more important. Pretended that the Triumvirate would not bother with us. Pretended that we were too minor to be drawn into their ambition. And in doing so, we have denigrated ourselves; we have disgraced the legacies of our ancestors, and tarnished the works of those who brought liberation to the continent. They did not suffer and sacrifice so we would bow and scrape to appease men from Europe, America, and China.]"
His voice paused, before resuming in a lowered tone. "[And yet, that is what all of us have done. We had the opportunity to build a future; an Africa of our own, free of the meddling of others. Imagine this possibility, my friends. Imagine if we could have put an end to old tensions and hatreds and united in a common future. If we could have agreed to work for our brothers and sisters; our continent - instead of ourselves and the nations we led. If we had exercised the values we claim to embody - instead of just paying lip service.]
He bowed his head. "[But it was a dream, it is our imagination. In this reality, because of the choices made, we face annihilation.]"
The room was quiet. He let the pause hang, before speaking again. "[I do not expect all of our differences to be resolved. That is not what I ask, nor what I expect. But our choices are these – die alone, or stand defiant, together. To this end, I have introduced a motion to form the United African Army. Our enemy is clear; our cause is just, and our people are threatened. If even this cannot unite us – then we deserve the fate that awaits us.]"
He stepped away, for there was nothing else that needed to be said.
As he did, the assembly burst into loud and sustained applause which continued for longer than even he was expecting. He hoped that was a good sign for what was to come. After he returned to his seat, more of the gathered assembly took his place on the podium, including several other heads of state stood and spoke – and each of them echoed the same themes he had brought up.
There was no discussion about grievances, unfair conditions, or reconciliation – only the overarching threat of invasion and annihilation. This continued for several hours, before the procedures were completed, the speeches given, and the vote was about to begin. The motion had been accepted, and the vote would not take long.
All he could do was watch.
One by one, the votes began being tallied. He watched the counter tick up, and smiled.
When the result of the vote was announced, he stood with the rest of the assembly and applauded.
A unanimous vote.
Perhaps it wasn't enough, but this had sent a message to any who were watching. In the end, there was worth in that – defiance meant something now, no matter the consequences.
Perhaps they were still doomed, but at least now the Triumvirate would need to fight the continent, on their terms.
There was much work to be done, but there remained a small spark of hope – and he intended to keep it burning as long as possible.
BRAYTECH FUTURESCAPE | MARS
It was quite fascinating, and almost comforting in a way, how plans that were so carefully laid out and prepared could become completely upended by something that no one had anticipated coming. At least not in this way.
Perhaps they should have, and Shaheed's speech to the Triumvirate had certainly been expected to increase the tensions within the Triumvirate – but that was primarily to prepare for their planned emergence. Instead it had triggered something significantly more widespread, primal, and violent.
They had expected that the immediate crisis would be the invasion of the British Isles by the Soviet Union – hence why they had allocated enough Guardians for Alexandra to effectively stand against them. On its own, that would grip the world's attention. When the rest of the world simultaneously rose up at the same time?
There was a clear message being sent to the Triumvirate – and not just from those who had resisted long before now.
Marches and protests in the United States proper and the occupied Canada. South America descending into revolutions. The Indian Middle East collapsing to the Arab rebellions – rebellions which seemed to have kickstarted this entire sequence in the first place. When Clovis had killed Shaheed, he had almost certainly intended to break the spirit of the people.
Instead he'd only enraged them.
China and the Soviet Union were experiencing their own backlash as well. Eastern Europe was being plunged into violent chaos, there were marches and protests in France, Germany, and some of the Western Socialist Republics, Iberia was being destabilized by attacks from a multitude of resistance groups - and even Russia proper was facing domestic resistance.
The Chinese people were also taking matters into their own hands, in such large numbers that the CCP had closed the borders and seemed petrified in how to handle it. The Chinese puppets, satellites, and occupied territories were facing their own domestic unrest, both in insurrections and staged demonstrations. There was no organized response yet, but it was certain to come.
On top of all that, Africa had banded together to send a clear message to the Triumvirate – that they would not be the future victims of imperial aggression. Fear had kept them holding their tongues for so long, but it seemed that they – and the rest of the world, had come to the same conclusion.
