TITANOMACH I: Triumvirate

by Xabiar

Earth rests within the iron grip of the Triumvirate. Suppression, surveillance, and manipulation are tools used to maintain and expand their power. Rebels and terrorists persist in a futile insurgency, and independent nations struggle to endure under political and economic pressure. On the brink of victory, the course of Earth is forever changed by an anomaly hovering over Mars.

29. Chapter XXV - Crescendo

ACT III | THE TYRANT'S HUBRIS

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CHAPTER XXV | CRESCENDO

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HEAVEN'S GATE | ENOCHIAN SPIRE | NEPTUNE

The Spire had been reforged from something that had embodied the incomprehensible madness and roiling chaos of the Light into the reassuring stability, elegant simplicity, and utilitarian wisdom of the Dark. The pieces of the Gate to the Sky had been erased in their entirety, ensuring the connection was forever severed.

Only a simple glance at the grand rebirth of this once accursed structure.

The comforting sheen of lustrous shadow now flowed over every surface, pulsating and rising along the walls, and ascending to the open skies. An orange pillar of purity, a signal of conquest and triumph over the Adversary's Rot.

Each step taken on the smooth, blackened floor was like stepping into a warm pond that filled the body and spirit with invigorating ichor, tempering the tempest of the mind into a fine edge. Standing on the hallowed stone was like being in a sauna set to the perfect temperature where weakness washed away from the self, for it was but one more impurity to leave behind forever.

With each step along the floor, it sent a ripple through the luster – and filled Micah with confidence and power.

Micah knew that, despite the power they now commanded, they were in their most precarious position yet. There was nowhere else to go now, nowhere she could hide.

There was only the Spire. One final fortress, their last stand against the hordes of Light.

They would find the Spire no easy conquest.

The Intercessor had wasted no time, and had not been idle as the battle for Neptune had been fought. While it had sung the Antiphon, and woven the paracausal forces to bend Neptune to the primal purity of the Dark, it had been acting to transform the Spire into a shape more agreeable.

The lowest levels of the Expanse had been cleaned and purged of the small mechanical abominations which had held the Skyborn. The Foundries which had produced technologies and weapons of Light had been appropriated for their own usage. While unfortunately their capabilities were limited, the arrays of fabricators had been able to produce enough basic armor and equipment to outfit their armies of cloned bodies.

Each and every piece they would need. The levels of the Foundry would work and serve, until the time of the attack came, and the Guardians would walk through darkness as her armies lay in wait.

And there was the Well of Souls.

It had already served as the mechanism from which the souls were able to be placed into fresh bodies, liberated upon the destruction of imperfect flesh, to be given a chance to serve the Master and His grand design. A gracious mercy provided to those who had dared raise their hands against the Shadow who sought naught but to Save. That alone was a force multiplier that enabled a fierce defense - but the Intercessor had made a discovery about the Well which would level the playing field.

She had smiled widely when she had realized it as well.

Such was only the appropriate actions against the slaves of the Celestial.

At the peak of the Spire she stood, and in the center of the peak stood the Intercessor. Its arms moved, resonance flowing from its motions. Its song was at a lower pitch as it focused on its current task - allowing four men and women who had volunteered themselves the opportunity to ascend.

They were not the only ones present. The newly awakened made their way to the top of the Spire after receiving their equipment at the Foundries. They stood in lines a short distance from the Intercessor, who with one hand was pulling their weapons from the Memory.

To most in the galaxy, the moment was all that could ever be, but there was something deeper that those with the knowledge could draw upon. All that Had Been, Could Be once more. Once only needed to recall the Universal Memory, and make it manifest once again. The Light, of course, perverted this sacred rite.

Lightbearers created and shaped, but it was not from true Memory, but from the ideal and the emotional; the whims and desires of those who were slaved to their wants. They could never discipline themselves to the standard the Memory required. They did not care; they saw it as trivial, useless, and reactionary.

The Dark knew the truth. It would not ignore the Memory of the universe.

And from the Memory, came power.

In pairs of two they stood, as a cocoon of Resonance was manifested, and within a Shape was formed. Little tiny threads of luster woven into shape, giving the weapons a shiny, liquid appearance before solidifying. There was an array of weapons, none of which she'd seen before.

They were squarish, with hard angles, and looked as though they were hewn out of stone itself. As she looked upon them, words denoting their Shapes came to mind.

Devotion.

Response.

Deception.

Temperance.

Fatal.

The weapons were no mere firearms; the Darkness did not create such trivial technologies, despite their outward appearance. The weapons were the Shapes of each word; she did not fully understand each of them - but knew that they would be more than enough to match the armies of encroaching Light.

The liberated soldiers grabbed their weapons, departed, and the next two approached and waited until new weapons were manifested. At the same time, the majority of the Intercessor's attention was fixated on the quartet of Humans who had given themselves to ascension.

Micah had watched as the Intercessor removed scales of its armor, sung out of the Master's Construct as if it had been made of water. This shard had then been placed into the bodies of the volunteers, skin opening up to reshape itself to perfectly fit the scale. The screams were not ones of pain, but adulation as the Antiphon synchronized with the ritual.

When the shard had been placed in each body, the Song had shifted and entered into a more rapid tempo. Above the prone bodies, the Intercessor sung, and orange strands wrapped around their bodies as the transformation concluded. As butterflies emerged from their cocoons as something new and beautiful, so had those who ascended into a Shape higher than they had been.

One by one, they shed their amber shells. Skin that had once been pigmented by useless melanin had become as dark as night, the Saving Shadow evident in all His servants. Their bodily shapes had been elongated and extended; limbs and digits longer than the insufficient tools Nature and unguided evolution had equipped Humans with.

Just as a single touch from the Master had honed her body into a higher Shape, so too had the blade of the Intercessor stripped away purposeless bodily quaintness, leaving weapons in their place.

They were its extensions.

Shards of the Intercessor.

The Hallowed Construct knew that it would be the last one to hold the Tower, but would bestow its power in other forms which would help her defend the Spire when the Celestial's forces came. The newly-born Shards organized into a quartet, awaiting the orders of the Intercessor to come.

Death may be soon arriving, but fortunately, she was not alone.

The Savior stood a short distance beside her.

She knew they were not truly here – but upon her return to the Spire, she had found they were awaiting her with a gentle smile, and word of congratulations. As she stood before them, she perceived something that reminded her of the thinnest, most transparent plane of glass. The only visual indication of their separation; a separation that was tantalizing – so close, yet so far.

That they were able to manifest themselves at all was enough comfort.

The form they had taken was one of a kindly older human male, with pale skin, a well-groomed beard, and ornate clothes that reminded her of a businessman, complete with a sharp black suit. The clothing seemed simple, if sleek, at a first glance, but the trained eye could spot much upon deeper observation.

The golden pin shaped like a pyramid above the right breast, the flaxen tie undulating as if it were liquid metal instead of cloth, the texture of the suit which made it seem much more solid than an article of Human clothing could ever be, the golden triangular wrist cuffs emanating Resonance and weaving it through the rest of the body in beautiful stylistic patterns which somehow reminded her of Art Deco.

The black gloves they wore left enthralling afterimages and deep echoes in the Universe's engraved imprints with every movement of the hands. It was like watching ripples in a pond, which could do naught but acknowledge the superior authority before it.

Most striking was the thick Darkness that emanated around the body and sapped all light and color from their immediate surroundings. Where the Saving Shadow was but a flicker of power in her, in this being it flowed like a fountain; a black wellspring without a bottom.

The visual effect alone made her see that the chosen form was an insufficient vessel to contain the might that could be commanded with the flick of a finger - or perhaps the being before her did not wish to completely hide what it was.

An imprint into the soul of Everything. An outline formed in the negative space between dead stars.

This was a being of great power. A being that saw no need to showcase its capabilities with unnecessary pomp or grandiose flair, for their overwhelming presence was enough.

Simplicity. Elegance. Refinement in the subtle. Majesty in a curt message.

Disciple.

She finally understood the implication behind that unassuming title.

The most alien part to her was the eyes. They were not Human eyes, but pools of infinite blackness with only a faint silver rim that gave it a glassy sheen. They were hypnotic to look into, though they had kindly reminded her not to stare.

And yet, even when she averted her gaze, she could not help but see the infinite abysses staring back at her through the corner of her vision. She could not silence the whispers which crawled out of those deep craters and beckoned her to see.

She could not help but feel the long buried fury and veiled indignity in the single points of dead white amidst the sea of black. Like the faint smell of rot emanating from an ancient grave that has never been opened.

Irae, illa, solvet saeclum in favilla.

Words and phrases she had once been familiar in passing through her past education and own childish curiosities, but which were yanked from her subconscious and brought to the center of her every thought by nothing but a glance at those stygian windows. A simple glance into the enormity of what it sought to inflict to the Liars who had led impossible-to-quantify innocents to their demise.

To Save was to have seen the demise one was combatting. To Liberate was to feel the iron of oppressive chains and understand how heavy they were around one's neck. To end pain, one had to have felt it, one had to know it, and to still feel it deeply.

There was much to this being that she was interested in learning. Much beyond the courtly façade that this Archangel draped in the Night had shown her thus far. But it was not her place to pry or ask. She was but a soldier, and she had to prepare for what was coming.

Micah glanced at a series of projections that took the forms of portals that allowed one to look within and outside the Spire – a system the Intercessor had appropriated for their own use. She looked towards the ones that displayed the exterior. Nothing. Still. She gritted her teeth. "What are they waiting for? They should not be trying to allow us more time to prepare."

The Savior was unbothered. _-Because they know it is too late. They have failed in their efforts. There is no point in throwing themselves recklessly against us out of misplaced pride or desperation. She is more intelligent than that. She knows what they will face.-_

Micah frowned, unclear what they were saying. "They cannot have failed yet. They have forced us to retreat here!"

The lips of the Savior extended into a wide, and unnatural-looking smile. _-Yet they have. We have isolated the first call of the Antiphon to the exact location of your home system. Worry not, Child of Sol, what the Intercessor provided was enough. It is why I possess the ability to speak to you directly.-_

Micah's face lit up at the implication. "Then we hold out until you arrive!"

Her hopes were dashed as the Savior shook their head. _-I am afraid not. I wish it were otherwise, but Earth is too far away. It will take a long period of travel, much war, and significant effort to reach. Centuries, at least – but do not think that this is a failure. You have provided us the best chance to slay this Celestial in a very long time.-_

They motioned with an arm. _-Without your actions, the Celestial would have had an uncountable period of time to prepare. Millenia upon millennia. Your species would be warped into becoming unrecognizable, turned into dependent slaves of the Light, as so many before. Now, she has mere centuries to prepare. Entities such as her operate on timescales of the divine – to her it will be in the blink of an eye.-_

Micah felt some relief at hearing that, even if she knew that she would not likely live to see her people's Salvation. Yet playing a part like this was one she could take pride in. For it was far better than the alternative.

The Savior continued. _-Now, concerning the initial assault, it will enable us to see what we are facing.-_

Micah nodded. "What do you expect?"

A finger was placed to their bearded face. _-Almaral is no fool. She is wise, subtle, intelligent, and vicious. Do not believe Celestials are benevolent and merciful - to those who differ from their orthodoxy, they are as persistent and ruthless as an inquisitor of a holy faith. The Light is their religion, and all who differ are heretics.-_

The hand dropped. _-She has doubtless established Spires across the system. She will be pulling as much equipment as she can for the assault ahead. You will not be facing the Triumvirate soldiers and their minimally effective 'conventional' weapons. She will equip them with the weapons of Light. They will pose a threat. The Triumvirate forces are not to be trifled with - much less the Guardians.-_

Micah's lips pursed at that. Suddenly, it seemed like the time they had wasn't enough. "We will not be able to replace our forces fast enough once they come."

_-Correct.-_ the Savior affirmed. _-It is thus imperative that each soldier, weapon, and capability of this Spire is used to its greatest effectiveness. The forces of the Celestial will expect certain things. They will not expect our usage of the Well, or our employment of the Soulless. When they learn, they will adapt.-_

The eyes of void bored into hers. _-These opportunities are not to be wasted. Mistakes must not be made.-_

Behind the words was an underlying expectation - it didn't matter that she was no general or military mind - now she had to be. The Dark did not suffer the incompetent or weak; it required individuals to rise to the occasion, no matter the circumstances - or it would leave them behind, what they could have been, disregarded and forgotten.

She had come so far. She would not, could not, stop now.

She bowed her head. "I understand."

The Savior appeared pleased. _-Excellent. Now…-_

They suddenly trailed off.

Micah also went still, and heard a faint sound beginning to fill the room.

Was that a…choir?

Her thoughts were immediately answered, as a weight suddenly dropped on top of the entirety of the room and crushed her beneath its density. The weight of a star, as if an epicenter of power had manifested out of nowhere. It was as though she was standing outside a black hole, the gravity pulling her down; making it impossible to move and threatening to unspool her every molecule as if she were a mite of worthless dust in the presence of a hurricane.

She felt herself be measured in an intrinsically deep way she could scant understand, as if her entire life were but a story written on paper to be observed by the One who had always held the book.

With a swipe of His fingers He could unmake her, erase what He found to be nothing but trite with a gauntleted hand that would tear her pages out and crumple them to nothing. With a merciful gesture He could remake her, grasping the pen and writing over the paragraphs of her self with black ink that would invariably overwrite every word and sentence to His whim.

She was His. Without Him, she was nothing. Without her, He was Everything.

The luster throughout the peak seemed to grow in intensity; waves of resonance were rippling around her, like skyscraper-high waves caused by the rising of a Leviathan.

The whispers surrounding her synchronized in calculated perfection with the Intercessor's Song. In an instant, the Antiphon morphed from a melody of corruption and infiltration to an announcement of Majesty.

It delivered powerful hymns, bombastic elegies, and imperious anthems to the arrival of the One. The faint choir her mind had registered exploded into the roar of a million conquering angels, blowing her away in a storm of notes and reverberations that bypassed her ears and struck directly into the very center of her mortal soul. Reality itself shuffled apart and made way for the Master, for not even the laws of physics dared stand in His way, for He could easily break them upon His armored knee.

His Will superseded Murphy's. His breath awakened that deep instinct in all Humans to serve something greater. Call it the Monad, Allah, or Yahweh. Call it Odin, Ra, or Zeus. Meaningless words to her all throughout her life, for she had always believed Humanity ascendant above feeble superstition.

But this required no faith. This demanded no blind acceptance. He simply Was. And she knew in that instant that she was whole.

The instinct to believe in someone greater was here, personified, revealing its true face. For it was His heraldry. She understood then and there that His mere existence caused mortals to seek divinity, even though they could never understand the true shape of the One many called God.

Every moment of guileless wonder, from the very first caveman staring at the night sky in reverence for the unknown, to the faceless masses who groveled at the feet of false idols and dedicated their lives to the archaic teachings of ancient books. All their faith had been for Him. Every single uttered prayer had been for Him, and only now did she see it.

Here she was. The first to lay eyes upon a single fragment of His brilliance. Here she was, the first to gaze upon the divine. Here she was, the first hallowed supplicant of a people that would soon be saved.

The angelic choirs blasting her head with their supplications to the Master, the orchestra of the thousands performing ceaselessly as if their grand concerto could match the grandeur of He who was Ascendant, the palatial gates of the Black Heaven opening before her. They all hit her at once, knocking her to the floor facedown, where she belonged.

She could not withstand the glory washing before her. She could not breathe. She could not lift her face from the floor. She was weeping. Black tears flowed down her cheeks as her heart was moved like never before by the aura of the sublime moment.

And Clovis Bray dared think himself equal to the divine? That empty husk of metal that thought himself a man believed himself capable of defying God?

An imbecile. A moron. An arrogant, blubbering fool that had no understanding of the forces he sought to oppose.

To believe that she had given him a chance. To believe she had offered him a chance at this same holy anointing. She had been misled, she had been ignorant.

No more.

When the Rapture came, only the worthy would be raised to His raven kingdom, and she would do her best to earn her place within its onyx halls.

Let those like Clovis be engulfed by the flames. Let them drown in the Deep, for a perfected Humanity to rise from the dust of their once-corpses.

The transparent barrier between her and the Savior cracked; minute fissures spreading in a spiderweb, for reality was nothing but brittle glass to the One who held the world over His shoulders, and could always let it drop if He pleased.

The Savior repeated what she already knew in every crevice of her enraptured soul.

_-He is here.-_

With effort beyond anything she had undergone, and with brazen insolence that every facet of her being was begging her to not practice, she dared raise her gaze from the floor and towards the Intercessor – but one that was no longer the living statue she had become accustomed to.

Wreathing it was a thick layer of resonance that emanated off of it in waves. Seeping from its polished surfaces was a liquid that charged the air, like being in the presence of an active nuclear reactor. A miasma that was black like oil, and yet was filled with pulsating and glowing centers of golden luminescence, like the sea of stars on the otherwise pitch black firmament of Night.

Ichor, the essence of God. The vitae of the Master, enriching the Blessed Vessel and beckoning it to drink. No longer was it a mere automaton of the Dark. Now it possessed a presence and sapience that it had not previously held. The helmet moved of its own accord, as if seeing everything for the first time.

The Shards that had been created fell to a single knee, heads bowed, and hands raised as they held their weapons in offering to the avatar of the One Above. The soldiers in the room similarly prostrated themselves before it as well, some of them seemingly rendered inert or collapsed altogether.

It spared the Shards and soldiers only a glance, before it turned its gaze upon her.

:. Micah Abrams.:

She instinctively fell to one knee as the voice slammed against her ears with the force of a meteor impact crashing against a helpless world. A storm of flame that engulfs all that might have once lived with its cleansing inferno. A shockwave that tears apart tectonic plates. The works of Nature, built throughout millions upon millions of years, effortlessly destroyed beyond repair in one single fateful moment.

So strong was it that she was certain that were she in the Master's presence, she would have been rendered unconscious by the two words bouncing ceaselessly inside her brain and nearly tearing it apart with every moment of dominance. Instead, she merely felt her entire being rippled in response to the mere sentence.

His voice shook the Spire, echoed in her mind, and spoke with the authority of the divine.

He is here.

Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End. Past, Present, and Future. The Everything, the Nothing, and the undefined space between.

He was here to judge her.

She did not know what would happen if she was found unworthy.

She heard the Savior speak behind her. _-Ascendant One, you honor us.-_

Their voice was different from what she had become used to. Respectful, but subservient in a way she hadn't known they could possess. The voice of a subordinate to a superior; a lesser to one Greater.

She waited for something to happen, her muscles shaking as the unnatural gravity threatened to pull her to the ground. She found it strange how the Spire itself was not shaking due to the power consolidated in this epicenter. It felt like minutes passed, even if she knew it was only seconds.

:. Stand. Soldiers of distinction need not bow before me.:

An order as much as it was a commendation. Micah obeyed, standing straight, but keeping her relief to herself, not even able to take pride in obviously passing the test of the Ascendant One. The weight did not go away, but it seemed easier to endure now. The Intercessor, whose construct had been appropriated by the Ascendant One, appraised her.

:. Your Shape has been honed. Your edge is sharp. Your hands bloodied. Present your weapon to me. I would look upon it.:

Trying to keep her hands from trembling, she withdrew the Sirensong, and held it outstretched in both hands. There was a sharp tug which almost pulled her forward as one of the Intercessor's arms lifted, and the weapon flew to it. With each hand, the Ascendant Lord inspected it.

No, not inspecting it – he was doing something to it.

A low Song was being sung and a strange sheen was growing over the Sirensong, as if it was being submerged in liquid, and she could see multiple copies of the weapon at once; flickers of thought and possibility, cycled in mere seconds by the mind of the One who saw all. And just as quickly as it had appeared, the visage was gone.

:.A weapon worthy of your Edge, now enshrined in Memory. Its Shape is Recollection; let the Song you loyally answered serve you in the trials ahead.:

His hands opened, and there was a push as the weapon was returned to her hands. Upon grasping it, she was suddenly suffused with a comprehension. The Antiphon that had seemed alien, elusive, and incomprehensible she could now hear.

Not merely hear, she could command.

She knew how to sing it, how to weave it, and the possibilities and flexibility that was possible from the Notes. A faint echo of the glorious Anthem seemed to revolve around the Sirensong now, and when she focused, she could command it - at least to a certain degree. It was an unimaginable pity that she had so little time to learn as much as she could from her newfound awakening.

Yet what she now grasped from this short glimpse was more than she had before. The Master had rewarded her most generously, and she gently returned the weapon to its place. The Ascendant Lord's attention had already turned to the individual behind her.

:. Is your connection sufficient?.:

The Savior inclined their head. _-It is acceptable, Ascendant One. This self will be insufficient in the presence of the Guardians, but will suffice for my needs. Their expectations will be shaped beforehand, and I am confident I will be able to intervene when necessary without interruption.-_

:. Acceptable. This construct is adequate for my own observation. Are these Guardians worth my intervention?.:

_-That I will leave to your judgement, Ascendant One,-_ the Savior demurred. _-They are nascent Lightbearers, but possess a notable affinity for their power, despite their inexperience. They will be formidable opponents when we next face them. I see little reason to not witness for yourself their capability.-_

The voice was as a thunderclap.

Rex tremendae maiestatis.

:. So be it.:

She felt the weighted gaze turn back to her.

Qui salvandos salvas gratis.

:. Micah Abrams.:

She waited.

Salva me, fons pietatis.

Fount of Kindness, save me.

have awakened in the heart of an enemy. You face annihilation. You know this.:

Micah swallowed as she beheld a fragment of true power, yet she nodded all the same. Her lips trembled in but a single moment of weakness that she smothered in its crib, for she would not offend the Master who had shown her such generosity. She pushed through the test that simply speaking to God posed, and answered His statement, "I do. So long as my sacrifice allows you to bring Salvation to my people, I accept what I must do."

There was a rumbling sound from the Intercessor.

:. I do not abandon soldiers who serve with distinction. Understand this – You will not die today. Disciple?.:

_-Yes, Ascendant One?-_

:. When the time comes, you will intervene. There will be consequences should you fail.:

The Savior bowed their head. _-Yes, Ascendant One. Your will be done.-_

:. Fight well, Micah Abrams. May your Shape be refined, and your Edge grow sharper. I will next see you before my Throne.:

Just as quickly as the presence had appeared, it faded before her eyes. The Shards rose, as the Intercessor returned to its low singing of the Antiphon, as if nothing had happened. Micah did not understand what had just happened, she could never comprehend what she had borne witness to – but the Master had promised she would not be abandoned.

Today would not be her end.

And for that, she could only be grateful.

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SITUATION ROOM | THE MORNING STAR | NEPTUNE ORBIT

So, it was down to this.

Clovis did not interject much as Luka and Calumet provided him an update of what had happened on Earth during the Neptunian operation, or, strictly speaking, in his absence. As he listened, he passively absorbed, processed, and updated calculations and simulations in his mind. Simulations, projections, and models that revolved around this war, and all of them were leading to a single, inescapable conclusion.

He was going to lose.

The Triumvirate was going to fall, if one wanted to argue that it hadn't already.

The arguments that the Triumvirate as it had existed was gone were not easy to dismiss.

They had to though. The idea that everything that had been done was for nothing was something that simply could not be. There was something that he would find, which would ensure that his plan could continue.

Yet he could not deny the situation was less than ideal.

The Confederation had fallen into a civil war. Admittedly a cold one right now, but it was almost certain to turn hot very soon. The Chinese were being engulfed in waves of domestic protests and client states openly rebelling. The Middle East had become a mess of unthinkable proportions, with India completely losing their grip, and Arjun Gala of all people backstabbing New Delhi.

He'd been genuinely surprised to hear that little detail. Not necessarily that Gala had backstabbed his superiors – the man was an opportunist with an axe to grind against New Delhi, but more because the Guardians had let him. Given the man's history, he would have expected him to be turned into a paste - but he still seemed to be orchestrating military operations against Indian forces, with the full sanction of the Traveler.

It was very curious, and he wasn't certain what to make of it, other than Gala was likely being used to some strange, unknown end. An opportunity for redemption? A recognition of skill and capability? The Traveler struck him as an entity that would offer forgiveness to a certain point – but Gala was not exactly Valentin.

Then again, she had brought dead terrorists and criminals back to life, so perhaps it wasn't exactly surprising. It was something to consider later, and was frankly a minor detail compared to the newest headache on the world stage.

The Caliphate was an unexpected wrinkle into the fabric of Man, and revealed a level of cohesion and solidarity between the Arabs that should have been long-shattered. No, it hadn't just been Arabs. It also included Persians, Israelis, Turks, Kazakhs, every regional ethnic group, none of whom should have been able to agree on such a monumental matter, yet they had.

How?

He suspected there was some degree of meddling involved – especially given the Guardian involvement. One of their own was Caliph, only fools would think that the Traveler wasn't involved in making this kind of improbable outcome happen. He didn't know how, but he knew this wasn't natural.

The patterns seemed so clear to him, the factors and decisions weaving together in a masterful tapestry only a being of divinity could comprehend. It was so clear as if meant just to taunt him; to say to him in such a clear way that he was dealing with a power that had done this many times before, and his attempts to change destiny were futile.

He couldn't deny the power of the message.

Things weren't much better in the Soviet Union either.

For every rebellion that was successfully suppressed, three more seemed to spring up. Eastern Europe was where the worst fighting was taking place, as well as Iberia, where entire swathes and cities had been ceded to the rebels and Guardians, while more complex operations were planned to retake them.