Everyone needed to pick a side, and make a stand – no matter where it fell.
Valentin's eyes shifted between the multitude of screens within the Futurescape, each one displaying media from multiple countries. The coverage ranged from aggressive, nationalistic propaganda - to actually presenting a fairly neutral assessment. There was no unified theme or narrative – not yet.
He was certain that would be coming soon. It would have to. Rebellion on this scale could not be tolerated, not if the Triumvirate wished to maintain their hold over the world.
Though he knew, as Clovis certainly did, that this was no longer a mere insurrection, rebellion, or revolt. It was a war. One that the Triumvirate would still win, if left to their own devices. It did not matter if this had come at a time they had not expected, the Triumvirate would adapt – and they had to as well.
There was only one thing left to do.
"Prepare the Guardians. It's time."
Shaxx and Fang were the only other ones present in the room with him – the latter having spent the most recent days working with some of the emerging scientists studying Light, the Void, and paracausality itself to better document and understand the power he had access to. Valentin could not help feeling uncomfortable witnessing what Fang was now capable of, but he trusted Fang to use it well.
At least the hairs on his neck only stood when he actually used the power. Right now he was as luminous as any other being in the light.
Shaxx didn't seem surprised, but still cocked his head in his direction. "Are you sure?"
"It does not matter if I'm sure or not. We can only react to the surprises life throws our way," Valentin motioned to the screens. "We either wait for the right time, and watch the Triumvirate potentially snuff this out – or we can act."
"Aye," Shaxx agreed. "No plan survives contact with the enemy, as the saying goes. We'll sway this war in our favor. I expect we'll be the tipping point for those teetering on the edge. Plunge a few more countries into revolt when they know we're on their side."
"How soon?" Fang wondered; his arms crossed as he reviewed a map.
"We have Guardians embedded across the world," Valentin said. "Although many of them appear to have already taken the initiative and joined in the uprising. We will be known to the masses, if we are not already. The Guardians on Mars will be distributed to the areas of need."
"Africa will be the major battleground," Shaxx noted. "They're not prepared."
"No, which is why I will go there and assist," Valentin said. "I expect I will find several other Guardians there to supplement our efforts. You will handle the United States. If your allies are reliable, it will be time for them to act.
"As you say," Shaxx nodded. "Holliday won't like the situation, but she'll be ready to act, as will several others."
"Fang, you'll go to China," Valentin continued. "Build momentum, support the insurrections, and topple the Communist Party."
Fang smiled. "With pleasure, Speaker."
"What does that leave?" Shaxx reviewed his tablet. "Osiris is already in Arabia…ah, Fox. At what point will the unawakened be activated?"
"Soon," Valentin said. "If it has not happened already. Fox won't be on the front lines, so wielding the Light is a secondary priority – I need his expertise in management and coordination. There are no fewer than two dozen separate groups and movements in operation right now. We've made some progress – particularly with the Arabian and Southeast Asian cells, but this needs to be expanded."
"And if that doesn't happen, we're going to have each of those groups with independent objectives, priorities, and members, which will spiral out of control if not handled," Shaxx finished. "Guidance is a necessity."
"Correct," Valentin crossed his arms. "Revolutions are by their nature violent, but destruction is only the first phase – when that is done, we need to build something better afterwards. We are what will guide and lead them; the binding element of all of them."
"As you say," Shaxx nodded, rolling his shoulders. "Then I suppose we have a lot to do. Rasputin must also be ready to play his part."
"I'll speak to Ana," Valentin affirmed. "And I will manage the final preparations before deployment. There is no going back, gentlemen. The Triumvirate will fall."
"Indeed," Shaxx smiled widely. "Raise the banners, Speaker, and rally the Guardians to war."
"To war, and then to make a world anew," Valentin murmured as he turned off the screens one by one. "Once and for all."
OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
Before him, the world burned.
Television screens hanging and standing played a symphony of news from across the world. Clovis watched and listened to the multitude of languages from the anchors who reported in tones of forced neutrality, with clear undercurrents of fear. They could not disguise the trembling. They could not hide the slight stammers.