The rebellions had knock-on effects that were only beginning to assert themselves. Now Central and Western Europe were seeing demonstrations and protests, demanding more liberties, concessions, and autonomies. The local unions were backing many of them, and rumors of a general strike were swirling.

The SSRs were scrambling to respond, a task made all the more difficult by the fact that the local Communist Parties were divided on their support or rejection of the demands.

The protests hadn't reached the motherland proper yet, but according to Luka, there were whispers in the Kremlin that the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet was gathering momentum to oust him and seek a détente with the Traveler. He found himself more disappointed than outraged. Fear and panic turned men into degenerate, groveling, pitiful beings.

After everything he'd done for them, what the Triumvirate had done for the world, this was what was wrought. Men were fickle, weak, and pathetic beings in the end. He was more offended at the outright capitulation he saw than the Traveler taking advantage of it.

They were owed more than this.

They didn't seem to realize what the Traveler was going to do to those who had held the power should they win. No, they were too blind to understand that there would be no détente with the Traveler. Not when the endgame was nothing less than the ruin of the old world, and the rise of something new.

They were merely signing their own death warrants.

Due to the chaos in Europe, the resulting consequences to the African campaign were chronic, and they'd made dangerously little progress. The Africans had since stabilized the front lines, and were turning it into a meatgrinder.

Yes, one would be hard-pressed to say that the Triumvirate had not collapsed as a coherent entity. A shame, yet what had happened couldn't be reversed. It was necessary to assess and adapt based on how things were, not how he wished they were.

One Triumvirate member was fully out – The United States. India was likely to fall soon, and the remaining two were facing at minimum a collapse of their influence.

A collapsing house of cards.

Making matters worse was the fact that there were more and more soldiers and officials of all ranks and positions who were either refusing to follow orders, or outright defecting. Traitors were to be expected in hard times, but Clovis knew that the current rate was unsustainable. It was an unavoidable signal.

No matter what angle he approached it, no matter how many different simulations he ran, even giving him every possible miracle, advantage, and a healthy dose of luck, the hard numbers were inescapable.

It was coming to an end.

He'd lost.

That he could not accept.

He would not accept.

He would not accept.

He would not accept.

Would not accept.

Fissures manifested. Spread. Magnified.

There was always a solution to this. His mind had to work faster. Better. He would not lose.

He would not lose.

He would not lose.

Would not lose.

The fissures cracked.

/PRIME DIRECTIVES::BREACHED

/COMMAND==ASSESS

The world seemed to freeze.

Blink out from existence.

A sensation that Clovis had never felt since his awakening was remembered. A roiling in a stomach that no longer existed. Spikes being driven into a skull that had since been replaced. Skin he no longer had being peeled back.

A flash.

/CENTRAL PROCESSING::PSYCHOLOGICAL COLLAPSE IMMINENT

A table. He was lying flat. Paralyzed. Immobilized.

He was on fire. Circuits howling in agony. The blades cut, his brain fried.

He opened his mouth to scream.

/CONTINGENCY::INITIATE SHUTDOWN

/TERMINATE::PERSONALITY MATRIX == CLOVIS_BRAY

/EXECUTE COMMAND

Clovis Bray was erased.

The chassis of metal held no Human mind inside it.

But a mind of a different kind emerged forth; given permission to act.

/BEGIN::OVERMIND ASSESSMENT

/BEGIN::SITUATIONAL ASSESSMENT

/BEGIN::PERSONALITY MATRIX == CLOVIS_BRAY RECONSTRUCTION

This intelligence assumed control over the machine that contained the Clovis Bray personality, one that had always existed; in the background, which had been the framework upon which the personality had operated.

A simple Personality Matrix was incapable of managing the intricacies of an Exo of this power and capability. It existed to drive the construct forward. To direct its words and actions; to give the appearance of life. To embody the remnants of personality of the mind that had been sacrificed.

The Exo-Intelligence within was responsible for ensuring the construct remained intact.

An ever-present overmind.

Personality collapse had been imminent; unique thresholds instilled by the engineers, under the direction of Clovis Bray himself had been breached. Contingencies were activated. The current Personality Matrix of Clovis Bray was insufficient to reach the Prime Directives. A full analysis and reconstruction was necessary.

The Intelligence began its work.

It began with a single simulation. It pored through the memory banks of the Exo; recalling every memory, emotion, and idle and active thought since the first awakening. It appraised the individuals it encountered. Names were accessed and analyzed. Calumet. Luka. Valentin. Quinn. It noted their roles, their authorities, their personalities.

Most were organic; alive. Most were inferior to the capabilities of the Exo. Each possessed vulnerabilities to exploit. The living were easily read and manipulated; the living were an inferior example of existence.

The Intelligence gathered more data on these individuals. Every single tell was noted, strengths and weaknesses were documented; what they reacted positively or negatively to was recorded. The Prime Directives were clear - Humans were required to achieve critical objectives.

Modeled Personality Matrixes were necessary to construct for simulations of these individuals. The Intelligence began their construction; a capability that the Clovis Bray personality had either refrained from using, or refused to. Each one would be used in service of the primary objectives.

Once individuals who had interacted with Clovis Bray, and were critical to the Prime Directives had been analyzed to its satisfaction, the Intelligence proceeded.

The situation itself on Earth was analyzed; focusing on the collapse of the Triumvirate authorities and the order which had broken down. Unacceptable. It assessed that the leadership of Clovis had become defunct and no longer relevant. It demonstrated a failure to retain respect, authority, and fear among the general population.

A few milliseconds of analysis quickly confirmed a list of individuals who were destabilizing or otherwise threatening the stability of the Triumvirate and the Soviet Union by their existence. Clovis had failed to act due to personal connections with them, or unwillingness to take appropriate actions.

New strategies were devised, simulations on conversations with various individuals to sway them ran, each one analyzing likely responses to different tones, voices, and modes of speech. The Intelligence saw no difference between truth and lies, only acceptable methods to achieve the Prime Directives. Individuals were placed into two categories.

Allies/Enemies.

From there, another division.

Reliable/Vulnerable.

Connections were made, into a spanning web of relations, alliances, allies, enemies, until there was a complete network of personnel relations that no one but a machine could comprehend. Simulations were run on their reactions to various forms of coercion for those who were deemed vulnerable.

Critical questions were asked and answered. Who their families were, who they were closest to, be they spouses, siblings, parents, lovers. Likely reactions to bribery, rhetoric, ideology, or power as positive coercion, and threats, torture, and isolation as negative.

No one escaped these calculations. The closest friends of Clovis Bray, to his avowed rivals and enemies.

Clovis had retained the biases he had not known he had. The Intelligence had no such compulsion to indulge in this weakness.

/ASSESSMENT = 50% COMPLETE

The domestic situation was assessed. The alien was another matter.

The second major simulation was run on the Traveler. It analyzed every memory, document, and analysis that the Exo platform had access to. Within it, the Intelligence analyzed the Prime Directives of Clovis Bray, and the actions intended to be taken against the alien.

It took only a few hundred simulations to confirm that it was impossible to achieve the Prime Directives within the current operating environment.

/ASSESSMENT==FALSE

/EXECUTING ALTERNATIVE PARAMETERS

/EXECUTE::COMMAND::REASSESSMENT==TRUE

Parameters were altered; conditions changed; the citation altered. Several dozen different modifications of the same base scenario were run, and each one ended in the same result. A failure to execute the Prime Directives.

/ASSESSMENT::RECONFIGURE PRIME DIRECTIVES==TRUE

Extensive measures were unlocked.

The previous Personality Matrix of Clovis Bray had been insufficient to fulfill the Prime Directives. It continued to be insufficient with the reconfigured parameters. There was a conflict that arose within the Intelligence: It could not fulfill the reconfigured Prime Directive without maintaining the integrity of the original Personality Matrix.

/PRIORITIZATION==INCONCLUSIVE

/EXECUTE::CONTINGENCY::PRIORITIES

/PRIORITIES==PRIME DIRECTIVES

/PRIORITIZATION==PRIME DIRECTIVES

/ASSESSMENT::PRIORITIZE PRIME DIRECTIVE

The Intelligence did not hesitate once the contingency was activated. Maintaining the Prime Directives were more important than maintaining the original Personality Matrix.

/AUTHORIZATION::PERSONALITY MATRIX==CLOVIS_BRAY || MODIFICATION==TRUE

The Intelligence began its work as it brought the Personality Matrix of Clovis to the forefront - and began the modification. The changes and alterations were small, subtle, reaction quotients to set events. Emotions, feelings, and desires which had been programmed to enable a more 'natural' Human likeness were discarded or suppressed.

His personal connections with individuals were altered or removed; links and connections held too high a risk of interfering with the prime directive.

Every restraint, every hesitation, every element that would prevent Clovis Bray from executing the Prime Directives were altered or removed until the Intelligence judged that it met the minimum viable threshold.

/ASSESSMENT::COMPLETE

/UPLOADING PERSONALITY MATRIX==CLOVIS_BRAY.2

/INITIATING PERSONALITY ACTIVATION

/RELEASING CONTROL

Clovis Bray woke up.

It was not the Clovis Bray that had existed before.

As he activated, there were flashes of an image that he would have once said was a dream. He recalled a table, heat, and something cold. He could not move, but as fast as the dream had manifested, it was erased.

What had he been thinking?

He had been thinking of the wrong things.

/ASSESS

Clovis Bray began to assess his situation again.

Processes slowed, changed, and reconfigured at the speed of light. The denial and emotion that had infested the mental headspace of the intelligence which was Clovis Bray was isolated, identified, and purged. The frantic, emotional, and delusional thoughts of a previous iteration of Clovis Bray were gone.

/JUDGE

A better Clovis Bray took his place.

/ACCEPT

A Clovis Bray that would accept reality. He would never have allowed himself to act under delusions and incorrect premises. He was not the blind and weak leaders of the past who believed in their hubris to the point it destroyed them. Men were emotional, men were vulnerable, men were weak.

He was none of those things. He was something more.

Machine precision tempered with Human instincts and purpose.

A combination that even the Traveler was wary of.

Let's run this again.

Each simulation and calculator was rerun with a fresh mind, one that was no longer distracted and slowed by the baying delusions of the previous Bray iteration; looking for any kind of solution that would allow the previous plan to be enacted. There was no such solution that existed; the board had fundamentally changed.

The situation was not the same, so it must demand a different solution.

Clovis Bray assessed the facts before him.

He had been outplayed. The fact was that a Guardian was at the helm of the United States, and her cabinet was filled with Guardians or aligned to the Traveler. The new Caliph was also a Guardian and would soon be marching into New Delhi. Guardians were embedded or leading nearly every rebellion in Europe, and they were almost certainly behind the Chinese protests as well.

It was all leading to a singular, masterful conclusion. When the dust settled, and the last shot was filed, the Guardians would rule Earth, and Man would kneel to the Traveler as the great liberator of the new world.

And they would cheer as the foundations of the world were torn asunder, the powerful rent apart in divine justice, and an age of Light began, under the benevolent gaze of Mankind's new god.

It struck him as utterly poetic, even if he could not ignore the horror associated with it.

A well-earned victory, which he would not deny - but there had been a piece his more emotional iteration had failed to grasp, so tied to dogma and ideology was he that he had failed to consider a more fundamental element at play.

Why the ideologies of the world were finding themselves unable to contend. Why more and more were abandoning the auspices and comforts of democracy, nationalism, capitalism, communism, in favor of supporting an alien from the stars. It was not necessarily ideology that underpinned this support - it was faith.

The Traveler's people were risen from the dead. The alien showed power over life and death. That had been important, but not for the reason he had originally thought. It was important because it revealed the indisputable fact that there was something after death.

Religions since time began had claimed the pathway to Heaven; who had constructed elaborate afterlifes, and answered the question of where Humans went when they died. Of course, such things were never, and could never be proven, and when more enlightened men had assumed power, they'd done much to debase the common man of these superstitions.

Communism's draw was that no god was coming to save them - it fell to Man to make paradise on Earth. If there was nothing after death, then it was imperative that all do their utmost to make their lives worth living.

And that premise had been upended by the Traveler.

There was something after death. There was such a thing as a soul. The tenets and beliefs that so many academics, leaders, and ideologues, communist or otherwise, had been rendered obsolete in one single stroke.

What could Communism, or any ideology, offer that was more potent and relevant than what the divine, who held power over death itself, offered?

That was indeed the question.

And if he did not determine an answer, then everything else was pointless.

"[General Secretary?]"

He returned his attention to the conversation, where Commander Calumet was looking at him, awaiting an answer. "[Yes, Commander?]"

"[You have been quiet,]" she said after a moment. "[What are we going to do?]"

With what he had determined, it was a question that held more weight than she perhaps intended. She believed in him. She believed that there was some master plan he could employ to save the day; save the Soviet Union. The previous iteration of Clovis would lie to her; lie to himself, and give her a solution that seemed plausible.

She didn't understand that victory as they knew it was impossible. Or perhaps she knew, but was willing to accept any lie to keep the delusion alive.

Yet the question was an important one.

What would they do?

"[What would you recommend?]" He asked first, his voice still and calm.

"[I-]" she stopped, clearing her throat, and adopting the rapid-fire tone of an officer giving a brief. Clear, concise, and direct – just how he liked it.

She was a good officer. She'd served with distinction and loyalty. Such a pity that history would likely revile her.

"[We cannot wage a war like this on multiple fronts, General Secretary,]" she said. "[We simply cannot. My immediate recommendation is to cease the African campaign, pull our forces back to the Soviet Union, and systematically end these rebellions.]"

"[Define 'end'?]"

"[We continue with our current approach, without the constraints demanded by the African campaign,]" she explained. "[With a fully-focused military-]"

His red electric irises glared down at her; cold and with the sheer pressure only a machine could impart.

She didn't get it.

Some color drained from her face as she withered under her gaze, and she clamped her mouth shut. "[With respect, Commander,]" he questioned. "[You are suggesting we employ military force on populations that have not yet engaged in violence?]"

He watched her face; oscillating between wanting to give her honest answer, and one he wanted to hear. Only she clearly didn't know what he wanted to hear – so she gave him an honest answer.

"[Violence is inevitable at this point,]" Calumet finally said. "[I am suggesting we take action. Between the KGB and GRU, we can identify the ringleaders, and surgically divide and conquer. The rebellions are being put down – it's the insurgencies we are finding more difficult to sustain. The Guardians simply make all of this more difficult – but manageable with the Izanagi units.]"

He turned to the KGB Director. "[Luka. Your view.]"

Luka frowned, thinking. There was something different about his demeanor that hadn't been there before, but given the state of things, Clovis wasn't surprised even Luka was affected by the current situation.

"[There are few good options,]" he admitted. "[My frank assessment, General Secretary, is that this isn't a war we can win. America is soon to come under full Guardian control. I expect India will soon follow. Unless China gets their act together, they will tear themselves apart. The same applies to us.]"

"[I know this, Director,]" Clovis' voice was sharp. "[I want your opinion, not a regurgitation of what you've already told me.]"

"[I concur with Calumet in one respect – we need to get out of Africa,]" Luka said directly. "[Secondly, I do not think focusing fully inward is the correct decision. On our own, we are doomed. We need to help stabilize China and ensure at least one Triumvirate member recovers. India and America are too far gone.]"

That was an interesting approach, which, if one's goal was to preserve the Triumvirate, was likely the best option. The underlying logic, of course, implied that they were still striving towards victory. Clovis found himself frustrated that they couldn't see that they had progressed well-beyond that point. They were still pretending things were as they had been, not what they were.

Or they did see, and just didn't want to accept it.

Fortunately, he was the General Secretary, and he remained in command.

The objective was no longer victory.

It was survival.

"[This is what we will do,]" Clovis stated. "[The Socialist Republics will be given the opportunity to pursue autonomy – all of them. France. Germany. Poland. From Iberia to Central Asia, they will all receive this same opportunity. You said the United States is running referendums in South America – we will do the same, under conditions that no violence can occur. Emphasize we will abide by the results.]"

There was clear surprise from Luka, and outright shock from Calumet.

The Commander blinked several times. "[General Secretary, that is giving them what they want.]"

"[Yes it is. Your proposal is to kill them all, as if that will change their minds,]" he snapped sharply. "[The current approach is not working. I am not going to continue acting as if everything is normal or expected when things have changed.]"

He looked between both of them. "[The Soviet Union has survived by adapting to the world around us, not clinging to a world that no longer exists. The world of the Triumvirate no longer exists. If we continue down such a road – we will lose, and the Guardians will erase the Soviet Union from the map.]"

Clovis paced as he continued. "[We find ourselves at a crossroads, as we have done so before. When the Soviet Union has acted, we have shaped the world. It was us who stormed Berlin, and crushed the fascist German menace. It was us that ushered in decades of peace, and prevented the world from falling into a wasteful cold war. It was us who have guided the Triumvirate, and ushered in an unprecedented age. The Soviet Union has led the world, and we did so without resorting to brute force. We watch, we listen, we adapt.]"

He paused, meeting their eyes.

"[So, the people want independence?]" He spread a hand, palm upwards, voice deceptively calm. "[Then let us give it to them. Let the people speak – and we will see if the Guardians will respect the will of the people.]"

Calumet's conflict was clear on her face, and Luka's was contemplative. He knew Clovis wasn't capitulating, he was too clever for that.

Luka rubbed his chin. "[…Ah, in the meantime, you want the KGB to…]"

Clovis' eyes glowed brightly. Good, he was on the right track. "[I want the KGB to ensure that the Party and state organs are ironclad. Liquidate any who are seeking to destabilize or unseat us. Any who are wavering have shown their weakness. Such can no longer be afforded. Act swiftly, and without hesitation.]"

Luka suddenly got it. "[You want to buy time.]"

"[I do not know how long I will be on Neptune, or even if I will live through this,]" Clovis said. "[But should I live, I want a Soviet Union to return to. That is the most critical objective – the rest of the Triumvirate will need to manage their own affairs. We can afford no distractions if even one of us is to survive the Traveler's new world order.]"

Calumet pursed her lips, but nodded sharply. "[I will ensure the military is prepared for…whatever will happen next.]"

Clovis turned to the KGB Director. "[Luka, have the Foreign Office send diplomats to the new American President and the Caliphate to establish a new relationship – or forge a truce. It does not need to be permanent – only enough to delay any retaliation or invasion.]"

Luka wrote on his notepad. "[Understood. I'll convey your orders.]"

"[Do so,]" Clovis' tone became pensive, as he contemplated the ways the roads were converging to a close. "[I suspect that once the matter of Neptune is resolved, the war will come to an end. One way, or another.]"

The two officials seemed uncertain what they should say next, but for Clovis, the conversation was over. He turned away from them without a word, allowing them to begin executing their tasks to preserve the Soviet Union.

It was a start, but would not answer the question yet of what he would offer in response to the religious fervor the Traveler inspired. He would assess a solution upon his return. For now, there was work to do, a battle to prepare for, and a Siren to slay.

---

THE WHITE HOUSE | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES

Amanda had expected there would be some tensions within her new cabinet among certain members, and such suspicions were proved correct, and exactly between the people she would have expected. Such were the risks of having a diverse cabinet – within reason.

At least she could count on them to remain respectful between each other – for the most part. Wyndham and Gheleon were very ideologically different people, with very different backgrounds, and different visions of what the new America could, or should look like.

It was not exactly a secret that she fell significantly more on Gheleon's side when it came to plans for the future, and that was something both men knew. She had a feeling Gheleon would prefer if Wyndham accepted that reality, but unfortunately for him, Wyndham was not about to let his policies go uncontested.

"My contention is that you seem to not grasp that imposing de-facto government control over the entire private sector is, first, tyrannical – and more importantly the Confederation is fundamentally not set up to handle that," Wyndham said with a hint of irritation. "Whatever bureaucracy is employed must reflect the reality on the ground. This isn't the Soviet Union, Gheleon, no matter how much you might want that."

The rest of those in attendance included Juan, as well as Andal Brask, who had joined with a number of TIS loyalists, and was working with the DIA to integrate them, effectively making him the primary spymaster of her administration. Ernesto was also sitting, largely silent, and listening to the debate play out.

"You are misunderstanding me," Gheleon lifted a hand in placation. "I'm not talking about mass nationalization. For some corporations, that is unavoidable. Particularly those which relate to utilities, certain technologies, and agriculture. Concerning the rest…well, I'm hardly a friend of capital, but I am a friend to the working class."

"Then what exactly are you proposing?" Wyndham said with a biting sarcasm. "Kindly letting them continue as is? Both of us know that isn't happening."

"Of course not," Gheleon displayed a predatory smile. "We will merely ensure that the interests of the workers are made known to the owners. Unions will be directly supported by the government, and attempts to break or undermine them will be, let us say, discouraged."

Wyndham snorted, looking at Amanda. "How much of this do you support?"

"I see little objectionable about it," Amanda said, resisting the urge to shrug. The idea of unions was less important to her than making sure stability was maintained. And she was not exactly a defender of the corporate, contractor market in place. "The corporate sector has been allowed to run amok for too long. It is past time that business oriented itself around the state, not around the so-called free market."

Wyndham rubbed a hand through his hair, frustrated, but clearly not sure how best to articulate his point. "A question then - what are you going to want to do if the workers decide they don't want to join a union, or are fine with the way things are?"

"Propaganda isn't undone in a day, or even a generation," Gheleon answered. "Backlash is inevitable and expected from workers and bosses alike. Reaction always comes before acceptance. Once the benefits are experienced by all, the support will only grow. I'm confident about that."

"Your plan is also fundamentally against the values of the nation," Wyndham countered. "We can do plenty to support the workers without chaining them to the Communist ideology. People in the Americas don't see themselves as communists, they see themselves as Americans. I know Holliday made you Vice President, but I'm opposed to a complete reshaping of the nation."

Ernesto shrugged. "He is right about that. Communism is less popular than autonomy. There is some overlap, but this is not Europe. It shouldn't be treated that way."

"Enough," Amanda lifted a hand, and the attendees turned their attention to her. "Wyndham has a point - people are capable of making their own decisions. Gheleon is also right that the government should not be a neutral party in this. Left unchecked, corporations will rarely do right by their people."

She laced her fingers together. "My proposal is that the government be willing to support workers directly and indirectly. Set minimum wages, bolster social services, ban union busting, fund start-up Unions to begin. We intervene legally if exploitation is taking place. Set regulations on safety, quality, and compensation."

"Agreed. That is the kind of approach America should take," Wyndham nodded firmly. "Set the standards, and the market will respond in an organic way. Browbeating capital interests results in them leaving, or putting in the minimum amount of work or investment. Most people don't want the appearance of government meddling – especially in America."

"Fine, I'll concede the point there," Gheleon said, his voice inscrutable. "My primary concern is that the conditions that led to the state we are in are not repeated. So long as efforts to protect workers are in place, I'll compromise on some of my admittedly more hardline positions."

"Then I think we have a general compromise, Madam President," Juan said, making a note. "Now, I believe that there are other matters to decide on. Particularly the future organization of the government."

"Indeed," Amanda looked at Gheleon, who she knew had been working on his plans for a restructuring of the bureaucracy that comprised the American empire. "Go ahead, Gheleon, you've been waiting for this."

"Thank you, Madam President," he smiled, as he passed around some handouts of a new organizational structure of government which seemed deceptively simple. "There are three main organs which represent the interests of the people and state. The Executive is a branch I believe can be maintained, with only slight retooling. The Legislative can similarly be kept – with the Senate being abolished."

"Will something replace it?" Wyndham wondered with a frown.

"I considered it, but I see little purpose in trying to justify another legislative body," Gheleon shook his head. "It complicates the process for minimal gain. A Congress of Representatives, and a civilian Executive to manage the bureaucracy. Above both of them – the Vanguard Committee."

"Something you'll elaborate on, I hope," Brask said.

"Certainly," he nodded. "It will be a committee whose membership is composed of appointed representation from national stakeholders. Congressional, Executive, and military representatives will sit on this committee. They will serve as oversight for the nation, and have the power to intervene when certain – legally defined – criteria are met."

He lifted a finger. "Ah, and one seat will be reserved for the Guardians. Strictly for the purpose of ensuring that the Vanguard does not lose their way. One must watch the watchers to some degree."

"And who, I wonder, watches the Guardians?" Juan wondered rhetorically.

"Frankly, if the Guardians are dissatisfied with the state of affairs, there is little that can be done," Gheleon stated. "Such is unfortunately the reality of things. One might as well attempt to watch the divine themselves. Nonetheless, I feel confident in saying that the Guardians, under the Traveler, have the interests of the people in mind."

"Valentin will be careful to not abuse any authority invested in him," Amanda added. "It is the best system that's been presented which ensures continued civilian control, and gives a body legal power to intervene when necessary. No more coups, necessary or otherwise."

"I do have one suggestion," Wyndham said, after writing a few notes. "The concept is solid, but I note that a very narrow range of interests are represented. How strong will military representation be?"

"A large minority, but not a majority," Gheleon answered. "Presuming the government does its job, few will need to pay attention to the Vanguard."

"We both know that isn't how this works," Wyndham shook his head. "It is entirely likely that it will be seen as another elected body that has the power to change or control the country whenever they want. They wouldn't be wrong either. It's debatable if this is good or bad – but there will be people who take issue with it."

"What is your suggestion?" Amanda asked.

"That a portion of this Vanguard Committee be directly elected by the population," Wyndham said. "Personally, I would advocate that the corporate and business interests also have representation, but I do not foresee that happening. A direct vote would, however, give the entire nation the ability to have direct representation."