For the first time, they were afraid. For the first time, they saw.
Jolted out of the illusion of safety, of the lies they had been told, and eventually, believed, they comprehended.
Clovis had wondered who was the more useful tool – the propagandist who knew the truth – or the true believer. Nothing was as authentic as a true believer, yet it was times like these that showcased the shortfalls of relying on tools who willfully blinded themselves to the reality of the situation.
Then again, they had all been blinded to some degree, had they not?
His mind cycled through the words for this situation.
Revolution. Rebellion. Riot. Revolt.
Each words could be used interchangeably; each word captured the sentiment of people who were swept up in the moment. Men who had only been waiting for a chance to follow the sirens of the movements that sought to tear everything down. Men who had no meaning and purpose in their lives, and so flung themselves to causes to devote themselves fully.
The funny thing about revolutions, were that they were far easier to focus.
A Revolution was a weapon, and in the hands of an intelligent wielder, it could be used to wreak utter havoc.
Revolution came with fervor. It came with violence. It came with terror.
To foment a revolution, the people needed to hate. They needed to fear. They needed to be manipulated to a point where they were willing to risk their lives for a cause controlled by others. Humans were easy to frighten, and thus easy to use.
And because they were so terrified, so fearful, so hateful, they would not spare any who did not join their crusade. Men were far more willing to commit atrocity when they had the approval of their peers. Even more willing when they truly believed it was right. All in service of creating a self-perpetuating cycle.
Out of the fear would came more who would join, so they did not have to become victim to the terror that would follow.
These revolutionaries were not hiding their endgame. They sought a complete reset of the world order; they were stating their intention to burn it all down, and build from the ashes. That, he had expected, of course. The Triumvirate was Humanity – to change the path would require its destruction, and subsequently, the world order.
For such insurrection to be so widespread? That was more of a surprise, and spoke to the blind spots the Triumvirate had across the world – and his own blind spots, as well.
It would be easy to simply blame all of this on the alien. It was indeed quite tempting.
No doubt the alien was behind this, as she had vanished from the sensors. Perhaps still in the Solar System, perhaps not. Or perhaps just hiding. Easy to blame - but that was too simple an explanation, nor did it fit with what he knew of her. The alien might have encouraged it – but this was no simple act of brainwashing.
No, this sentiment had always been there, it had just been hidden, buried, and believed irrelevant by himself and many others.
In their hubris they had believed that they had won, and Humanity had accepted them. They had become confident, and complacent while weeds grew in their backyards under the lush vegetation of progress. They had been blinded by their ambitions for undisputed global domination, or distracted by the obvious holdouts.
All the while resentment and hatred festered under their nose.
A pity.
Well struck, Traveler. The round goes to you.
Yet this was just one victory. The war had only just begun.
His weakness had been exposed; his vulnerability exploited. Necessary lessons to learn, and they needed to rectified were the war to be won. He was less concerned about the Traveler's soldiers who had emerged during these uprisings – soldiers who wielded seemingly magical powers.
No, not magic.
Paracausality. The same Light that the Traveler herself commanded.
They'd wondered if it was something that could be replicated; if it could be harnessed or given to others. The answer as it turned out, was an affirmative, and given to those with the Ghosts. A confirmed sign of her trust, if not her favor.
They were not helpless to counter these soldiers, but their arrival heralded a far longer war.
The televisions still droned and blared.
Enough of this.
He snapped one finger, and one by one the televisions turned off.
He walked past them to the window of his office, where he looked out over Moscow. Time before him slowed as he took in the beauty of the evening light as it hit the city. A certain melancholy filled him, as he reflected, thinking of the false peace that was before him.
Disaster after disaster he had endured in such short succession, and for the first time the elites of the Triumvirate were shaken; reminded of what it was like to be uncertain. Reminded of what it was like when they were mortal. When they could lose.
And he had realized that was how it should be.
The future belonged to those who did not blind themselves; or allowed themselves to succumb to the disease of complacency. It was through fire and trial that men learned who was fit to lead, rule, and triumph. So long, the Triumvirate had been led by those who had not been tested.
For him, this was his test. One where the stakes were not only his life, but all that he had ruled and built.
If he lost, it would be because the Traveler was superior.
It felt…appropriate to admit this. It was liberating in a way.
Very well, alien.
If you insist.
But if you kill me, I will ensure what is left behind is worthy.
Today, the Triumvirate stood at the crossroads. Some politicians from the Indian Territories and Confederation were calling for there to be negotiations, even as large swathes of the world burned in this churning, violent revolution that was gripping hearts and minds across the world.
To them, he would give a simple answer.
No.
There would be no negotiation. Such delusions failed to understand what kind of moment in history this was. This was a war, and not one of negotiation and compromise, but extermination. There would only be one victor in this war, and the victory would be total. Whoever lost would be erased from the face of the Earth.
Revolutions did not spare the unfaithful, the moderate, the pacifist, or the bystander. The Russian Empire had made the mistake of relying on tradition, convention, norms, and authority to crush the Bolsheviks - not realizing that the fundamental circumstances had changed. This was no longer about the Triumvirate, America, India, China, or even the Soviet Union.
The war had degenerated into something far more primal and simple.
The Traveler stood for revolution and a cleansing fire upon the world.
She stood for violence, vengeance, and fury, as her adherents called for justice, revenge, and cleansing.
One could not negotiate with such individuals consumed by the fervor that he saw across the world. One could not concede to such minds, for they would simply execute and punish. One could not submit, for there would be no hope of recourse or fairness. There would be no mercy. Some of these Guardians had said as much.
For to them, the Triumvirate was an evil. And one could not negotiate with evil.
He did not judge. It was merely the reality they faced.
The path Humanity would take was never going to be decided by debate, discussion, and compromise. Humanity would never be united through words. In the end, it was always going to be through might, power, and prowess. There was something amusing in realizing the Traveler knew this as well.
It raised the question - what did he stand for?
Order.
Stability.
He was a bulwark against the chaotic madness sweeping the world. Revolutionary fervor was useful – against soldiers. When it was turned against the sympathizers or citizens of the principle oppressor, whatever support they would hold would become less stable. The makings of a Golden Terror were in place, and preparing to be unleashed.
Well, if there was to be violence, he would oblige.
As they would show no mercy or lenience to him and those loyal, he would similarly ensure neither were shown to the revolutionary in return. The Traveler had made the first moves in this game, and now it was time to respond.
The pawns had been moved forward. Some of his own had been taken.
But the war was young, the board was large, and he was not helpless.
He could see now.
As he watched the sun set over Moscow, he knew what had to be done.
Until tomorrow, Traveler.
Then it will be my turn.
INVICTUS | TRIUMVIRATE COLONIAL ADMINISTRATION | NEPTUNE
Neptune was perhaps one of the most sophisticated and awe-inspiring projects that the Triumvirate had undertaken when space travel had been refined. Initially, the thought of colonizing Neptune of all planets would have been unthinkable. A planet composed of various fluids, it was a place best for resource gathering at best – but the Traveler had terraformed it in a way that practically begged all who saw to take a second look.
Landmasses made of frozen clouds and ice shelfs that were kept afloat, preventing falls to the crushing depths further into the planet. These blue-green-white expanses stretched out as far as the eye could see, until one reached the end and only looked down as the fog rolled off of them into the infinite blue below.
Micah was reminded of how similar it was to the myths Humanity had had about the world being flat. Where there was only one floating landmass, and at the edges, everything just…fell down. Forever.
And atop these shelves, the Triumvirate built the future.
The most cutting edge research facilities. Factories which produced the most advanced technologies. Neptune was a hub of research, innovation, and development that not even Earth possessed. Here, all who were present were free to explore and create to their heart's content. It was a privilege to work on Neptune, and only for the best of the Triumvirate.
The city of Invictus was built to encompass this grand vision. Cities here were built differently than on Earth. There were no cars or personal vehicles; living spaces were all close together, and within walking distance of most important places in the city. Many of the inhabitants were friendly with each other, and there was a genuine sense of community that had been fostered across national lines.
They were Humans, building to a better future.