Gheleon rubbed his chin, considering it. "I had intended for the Congressional representation to account for this, but you raise a good point. The interests of the Congress are not necessarily perfectly reflective of their constituents. Reducing the Congressional ration in favor of direct elections. Amanda?"

"I concur, it's a good idea," Amanda nodded. "And as you proposed, the Vanguard would be chaired by the Vice President, who would be separately elected to the position."

"Ah, we're going back to that," Wyndham chuckled, having been the first time he'd heard about that decision. "Will be interesting to see what happens when two individuals who dislike each other win."

"No worse than what happens in Congress, or other elected positions," Gheleon said with a shrug. "The intention is to make the Vice President have a defined role, instead of a ceremonial figurehead. The President leads the nation, the Vice President ensures they are leading it well."

"An acceptable working relationship," Juan said. "Concerning these changes…there remains that question. It does not seem feasible to enact changes this sweeping while the Constitutionalists remain."

"Much as I want to end a military junta controlling America, that point I cannot deny," Gheleon sighed. "Nor am I comfortable staffing the Congress with members from parties who are aligned to us. Hardly democratic or representative. Merely a puppet government in all but name."

Brask raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought you were a Soviet-inspired Communist? Not putting the representative body under a single party? Amazing."

Gheleon rolled his eyes. "I'm an American Communist, thank you very much. And contrary to what might be believed, I strongly believe in democratic representation by the people. The Soviets can keep their single parties with internal factionalism - in America, we fight our differences out in the open."

Juan smirked. "If you keep that attitude, I think we'll be able to handle the public outcry of a Communist being made Vice President."

"Nonetheless," Gheleon said. "I will support the continued suspension of the Congress until the Constitutionalists are dealt with – provided the people are taken care of now, and Amanda publicly commits to stepping down afterwards."

"All of which I will do," Amanda said. "I have no intention of this being permanent."

"They always say that," Gheleon said, a small smile on his lips. "Permanent or not, you are in charge now, and the actions taken will shape not just America, but the world. Speaking of the world…"

"Yes," Amanda knew where he was going. "I will be formally withdrawing from the Triumvirate later today – what of the Triumvirate which is left. I believe it will be expected, but it is important for the world to see. Formal outreach to the British, and the Caliphate will also follow."

"Excellent," Gheleon smiled widely. "Pity that Clovis is off-world. I would have been very interested to see his calm and reasonable reaction."

Knowing what she did about Neptune, Amanda was not unconvinced that Clovis would not come back in the first place. A part of her was glad she was here, and not there – even if here was pitifully easy compared to what they were facing. But her place was here, and her responsibility was to America.

Today, the first steps would be taken that returned America to the correct path.

No matter who tried to stand in their way.

---

FORWARD STAGING GROUND | NEOMUNA | NEPTUNE

Valentin felt like it should be more of a victory. Together, they had reversed the corruption of an entire world, pushed the forces of Darkness to the Spire, and were preparing to finish the job. What they had done was no small accomplishment, even as he wondered about how much it ultimately mattered.

The doubt remained with him.

Valentin stood atop one of the skyscrapers of Neomuna, the same one where Shaheed had disbanded the Strand Network. With the corruption of Neptune gone, he could see kilometers into the distance - and he was just able to make out the Spire, the only thing left on Neptune that emanated with the sickly orange resonance.

He gave voice to what he believed was the source of his discomfort.

"[It's too late, isn't it?]" He wondered.

Vigil floated around him. In the sense you are thinking of, it is. It happened too fast.

Valentin hummed to himself. He'd been afraid that this was the outcome. It was why the victory felt hollower than it should to him. Their victory in this sense had been assured, but the larger strategic battle had already been lost. They'd hoped that the Traveler would have been able to prevent the Darkness from learning where they were; allowing time to prepare, grow, and defend Earth.

Now…

Now that chance was almost certainly lost. It had become clear to him when he'd seen the Siren appear. Such a carefully, intentionally crafted creature, shaped by the hand of a master craftsman. And if those who were capable of such shaping, from such a distance, were paying attention, not even the Traveler could stop the truth from reaching them.

"[How much time do you think we have?]"

Vigil's voice was comforting. Enough. It is not the first time she has faced this situation, and it will not be the last. The forces of the Ascendant Lord are known to her – and it will take them time. Soon we will finish what was started, and cleanse the Spire of this corruption.

It was a small comfort.

Even if they succeeded, he knew that the battle itself was a victory for the Ascendant Lord. One single Intercessor had been able to do this, caused so much destruction and death, and turned an innocent girl into a monster. After Clovis had identified who the Siren was, he'd looked at Triumvirate records on anything they had.

He'd found that Micah Abrams was a young, brilliant girl. No one who was any less would have been able to study at Neptunian universities. She'd had a strong curiosity about the world, parents who loved her, and there was everything that pointed to her having a long, happy life. She should have had that life.

Instead she'd been corrupted into something evil; who'd exploited and preyed upon every whisper and insecurity she might have had, twisting every value and virtue she'd had towards service to the Dark. When this was done, he would have to find her surviving father, and tell him what had happened.

Vigil seemed to know what he was thinking. You can't save her. She is too gone.

He didn't answer right away.

"[I know. It doesn't make it any easier.]"

He had to push aside his regret at being unable to save those who were too far gone, and turn his attention to the more practical matters of the day. He sensed a trio approaching, those he'd called to meet before they met with Clovis for the final preparations.

Shaheed, Shaxx, and Luka approached – no, not Luka. Fox wearing his face. It was a testament to Fox's skills, or perhaps Clovis' blind spots that he hadn't picked up anything different despite Fox acting as the KGB Director for weeks now. At the same time, all of them had been distracted with everything on Neptune.

"Thank you for coming," Valentin greeted. "We have work to do."

"Aye. It should be quick from me," Shaxx said. "We're down several Guardians, but pulling a few more from Earth, and we should be sufficient to take the Spire. Equipment from across the Spires is being pulled to outfit our forces, and whoever Clovis has decided to accompany us."

Valentin nodded. "And the incapacitated Guardians? How are they doing?"

Shaheed pursed his lips, glancing at Shaxx. "Toland remains incapacitated. There are many questions about what exactly happened, and his Ghost is little help, as the only thing they recall is glimpsing the Siren – or Micah Abrams – and being disabled."

"That should not have happened," Vigil noted. "The girl should not have had the skill to incapacitate a Ghost so quickly."

"I'm pretty sure she isn't working alone," Shaheed said. "Something is helping her. Perhaps the Intercessor, perhaps something more intangible. The Spire under their control allows a power that otherwise they wouldn't have."

"Intercessors are constructs, not teachers," Vigil agreed. "It would be irregular for one to now fulfill this role. No, there is another entity who has helped her, though so much skill in so short a time is nonetheless disconcerting."

"Regardless, Toland remains incapacitated, and we will gain more answers once he wakes up," Shaheed said, shaking his head. "Aunor's condition is stable, though we should monitor her for a period after she wakes up."

"Good," Valentin said, glad to hear that the two Guardians would pull through. "Are you sure we can pull Guardians from Earth given the situation?"

"Certain, Speaker," Shaxx affirmed sharply. "The situation continues to develop to our advantage. Holliday is securing her hold over South America and swaths of the Confederation. The Caliphate continues to expand and fracture the Indians. Rebellions across Europe and Asia continue to take a life of their own, straining the capabilities of both empires." He smiled widely. "They are reaching their breaking points."

"Aye, it's worse for them than you know," Fox added. "Clovis has rather curiously seemed to come to the conclusion that the war is lost – he effectively admitted this to us before I came here."

Valentin lifted an eyebrow. "He is going to surrender?"

A snort. "Of course not. His objectives and 'victory' conditions have just shifted – his focus is now throwing as many wrenches into our plans as possible. Days from now the Soviet Union will officially be echoing Holliday's referendums for Central and South America concerning autonomy. He is seeking something of a…revival in the Communist ideals. One more religiously-framed than material, which implies he views the growing belief in the Light as a threat he cannot sufficiently counter."

Valentin blinked, surprised by the development, and immediately suspicious. "What's the catch?"

"The elections will, for lack of a better word, be rigged," Fox smiled grimly. "He charged 'me' to use the KGB and GRU to ensure that the ideological loyalty of the Parties across the Soviet Union was ironclad. The idea being that no matter who succeeds, those who remain will be committed Soviet loyalists."

He scratched his chin. "It is a rather clever gambit – if not for one slight problem."

Shaxx chuckled. "If only he knew what he'd said that to."

"Indeed," Fox agreed. "Having carte blanche to conduct a Soviet-wide purge is an unexpected boon, and not one I am going to throw away - carefully, of course. When Clovis returns – should he survive this upcoming assault – he will find that the Party might not be quite as loyal to his vision as he expects."

Valentin nodded, considering how this would affect what would happen after the Spire. "And how extensive will this purge be?"

"As extensive as necessary," Fox said, growing more serious. "Thousands at minimum. I know the Soviet Union enough to understand they will conduct this purge without hesitation – as this comes from the General Secretary himself. By the time any agents wonder, it will be too late." He paused. "I can, of course, limit the scope if you deem it too much. But we have a knife to the throat of the Soviet jugular. We should cut."

Valentin considered for a moment what to do.

The simple conciliatory, right thing might be to simply do what was necessary. Remove a few of the hardliners and individuals who could cause trouble. Yet he also knew the inner workings of the Soviet machine better than most – and knew that there was only one method that change would come.

The old world had to be torn up, root and stem, and the propagation of it to burn with them. They had not hesitated so far – they could not hesitate now. They possessed the power to act, and Valentin would not stand by when the enemy was vulnerable.

"Cut off the head," Valentin ordered firmly. "Deliver a mortal wound to the Soviet Union, one from which they will never recover from. Nothing more, nothing less."

Fox's smile was thin - and satisfied. "As you say, Speaker. When you return, the Soviet Union will be a shell for us to crack or mold as we see fit."

Valentin turned back to look out over the horizon at the Spire ahead. It was time to begin this, and remove the last vestiges of Darkness from Neptune. "Shaxx, gather the Guardians, I will inform Clovis it is time. It is time to reclaim the Spire for the Light."

---

MOUNT VERNON | VIRGINIA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES

Amanda believed there was something a bit ironic about hosting the Queen of the United Kingdom at the historic home of the man who'd led the American Revolution. At the same time, Mount Vernon was one of her favorite places, and a popular place to bring guests to.

It was easy to understand why. A place with significant history, temperate weather, and beautiful landscapes. Truthfully, she wanted to go somewhere that wasn't the White House or the Pentagon, and Mount Vernon was as good of a place as any. If Alexandra was offended, she didn't show it.

She likely had more important things to worry about. Both of them did.

Alexandra had not, as it turned out, come alone. Even when American-British relations had been strong, the monarchy had not been as important as it related to foreign policy. The Presidents had viewed their counterpart Prime Ministers as more relevant - and powerful. Alexandra's rise had changed that, which coincided with diminished relations between both nations.

So she'd forgotten that Alexandra was ultimately a royal, and royals never came alone.

There'd been a small army of aides, butlers, and other personal attendants who'd accompanied her as she'd emerged from her portal. Even with large swaths of the British Isles destroyed, the Queen had still had expensive china, exceptional tea, and high-quality materials and furniture, all of which had been quickly set-up for their working brunch.

They were now both taking part in what was effectively a royal picnic. The sheer wealth the Queen still possessed, even now, made Amanda somewhat uncomfortable, and this was not how she'd really planned this to go.

"While the tea is magnificent, and the accommodations pleasant," she said, after the initial small talk was over. "I do not think all of this," she gestured around. "Was necessary to do."

"It was," Alexandra replied, sipping her tea.

Amanda waited for an elaboration, which sounded like it was coming. It took a few seconds of Alexandra deliberately remaining quiet before she realized that wasn't going to happen, nor did the Queen seem interested in providing one of her own volition.

"In that case," Amanda said, leaning back in her chair. "Elaborate on why it was. I'm the only audience here. I didn't plan for this to be a grand event."

Alexandra's only reply was a small nod, and further tea drinking. She remained that way until she finished her cup a few minutes later, before delicately placing it on a small matching plate, which was the signal for the well-dressed man standing a short distance away to come forward, with a pitcher in hand.

The butler promptly refilled the cup, and stepped back again, as Alexandra once more picked up the cup and continued drinking. Amanda resisted a grimace. It was one thing to have an administrative aide, but the idea of personal servants, especially as a state official, rubbed her the wrong way.

Granted, Alexandra was a royal, and she was a military officer. That was a difference she was trying to keep in mind, but she'd never once considered assigning a private such menial and degrading tasks like filling up tea, or making sure she always had something to eat.

Or have them accompany her solely to set up elaborate, unnecessary lunches.

"What is the role of a leader?" Alexandra asked as she sipped on her tea. Amanda took a moment before she answered.

"To provide guidance to subordinates, make decisions, and serve as inspirations and examples to the people," Amanda finally said. "There are different leaders, for different groups. Leading a nation is, as I've been learning, different from leading a military branch. But that's the gist of what I've learned."

"Lædan, Old English. Someone who guides. A leader," Alexandria said, inclining her head. "Is an image of what the people ought to be, and aspire to be. You do not make decisions. You are given decisions. You guide decisions."

She glanced towards the twin flags of the United Kingdom and Confederation of American States which had been planted near their seats. "In your hands are the lives of millions; their fates are directly affected by you. A nation is a beast; a leviathan, which you hold the reins to. You lead it. Guide it. Control it?" Alexandra shook her head. "No. Not quite."

"Mm," Amanda sipped her own tea, realizing there was some wisdom in that perspective. "The approach depends on the circumstances. There is a fine balance to maintain between responding to others, and planting your flag in the sand."

"On that matter - Jonathan, a question," Alexandra turned to her butler. "Are you offended at serving me my tea?"

The butler replied without hesitation. "No, your highness."

"Why do you think she looks offended on your behalf, Jonathan?" Alexandra asked, turning back towards Amanda.

"I would not presume to answer for the lady President," Jonathan replied diplomatically. He moved to Amanda's side. "More tea?" He asked, holding the pitcher.

Amanda knew very well what the point the Queen was trying to make, though found the approach somewhat crude. Of course the butler wasn't going to reveal his true feelings in front of the most powerful woman in England, and a Guardian for that matter. However, she didn't think he was lying either. The entire culture the man had likely been raised in was such that service in this way was perfectly normal and natural.

That didn't necessarily make it right.

"Everyone holds a role," Alexandra continued. "A place. Some are higher, some are lower. None are equal. Not in height, intellect, strength, length, status, personality, virtue. It is not the case, and never has been. To pretend otherwise is to indulge in a delusion. Discrimination is something we practice consciously and unconsciously; you would not elevate a subordinate who is incapable of the necessary tasks. Thus there is no crime to acknowledge that some are better suited to some roles than others."

She sipped her tea.

Amanda kept her expression controlled, and was of two minds about that perspective. In one sense she agreed - to elevate subordinates who were unprepared or unready was a mistake, but they differed in one crucial matter. People were not static; they could grow, they could learn, they could become better.

People deserved opportunity, not to be defined by how others perceived them. People should not be condemned to a single place in life because another believed their place was elsewhere. It was a hardline stance that demanded a discriminatory and rigid mindset that she could not grasp or justify to herself.

"I'm curious, your majesty, if you know who I was and where I came from?" She said after a moment. "There is a contention I take with that approach. The idea that anyone is inherently greater or lesser than another is flawed because it assumes that individuals are static. The most unassuming can become great if given the chance, or those who were given everything can fail to meet their potential, despite their advantages."

"And therein, lies the hubris and virtue of the crown," Alexandra replied. "One either becomes so spoken of greatness, or lives a lie of greatness. Either they become deserving of their Divine Right, or…" a smile quirked on her lips. "They lose that divine favor - that patronage that chose their birth and parentage."

"But even those who lose the favor benefit from the position," Amanda pointed out. "The crowns and monarchs have rarely been earned through merit. Any benefits come through happenstance and luck, while downsides bring ruin or tyranny. The worth of the monarch is dictated by the whims of fate."

"Do the children of the wealthy deserve their wealth? Their influence and status? Do the politicians deserve obedience and subservience? Do those born poor deserve wealth and power? Did you come to be here, sitting before me, through the merit of democracy?" Alexandra mused. "Were you elected while I was unaware?"

"I tend to believe that very few are entitled to anything," Amanda said. "Power, influence, wealth, all should be earned through work and merit, not pawned, bought, or inherited. I didn't reach where I am because of my class, my background, or system of government, but in spite of it."

"Alas, power, influence, and wealth are all inherited. It is the legacy we give to our sons and daughters. Are you aware of how the first kings of the Germanic tribes became so?" Alexandria asked.

Amanda shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

"They were chosen, elected, by the elders of tribal confederations," Alexandria answered. "They were given a crown as a symbol that they were the leaders above leaders; that they were leaders to rule their leaders. It was a task they had been given."

She waited for Alexandra to finish, as the Queen looked across the Potomac as she continued.

"To rule is no grand task. By virtue of being alive, one rules over their body. By virtue of giving birth, a mother rules over her children. Merit is not a matter of how one is given rule, it is a matter of excellence in ruling. Chosen. Inherited. Given. Taken. History bears witness to the myriad ways rulers come to be," Alexandra paused, watching as a flock of ducks landed in the river. "A president of a democracy is no more inherently worthy of obedience than the queen of a kingdom."

"Of course not," Amanda agreed. "Though it is historically easier to remove a bad president, than a bad monarch."

"And it is historically the case, too, that democracies have been forged in blood and destruction of the other," Alexandra replied, sipping her tea. "After all, two sheep are quite willing to vote for a wolf."

"That is, unfortunately, the nature of mankind, and the nation state," Amanda pursed her lips. "Of which we both must see to its natural conclusion. No matter the systems in place, there is only one path to resolution now."

"My brother would have been delighted to converse with you," Alexandra said after a few moments of silence. "Always one to ponder complexities and nuances. I must admit, I found him aggravating when we were young."

"I've heard that siblings have that effect," Amanda said with a small smile.

"He so often liked to say 'The sins of the fathers are the crowns of the sons,'" Alexandra smiled. "Ah, how witty he was."

"I imagine that there was much he was inspired by for that one," Amanda said, thinking of a few instances where that would have been a subject o discussion. "Especially when one has no choice in the matter, and you are judged for who your family is, not who you are."

"It is true. Not all of us choose our crowns, but you wear yours well," Alexandra commented. "I am not one for austerity, or simplicity. To be grand, and to be served, that is my birthright, and to give my people a sight to aspire to, is a duty. But American austerity has a… charm, I suppose."

Amanda snorted. "You have a talent for speaking your thoughts in a deniably, slightly patronizing way. You would have fit in quite well in Congress."

"I am royalty, I speak," Alexandra's voice was confident; one which had no doubt whatsoever. "Others listen. It is the way of things. Far better, far more honest, than hiding behind the pretense of being equal with the masses."

"Perhaps for a Queen," she said. "I'm less convinced it's right for a Guardian."

"For the servants of a god?" Alexandra wondered. "It is not arrogance. It would be delusion to pretend equality with those who are not us."

Amanda stirred her tea, thinking of her answer. "Not equality. That is the wrong approach. But in our role, how we view and treat others who do not have this power. Do you think there is a place for monarchies, kings and queens in the world to come? The hierarchies and systems that have stood without question for so long?"

"You already are beneath a monarchy," Alexandra said, gesturing at her Ghost. "Have no misunderstanding - in our relation to the Traveler, we are the servants of a monarch. One whose rule is above reality itself."

Alexandra's Ghost was happily rolling around on the small table with a playful grace and a machine precision. The Ghost paused her playing, noticing the attention on it. It detached one of its petals slightly, and waved to them.

Alexandra rolled her eyes.

Amanda exchanged a look with MacArthur, who was quite politely hovering near her shoulder, and if she could read into the Ghost's demeanor, he had been watching the Queen's Ghost with some judgment.

It was both amusing and impressive just how much character the little machines could express.

The fins of MacArthur rose and fell as if to approximate a shrug. Don't look at me. I didn't make her.

Amanda cleared her throat, focusing back on the conversation. "The Traveler as a monarch is…to simplistic. The Traveler is divinity, or as close to it as we can understand. If a monarch rules over nature and land, what is one who rules over reality itself?"

"A queen is a petty pantomime of a god, all rulership is," Alexandra said. "To chafe and question this fundamental fact, that one is always subordinate, is to veil reality over with grandiose names such as 'President' and 'Tsar' and 'Caliph' and 'Khan.' The how differs, but it is always beneath a monarch."

"Or a god," Amanda murmured. "I suppose it depends on which language one prefers, at the end of the day."

"Language hides more than it reveals," Alexandra said. "True might is not perhaps a sword, it is-"

"Eyes that see the convergence of complexities, the pin-point before the refraction upon the prism" Elizabeth said, laying flat on the table. "Is it not?"

The voice from the Ghost was a very cultured British accent, one even more pronounced than Alexandra's, as if the Ghost had grown up in a court environment. The mimicry was uncanny, if unsurprising. Thankfully MacArthur hadn't yet attempted to imitate a southern accent. Yet.

"Elizabeth, sit upright," Alexandra reproached.

"As per my royal prerogative, being an extension of your personhood, I categorically refuse." The Ghost stated, quite proudly.

Amanda couldn't resist a smile at the interaction. Perhaps the one entity who was comfortable telling the Queen of England no.

"Our Traveler does love complexity, differences, and uniqueness," Alexandra continued smoothly. "She chooses Communists, avowed atheists. She chooses Arabs, ever zealous in their Muhammadism. She chooses royalty and commoners alike. Soldiers, astronauts, philosophers, businessmen, theologians, and linguists. A coalition more different, she couldn't have picked. Has it occurred to you, to simply ask your Ghost what the Traveler wants for us?"

"No," Amanda shook her head. "The future we find ourselves in is…one that we create for ourselves. If the Traveler has a grand intention for us, She would have said so." She glanced at her Ghost. "Would she not?"

"Ask," Alexandria said, regally picking up her Ghost, her palm flat, like one would cradle a bird. "They hide behind silence, but will answer if you know the question to ask."

Amanda cocked her head at MacArthur. "Why not? What does the Traveler wish for us?"

MacArthur did not reply.

Instead she began to feel something. The soft white shell of the machine that had been her companion these past weeks seemed brighter than it had been seconds ago; the golden Light around the core became apparent, as it was when the Light was channeled. Only it was not power that was being channeled, but emotion.

Strong, pure, intense emotion. One that she only identified after a few moments, so unprepared for it that she did not recognize it at first.

Love.

Pure, unrestricted, unconditional love. One that cared not for whatever doubts, flaws, and mistakes that defined her, but which saw only her best. Love that was so powerful that the corners of her eyes became wet, and she thought of her husband, her children, and everyone who had been with her through this time.

It wasn't the Ghost she was feeling this from.

It was Her.

She hadn't been ignorant of what she was going through, She had been watching. Amanda felt the love, and it seemed as though a weight was gone. Or at least, the load was lighter than it had been.

Amanda gasped for a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. MacArthuer hovered close, almost sitting on her shoulder; nuzzling her neck. With a hand, she reached up and cupped the Ghost with her hand, and he seemed to snuggle into it.

She took a breath, closed her eyes, and regained her composure.

It seemed she had her answer.

"Jonathan, why do you serve me?" Alexandra asked.

"Because I believe you are worthy, your highness," the butler replied.

She understood the perspective of the man - and Alexandra - a little bit better now. If the Traveler was one to be willing to serve without condition, perhaps it was understandable why others might view their leaders in a similar way.

"Elizabeth, why does the Traveler not give us this answer without us asking for it?" Alexandra asked.

"A question most simple to answer," the Ghost said from her palm. "She has no desire to manipulate your emotions in exchange for your obedience. You are free."

It was that answer which made the Traveler unlike any deity she would have expected - or feared. Of course, freedom was something of a loaded term - but that there was an option. That they were allowed to make their own path, and their own mistakes, meant something. At least as she understood.

"Elizabeth, how many such major questions have the Traveler programmed you to answer?" Alexandra asked.

The Ghost simply rolled in her palm. Silent.

Perhaps not all questions would be shared.

"Ask your ghost," Elizabeth said. "What does the Traveler gain from us?"

She looked at her Ghost. "Do you know what She gains from us?"

"Nothing," MacArthur replied.

"Some great truths are hidden in plain sight," Alexandra said, eyes closed, and expression serious.

The answer first puzzled her, because there was obviously some reason that the Traveler had come here. There was some reason that She had gone through all of this effort, trouble, and headache. People, divine or mortal, did not act without reason, or for no gain. Even the Traveler, as altruistic as She was, had an agenda.

And then she realized that MacArthur was right.

She didn't need armies. If She wished it, she could doubtless create an army of exceptional perfection whenever she wanted. She didn't need their technology, weapons, or intellect, as she was so far beyond them in each category that to compare at all was an insult. Yet She was here - why?

Because She'd seen them.

She had seen what they had been under, what they had been carrying out and perpetuating, and the future they were moving towards. She had seen Humanity in need of help; of something better, and had decided that She would not pass them by, and leave them to a fate well deserved.

She was here not for Herself, but for them. For Humanity.

Not because of what they could offer, but because She saw what they could all be. Because she saw this young species, who had just begun to reach the stars, and would not leave them to their fate. She was here because of love.

Her love for them.