Automated transportation took care of those needs for those who had work outside the city – as many did. Only a few of these cities had been built on Neptune so far, but there would be more in the future.
Micah preferred these kinds of cities, they were nicer, cleaner, and more friendly. It was perhaps one of the safest she'd lived in since there was no crime, since only those who were selected and vetted could come – and because of no crime, there wasn't any law enforcement either. Which was a bit strange, but she preferred it this way.
This was a place of discovery, development, and learning.
And automation. Lots and lots of automation.
At any given moment she could look towards the blue-green horizon and see the cargo ships arrive in lines, bringing in colonial necessities, or exporting the numerous materials and resources Neptune was home to. Yes, this place and world was beautiful.
The parks in particular were her favorite spot. She put her bag down, took out her tablets, opened one to the coursebooks, and one to the notebook, and started solving.
Solving.
She couldn't solve a thing.
Her digital pen just hovered above the screen. She looked the question over, running it through her head, again and again.
No answer.
Her foot started tapping on the ground.
Her breath came out shuddering.
She glanced at the time. Thirty minutes gone. She was already a week delayed on her revision. She had…what? Three hours to finish this subject, to keep on schedule?
Now two and half, and she'd hadn't figured a thing.
Another breath, pen tapping against the screen.
Ten minutes passed.
Another twenty.
Two hours left.
Why was it so hard?
She'd never had this much difficulty before, never let herself be obsessed with complete perfection - she just needed to do her best, but ever since coming here, she'd become aware that the best just wasn't enough. It'd been a shock of cold water when she'd seen that on the testing lists for the scholarships on the planet, she was near the lower third.
It didn't help that rumors persisted. Always rumors. Where those who couldn't keep up would be sent back to Earth or somewhere lesser. She couldn't let that happen to her, she couldn't look her parents in the eyes, if she failed them here.
Her breath came faster, the seconds seemed to speed by, the panic and chaos reaching a crescendo until she could not take it anymore.
With a muffled screen, she hurled the tablets away.
Micah covered her face with her hand. Trying to just breathe. She couldn't breathe. There was no time to breathe, everyone else was doing better than her. Higher grade average, more questions solved, more voluntary coursework handed in.
More than her.
Better than her.
She was falling behind the rest, one mark at a time.
"I hate this," she said aloud. "This sucks," she chuckled bitterly to herself. "I hate this so much."
She just wanted to…return. There had been only one place on this damn planet where the crushing weight had, if ever so slightly, lifted. Where she'd been able to think, to breathe, to relax. Where she had, if only so slightly, felt like she was in control.
Where she could be someone to be proud of, instead of this anxiety-wrecked student who was going to have to turn in an assignment late - if she managed to complete it at all.
Slowly, she grabbed her tablets, threw them into her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked. Heading…somewhere. Anywhere.
What's the point? She asked herself.
Anxiety. Frustration. Anger. Fear.
The mixture of emotions swirled together as she walked, melding into something solid that she grasped onto unconsciously, and in the back of her mind, something always present, but dormant, began singing in her head.
She took out her headphones, thinking of something, anything, to put on. She had nothing, except her own throat.
A soothing hum, a steady, familiar rhythm.
Calming, comforting. A safety from the dread.
It was becoming more elaborate. It was becoming clearer. Sharper. She found herself unconsciously tapping rhythms out when she sat, humming it under her breath, and hearing it in the sounds of everyday life. When she tasted, she imagined chords and notes. When she spoke, she had to consciously not add a musical lint to it.
Her heart felt lighter. The crushing weight turned almost bearable, there was relief, an escape from it all. At some point, she started wondering if it was just her. But no, it couldn't be. Others had been humming it, haven't they?
And why wouldn't they?
It was beautiful.
It was strange, how something so simple could be so joyous. There was a comfort, a salvation from the hounding, gnashing doubts.
She felt antsy.
Like she'd been cooped up for weeks in a room.
She needed to get it out. To let it all out. She had to get everything she was feeling out.
People greeted her as she walked down the street, and she ignored them, not out of malice, but because the song was growing more dominant, and drowning out any other thought. She needed to keep going, and find something to get this out of her.
Her eyes settled on a small booth near the city community arena; a place that held several instruments which were open for anyone in the community to play for the public. There were a few such places in the city. Often some of the resident musicians would come in the evening, providing some music to the evening crowds.
That was it. She needed to go there.
The slight problem was that she didn't know how to play any musical instrument. Nonetheless she found herself walking towards it anyway, and sat down at the piano. She sat frozen for a few moments, not knowing how even to start, fearing she was going to just embarrass herself.
The song became softer.
No, no.
Do it like this.
Just like this.
The note sounded clearly in her mind, and she knew where to place her finger. She did so hesitantly, and as the finger pressed on the key, she heard the note audibly for the first time. So long had the song been in her head, that hearing it with her own ears almost brought tears to her eyes.
She could hear it now. She could not stop. She would not stop.
A second note. A third.
She did not know where her fingers were moving, what notes were played, only that the keys her fingers played were the correct ones. All sound but the notes of the song had faded away. Her vision was blurred as if seeing through tears. Maybe they were tears; ones of joy at having finally found relief from what had been building inside her.
The song grew more intense, so she played it faster, and faster, and faster. She had not known she'd possessed this speed, dexterity, or drive. Nothing that was happening mattered outside of the song being played. The world had ceased, it was only her, the instrument, and the song.
A little slower.
Her vision was clearing, and she became aware of her surroundings again.
She saw that there was a crowd that had gathered. They did not cheer. They did not praise. Their expressions were frozen in rapt, focused attention solely on her. No, not simply here. They too were listening, some even swaying to the melody. They seemed to react to nothing else but the song; a song that seemed to have drawn them from the middle of other activities.
Some held shopping baskets of unpaid groceries, others were wearing swimsuits coming from pools, some from half-finished hair appointments, and the remaining ones seemed to have been on their commute home, or on idle evening walks. She did not cease playing, only took a slower tempo.
Then a man stepped forward, and joined her at the bench, which she allowed unconsciously.
Several others walked to the other available instruments in a similar trance-like state.
All together now.
Seamlessly, their song continued in harmony, once more rising in intensity, with the additional instruments adding a flavor and depth that had not manifested before. Micah did not know who these people were, but that did not matter. Every sequence played perfectly, each note struck without hesitation. Together they played, faster and faster.
Voices of the crowd joined the orchestra; a choir to complete the song which added more layer, detail, and majesty to the song. All of them, united in this purpose, all of them, able to express that which had been repressed.
Right now, they were liberated as they wove this song of power, triumph, and praise.
For only perfection could satisfy Him.
The song stretched across the city, reaching the ears of those who had not heard its notes before, and they would know its majesty. Micah continued to play unceasing, knowing that the song would soon reach it's crescendo. She kept pushing, giving all she could to it, for she sensed approval of this praise she had woven.
Were she before a mirror, she would have seen the twin trails of black liquid flowing from the corners of her eyes, but even if she had, it would not have mattered. She swayed in her seat, the music screaming at her to continue, to which it became overwhelming.
She pressed on, for the Song was not finished. Not yet. It must be completed, refined and shaped to the finest edge. Only one that was perfect. Only one that was worthy.
She reached an explosive crescendo, and then the song fell silent, both in the air, and in her mind. The others also immediately followed suit, as if they had rehearsed it hundreds of times.
As one, they turned their gazes towards the same direction, with their heads upturned, as they held a moment of silence at the conclusion of the hymn of praise they had woven. Then one by one, they departed, as if nothing had happened.
Those present shuffled back to their routines, as if this was yet another ordinary day – yet one they would not forget. When asked about this day, there was only one word that those present would give, after they would sigh in pleasure, and their eyes glazed over in joy.
Majestic.
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XXII | ANTIPHON
A/N: I guess this is the first post-Witch Queen chapter? Been a while, but hope the wait has been worth it. Short review of Witch Queen - best expansion Bungie has done and easily the best story they've produced. Very well done, and yes, it's provided quite a few interesting elements which will be incorporated into the story.
Thanks for reading, as always. I'll try to get the next chapter out a bit sooner.