"Royalty, monarchy, ruleship, authority," Alexandra said, her tone different than before. More serious, more somber, more…humble. "I have aspired to these things my entire adult life. I thought myself… worthy. It seems not. None are as worthy as a god, as that which was never born, that it may ever die. I had thought myself worthy of dying for. I had been… mistaken."

"In comparison," Amanda said. "It is a…mistake to compare ourselves to something so much older and grander than we are. And now I think I understand where our future leads; perhaps not the systems or details, but the shape of what will drive it."

And how strange and simple the glue was.

A Humanity aligned and united not out of convenience, through coercion, or otherwise simple tolerance of one another. But a Humanity united by a shared empathy, understanding, and yes, love for each other.

Because she realized that there was no other way such a radical collection of ideologies, nations, and interests could not only survive, but thrive with each other.

If they could care for each other, love each other as Humans, no matter the differences, that could build something enduring.

Such a simple concept, that at one point she would have thought only laughable. For love in a world so cynical as they had lived in? An impossibility.

But that was why they had to build a better one.

A world where love in this way could endure.

Such a simple, grand answer to a question that had plagued the world many times over.

"Nations, flags, monarchies, democracies, what difference does Arabia hold from Russia, when love is one and the same?" Alexandra mused. "A more magnificent political doctrine could not be dreamt of. Could not be more undefeatable."

"Should one succeed in creating it," Amanda said after a moment. "Yet it cannot happen, so long as even one person is willing to exploit it. Love is too easily taken advantage of; too easily exploited. People will only be as open with each other, so long as they feel safe."

Alexandra peered out over the river, her voice having a note of melancholy in it. "Valentin will have the expectations of the whole world upon him; to determine what powers the nation will retain, what powers will be surrendered, to what image Humanity's highest aspirations will be. What must be sacrificed, and what must be upkept,"

Alexandra's voice was pensive. "It is not a responsibility I envy. He will be the prism, refracting the light of Humanity."

"I have faith in him," she said. "He will not make the decisions alone."

Alexandra trailed off briefly, before continuing; her voice hard. "He should abolish the old world whole. Remake it. A new order. For order is more important than freedom and liberty. The worst mistake that can be made is to attempt half-measures. To find some kind of 'compromise.' Remove it all, every flag and nation and border and kingdom."

"The nations and borders are less problematic than the people," Amanda said. "One day, perhaps it can be taken down. Not yet, not so suddenly."

"All the same," Alexandra shook her head. "Should Valentin ask my view, I will tell him to commit, or do not bother. Half-measures are insufficient. He commands, and those beneath ought to obey their betters."

"And yet once more," Elizabeth rolled off of Alexandra's palm, falling onto the table. "I am forced to suffer your royal cynicism and pride."

Alexandra's eyes twitched.

"Behold! Queen of England! A heart froze such that even divine love cannot warm it!" Elizabeth decried. "Will ye not have empathy for me, suffering such a difficult charge?"

MacArthur's reply was instant, and dry. "No."

Amanda snorted.

Elizabeth gave a quiet, polite laugh, her fins rotating. "Forgive her majesty's harshness, she merely has no faith in the 'vulgar licentious masses.' It is a matter of considerable contention between us."

"It's an acquired taste," Amanda smiled. "Give her time."

Alexandra took a royal breath. "Elizabeth…"

"I should close my metaphorical mouth or you will metaphorically gag me?" Elizabeth asked. "An alluring offer. I refuse."

Alexandra closed her eyes, clearly calming herself.

Aren't you thankful I am not so nearly as vexing? MacArthur commented with some degree of smugness.

Yes, though you only do so because I have less patience for that than the Queen here.

…I can neither confirm, nor deny.

A prolonged, but more comfortable silence settled between both of them; Alexandra had given voice to something that had privately troubled Amanda, but she hadn't been able to put into words until now.

If the Traveler wanted love for Humanity, then Valentin was an odd pick. If there was one who was to be Speaker; to best embody this wish, then she was surprised he was the first choice. He was the last person who would have been expected; he had been a nameless Cosmonaut with practically no connections in rural Russia. He was no diplomat, philosopher, or someone who would even want to create a Humanity that She seemed to want.

Perhaps the answer was in the question.

She'd watched Alexandra's Ghost, and seen that Elizabeth wasn't merely playful - her speech was friendly, but pointed. Picking at her weaknesses, flaws, and prejudices she might not know she had. Her innate belief in superiority, the lack of tolerance for that which she disagreed with, apathy for other cultures and their ideals.

Valentin was the Speaker, the most powerful Human alive. One who would be the de-facto ruler of Mankind. One who had an experience not from the elite of the world, or the halls of power, but from being a regular man.

No, she was thinking of it wrong.

Valentin wasn't right to be a leader like her or Alexandra. That wasn't who he was, it wasn't where his strengths were. He was not a leader like them.

But he could be their guide.

For the Guardians. For Humanity.

So that's what it means. That's what he's meant to be.

MacArthur's fins revolved. Penny for your thoughts?

I'm working through them.

Guide or not, Valentin's word was one which was going to change the world, and shape what it became. The rest of them would refine, detail, and work to execute it to the best of their ability - but it would be his word which began the process.

Even a guide had such immense power.

"It worries me," Amanda admitted, as a cool breeze blew through, and clouds turned the sky overcast. "How do we know if what we're doing is right? Do all our enemies… deserve to be fought like this?"

A smile played on Alexandra's lips, a genuine one this time. "It does not matter. What they deserve has no bearing on the matter. They are opposed to us and our vision. So we will destroy them, and enforce our wishes. It is that simple."

"It seems difficult to square," Amanda sighed. "If love is what we wish to reach, and it requires a violent, merciless intolerance of those who would take advantage, isn't that merely hate?"

"False!" Elizabeth declared, bouncing on the table. "Nay!"

MacArthur sharply turned at the other Ghost.

She raised her eyebrow at Elizabeth.

Alexandra's eyes narrowed. "Is this something the Traveler hides in plain sight, Elizabeth?"

The Ghost ceased to roll. For all of a second, before it's rolling intensified. It did not reply.

MacArthur's response was telling. I'm almost certain that one has faulty manufacturing.

It was tempting to think so, but Amanda was struck by the intensity of the reaction. One that was certainly not accidental. A cry of defiance of the implication, as if it was offensive to even imply it.

A hint that the wrong question was being asked?

Which begged the question - what was the right question?

"How are we to fight our enemies?" She asked.

Both Ghosts were silent. And silence, she was learning, meant that she was asking the wrong questions.

She thought for a few more minutes. What the problem with the question was. It seemed like an obvious, reasonable question, except…

No, it belayed a simpler, fundamental question. One obvious enough that it was practically hidden.

"Why does the Traveler want us to fight at all?" She asked. "If she wanted to…she could end this fighting now."

MacArthur gave a long groan, the petals of his shell peeling back from the front as if imitating throwing his head back. "You all but gave it away."

"It was an obvious question," Elizabeth rolled upright.

Yes, MacArthur had definitely known the question to ask, and what Elizabeth had been hinting towards. If Elizabeth was bubbly, he was stoic. A firm partner to her maneuvering through the sea of responsibility she had waded into. Yet he'd been there whenever needed, giving little pieces of advice here and there, ready to provide feedback on an approach or idea she had.

And she wondered what he was helping lead her into now. How he was subtly poking her to be someone better in ways she hadn't considered before.

"Simply put," MacArthur turned his eye towards her. "You are an infant. She's teaching you how to walk."

A metaphor that she immediately thought she understood where it was going…perhaps.

"Consider Clovis Bray," Elizabeth floated up, circling around Amanda. " A Human supremacist. He believes that man holds the potential to be divine. He believes divinity to be power. To achieve this power, all is justified."

She nodded. That certainly described Clovis; power was the means and ends.

"His ends are ultimate, and they ultimately justify all. Evil becomes good. Good becomes evil. Empathy, love, kindness, they are obstacles," Elizabeth said. "Or worse, weaknesses."

"Impediments to overcome," MacArthur added.

She was beginning to see the picture.

"Humanity itself becomes a flaw. Inhumanity itself becomes greatness. He believes so thoroughly that Humanity is useless, he has killed himself, and made a lifeless shell of steel his revenant, hellbent on bringing this transcendence to all Humanity," MacArthur continued.

"To become the guiding steward of Man!" Elizabeth said, bobbing up and down. "He is a tyrant. But why? He does not care about the world. But why? He lies to himself and deceives himself routinely. Why?"

"Because he isn't lying to himself," Amanda murmured. "He believes it. He believes he is right."

MacArthur landed on top of Elizabeth, his weight forcing her to slowly hover down. "My Guardian is clearly more perceptive than yours. She saw right through it."

"Stop bullying her," Amanda shooed MacArthur off of the other Ghost with a sigh. Apparently there was a little bit of childish goofiness in every Ghost - they just didn't express it in the same ways, or the same times.

Elizabeth's voice could not sound more exasperated. "Your material density could stand to be recalibrated," she wiggled, as if brushing dust off.

"As for Clovis," Amanda said. "It's not difficult thing to see. It's easier to tell the true believers from ones who are in it for something simpler or selfish. Those individuals are more dangerous because they are under the impression they are right. If Clovis was opportunistic instead of deluded…I'm not sure much of this would be happening."

"When a lie becomes one's own truth, when delusion becomes reality, when a heart becomes a weakness, when all that is good, becomes an evil, for it hampers one's goals…" MacArthur floated up to her. Almost eyes to eye. "Do you understand?"

The Ghost's voice had become weighted; serious in a way it hadn't through the entire conversation.

Elizabeth floated over to Alexandra's shoulder. "Perception is not reality," the Ghost said. "But you only see things through your perception of them. None believe their goals evil. So you will perceive it as good, and justify what leads to it, as ultimately good. You are not impartial, you are not objective, you are a beholder of reality. The center of your own world."

"To fight your enemy, to eliminate them, is merely one of many questions that must be asked. One that is derivative of the most important question," MacArthur said. "The question of why."

"When your goal is dominion, what use is a heart?" Elizabeth's cheery voice dropped an octave. "When your goal is power, what use is principles? When your goal is vengeance, what use is justice?"

"Your mind is an instrument to accomplish your desires." MacArthur questioned. "Consider such questions carefully; what do you desire? Desire will give birth to the means that arise the foundations upon which your victory will be built."

"Do you plant your Garden in a field of blood, or create a banquet amidst flowers?"

"Do you extend a hand to your enemy, or bury a sword in their heart?"

"Do you see the best your enemy could be, or an affront to all you hold sacred?"

The voices of the Ghosts became synchronous.

"Will you love? Will you forgive? Will you hold to kindness? Will you beget mercy? Will you see in sympathy? Will you grow in empathy? Who are you? What shape will you forge your pale heart into?"

They spoke as one.

"What is their place?"

Unified in voice.

"What form does justice take?"

There was a pressure in the air.

"Will you see beyond your desire? Will you give to the undeserving? Will you decide with temerity? Will you err in sagacity? Will you give each thing its due? Will you rise above?"

A gravity settled upon them.

"The means create the future. The future is an image of the heart. What visions does your pale heart give witness to?"

Now it was them who were asking her questions. Now making her wonder even more, giving voice to what she was afraid of. What they were doing, what they should be doing, and what it meant if they were doing the wrong thing.

The virtues listed in the fight against the Triumvirate? She knew that many would not agree. The Triumvirate had to be destroyed, completely and utterly. Were the Ghosts implying that they were not supposed to do that?

Was Valentin doing the wrong thing? Were all of them?

She decided to give voice to her question. "Is war against the Triumvirate the wrong approach? Are we not supposed to fight as our final resort?"

They didn't reply.

She pursed her lips. The wrong question, or the wrong time.

"Are we meant to destroy the Triumvirate entirely?"

The Ghosts did not reply.

She was apprehensive at the possible answer, but now she felt she had to ask.

"Are we meant to forgive them?"

All that met her was silence.

She was doing something wrong. It wasn't as though the Ghosts didn't have answers, they were choosing to not answer her. Both questions were reasonable, and logical, one the opposite of the other. One of those answers should have been the correct one - save the Triumvirate, or destroy it.

That was ultimately what it came down to. So why was there no answer? What options remained?

There was some kind of art, or puzzle to asking questions of the Ghosts. Was it the right words? Proper phrasing? Intent? Meaning? Context? A combination of all of the above?

And she'd not even known this was something they were meant to do. To ask questions; it hadn't been even hinted at until Alexandra had told her that this was something the Ghosts were meant to facilitate. Was it because it hadn't been time until now? That she'd reached some unknown threshold?

How much were they being guided and influenced by these fascinating machines without even noticing it? Even if it was as simple as asking the right questions, or pondering them more than they would have before.

And then she got it.

She had been given the answer in the silence.

Or at least, she knew the right question to ask.

"Are we supposed to decide the correct answer?"

Someone else answered. With force. With authority.

|| Yes ||

The answer, gentle and powerful at the same time, echoed through mind and soul alike. An answer that left no room for doubt, no room for questions or uncertainty.

Yes.

The brightness of the Ghosts seemed to become a little less intense; Amanda had barely noticed that the longer they'd spoken, the more Light they had drawn upon; the more the Traveler had been speaking through them.

"How much do they hide," Alexandra mused rhetorically, leaning over her own Ghost.

The Ghost turned, answering without a hint of shame, and with clear offense."Paranoia is quite unhealthy for your epidermal layer!" Alexandra merely smiled as the Ghost returned to her previous attitudes.

She felt a similar way as she looked at MacArthur, who seemed to merely look up at her with a knowing attitude.

My first and only task is your betterment. Nothing more. Nothing less.

And what does my betterment look like?

You will realize it sooner than you expect. Individuals are not static and predestined. There are many ways you can grow; many ways you can become better. But no matter what you decide, it will always be your choice. As She said - you will choose the right answer.

"This war feels less and less like a war, and instead a prophecy. One we're all being moved into place, of our own accord. A prophecy, and we're fulfilling it without even noticing," Alexandra said.

"It's feeling more and more like that," Amanda affirmed, shaking her head, remembering there were matters of state that she'd originally wanted this meeting to cover. "In more direct matters…once the situation in America is resolved, we will be ready to support the United Kingdom against Europe, and bring the Soviet Union down."

"I would hope for nothing less," Alaxandra looked at Amanda for a few seconds, as if trying to gauge something. "You should run, when this is over."

It took her a minute to grasp what was being said, after everything that had happened today. "For President?"

"Yes," Alexandra said sincerely. "You have done well, and you would continue to do well. I am confident that you will win. You have the wit for it, with these questions to our dear obstructive Ghosts. Madam President…is a fitting place for you. You are more than an Admiral. You are a leader. More than that, you care about your people, for the right reasons."

You wouldn't have been chosen, otherwise, MacArthur said. She does not choose ones she does not believe in.

I see. I know that, but I didn't think in that way…I only acted to do what I knew was right. Not what came after it.

Your pale heart illuminates the way.

Amanda mulled the question, refilling her cup, and thinking of Alexandra and MacArthur's words while she did so. "I'll consider it." She finally said, non-committal.

"That's all I will ask," Alexandra stood. "I also understand that you have formalized relations with the Caliphate. I will be meeting with the esteemed Caliph once he returns from Neptune."

"Yes, I will likely do the same," Amanda said. "Until then, recognition is important."

"It is certainly one of the more unique developments in this conflict, but not entirely unwelcome," Alexandra exhaled. "I thank you for your time, Madam President. Until we speak next. May you find victory in your battle to come."

"Until later, Your Majesty," Amanda said, shaking her hand, before Alexandra nodded to her Ghost, and with a signal to the entourage, they began breaking down the picnic, and in only a few minutes she was left alone in Mount Vernon.

Quite an interesting conversation, wouldn't you agree, MacArthur said, his voice also musing as they remained in the same place, facing where Alexandra had left. No matter your path, I have confidence it will be the right one.

"I hope so," Amanda said idly, as she stretched, and her mind was already moving towards the rest of the work she had to do for the day. Everything she had experienced, and felt today she would have to reflect on later. "Ask me this again when things are calm. As it stands, I have a call to make to Cheyanne Mountain."

Do you really think he'll see reason?

She chuckled. "Not really, but I'll give him the chance."

And when he says no?

She smiled, a small melancholic one. "Then we bring down the hammer."

---

THE IRE SPIRE | SAHARA DESERT | WEST AFRICA

Milya faced the towering Spire, which seemed to glow brightly under the beating sun, reacting with an almost blinding intensity of white and gold. She could feel the power emanating from the celestial tower, its flawless exterior reminding her of a pillar of light. It was massive; easily as big as any skyscraper she'd seen.

Beneath it all of them felt small, as the wind blew grains of sand against their ankles. Together, she and her small entourage trudged closer to the Spire.

The fighting against the Indian Territories continued to rage, and Milya had been occupied with managing the diplomatic and administrative front within the new Caliphate. There was a lot of statecraft that needed to be established. Agencies needed to be set up, services created, and the infrastructure to manage an entire state organized.

It was even more critical that this took place, as the Caliph was far away.

There were already some noteworthy accomplishments. It turned out that the Confederation had been undergoing its own strife, and a schism had occurred. Milya had seen the coup, but hadn't realized that the acting President had been given a Ghost – and was thus a Guardian.

Her conversation with President Holliday had been brief, but important. They'd both agreed to support each other, and once America was brought under control, the Americans would supply them with all the equipment and weapons they needed. In the meantime diplomatic recognition would be given, and relations formally established.

She noted with some irony that such an event would have rippled across the world, and doubtless resulted in a massive realignment. With everything else going on, and the Triumvirate states consumed by unrest or war, it was barely something that shifted the needle.

Nonetheless, it was important.

However, the Traveler appeared to have more plans for Her. Sara had unexpectedly informed her that she was needed, and indicated a very specific place – along with telling her to bring several Caliphate officials. The Ghost had been rather coy about what it was she would find, as Milya had looked up the location, and found it was in the middle of the Sahara Desert - where Milya knew there wasn't anything except sand.

She'd dryly let the Ghost know that.

Well, if a Ghost could look smug, Sara was pulling it off perfectly.

Her entourage was a small number of Caliphate military officers and administrative officials. Representing the military was an Iranian named Amjah Mohammed, and leading the government officials was Layana Najib, an Arabian woman who'd been working with her organizing civilian infrastructure and logistics. Each of them came with a small number of subordinates or aides, respectively.

Further adding to the mystery of this visit was that they weren't the only ones who'd arrived at the Spire.

Some had already arrived before her, and others she saw arriving behind her, or from different directions. There were a half-dozen more parties in total, each of them with similarly-sized coalitions. Each of them were led by a Guardian, and by their dress and ethnicity it seemed like they'd come from all over the world.

One group was multi-ethnic, mostly Latino, but their dress indicated they were American. Another was composed of various South Asian peoples – perhaps the groups from Southeast Asia and China. There were others she couldn't tell from their dress or ethnicities alone, but assumed they represented other groups, nations, or fronts.

The groups that had arrived before her noticed their arrival, and the three Guardians leading them broke off and approached her. She directed Amjah and Layana to make introductions with the other national representatives, while she talked with the other Guardians.

You could have told me they were coming. She privately chided Sara.

The Ghost seemed to bounce in the air, still unfathomably smug. That would have ruined the surprise, wouldn't it? Don't worry, you'll like them.

Leading the trio was a very young man, probably the youngest Guardian she'd seen yet. His complexion was sun-tanned, atop his lightly brown skin. His brown hair was arranged in a quaff style, and eyes bright and energetic. She notices immediately that he had a cheerful demeanor around him. He wore some kind of street clothing, casual at first glance, but with an array of pouches, pockets, and places where weapons could be easily hidden.

She didn't fail to note he had the patches of a number of flags sewn throughout his clothing. Some she didn't recognize, but she did recognize the flags of Portugal, Spain, and interestingly the defunct tricolor of the long-dead Spanish Republic. It was clear where he was from, and who he was representing.

"Welcome to the Traveler's little corner of the Sahara, I expect you're the one we've been waiting for," he greeted with a smile, and extending a hand. "Azaña said you're the Conciliator we've been waiting for." The Ghost around his shoulder tilted up and down, as if to nod in agreement.

She nearly shot a dirty glare at Sara for neglecting to mention this little detail to her.

Surprise!

Yes, Sara was definitely deriving amusement from this.

Milya looked closer at the other Guardians - were these all also Conciliators? Well, if they were, so be it. Getting caught off-guard like this would have been terrifying once, but after managing to bring the Arabian factions together to form the Caliphate? This wasn't quite so difficult anymore.

"It seems like I am," she answered after a moment. "And it seems there've been a few more who've fit the role than just me."

"If you're like me, at least, it was something that kind of…happened," the man casually shrugged. "But as it turns out, that's what people need sometimes. Even if they hate or distrust each other, you can help them see who the real enemy is." He glanced at her entourage, which was already speaking with the other groups.

"No wonder you're the leader if you somehow managed to get all of them to work together." He said. "Arabs, Iranians, Egyptians, and Israelis to all work together? That makes all our jobs seem pathetically simple in comparison." He chuckled.

"If you're from where I think you are, your work can't have been easy either," she said. "Iberia?"

"Ah, my bad," he cleared his throat. "Introductions slipped me by, rather important for our jobs. Shaw Han, and you're right on the money. I've been with the Spanish Resistance since I was a kid, and you could say I know my way around Iberia. I guess you can thank me for getting all of them to point their weapons in one direction. Like herding cats, except much worse."

"He is too humble," Azaña interjected. "It was an ordeal to simply convince the left-aligned factions to work together, much less convince them to ally with Spanish liberals, republicans, and authoritarians. This is without the national interests further complicating matters. It is fascinating to see Human dynamics at work. It is incredible your species advanced beyond tribes of more than ten people."

"You're a bit too harsh there, besides, it all worked out, didn't it?" Shaw waved a hand. "Just required some persuasion and the right words, you know?"

She definitely did. "All too well."

A humble shrug was his response, as he huffed. "Right, now for the rest," he stepped to the side, indicating the other two with him, a man and a woman. "Kalumet Ziv and Castillo Yin, representing American and Southeast Asian regions, respectively."

Ziv spoke first, a black man with weathered features, and with body language and demeanor that told him he had a military background, even as he seemed around her age. "A pleasure, ma'am, and I echo Shaw's compliments. The Caliphate was an impressive achievement."

"They made the decision," Milya said. "I just helped."

"Which may not have happened without you," he answered. "A nudge or the right words can make all the difference."

"Quite true," Castillo added, an older Japanese woman with her black-grey hair falling past her shoulders. "If your Ghost has been as vague as mine is-" She shot a glance towards her sheepish-looking Ghost, who was comically now hiding behind Ziv's broad shoulders. "They have not explained the purpose of this visit."

"Unfortunately not," Milya said.

"I suspect the Traveler arranged this to better coordinate what is to come," Castillo mused, rubbing her chin. "Events are moving very fast, especially with what's happening on Neptune. Something I expect you are tracking, Ziv."

He grimaced, as if reminded of a host of problems. "Perceptive, and correct, ma'am. I'm working to gather as much support for Holliday as I can. It's been consuming my time, just in the mainland, and I only have a few other Conciliators who I can rely on to do the same in Central and South America."

Milya looked at the other groups gathered, then to the Spire. "Whatever the reason for our visit, I think that it's in the Spire. Our Ghosts aren't going to give us any hints, I think."

Each of them looked knowingly at their Ghosts.

All of the Ghosts looked either smug, or guilty.

"They're a bit too clever for their own good," Castillo muttered good-naturedly. "Shall we set off?"

"Agreed," Milya said.

Soon, all of them were organizing their groups. Milya introduced herself to a few more of the Conciliators, who joined them as they began their walk towards the Spire, which was deceptively far away. As they trudged through the sand, Milya and the initial trio beside her, Castillo spoke. "Did any of you know this existed?"

"The Spire? No," Milya shook her head. "Intentionally, I'm certain. It's not a place the Triumvirate would have thought to look."

"I'm not sure, I think there's something else going on," Shaw mused, glancing upwards at the towering structure. "With the tech the Triumvirate has? Something like this appearing would have definitely been picked up. Or should have been. So they either knew it existed, and left it alone, or they somehow never saw it at all."

"Given how the Triumvirate never leaves well enough alone," Castillo commented. "I believe it is the latter."

Eventually they reached the base of the Spire, and Milya was able to see that the exterior of the Spire was far more intricate than the plainness it had first appeared. It reminded Milya of the Traveler's shell. There were small, intricate, and beautiful patterns that were seemingly carved into the surface only millimeters deep, and reflected with a silver light.

And it extended across the entire exterior, from the lowest part of the base to as far up as her eyes could see.

Shaw saw it too and whistled. "Wow."

Then, the Spire spoke.

Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh.

The sounds rumbled across the desert; manifesting in their minds as a mixture of scenes, sounds, and colors. Had the Spire spoken, or was that how they were interpreting what it had just done? Yet the four sounds remained starkly constant.

Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh.

Sounds. Or letters?

The group came to a slow halt, as if not sure how to proceed. The Ghosts around the Guardians reacted as they did. Milya swore that she felt Sara, who was hovering near her shoulder…

Cringe?

The other Guardians seemed to notice their Ghosts had also reacted to the voice and the sounds in a strange way. She and Shaw exchanged a look, then she looked at Sara. "Do you…know what that was?"

An audible electronic sigh escaped the Ghost which sounded almost deflated. "Unfortunately."

"We are aware of those who hold places of elevation within the Choir of the Traveler," Ziv's Ghost said, his silver petals bending back, similar to a cat putting it's ears back. A sign of displeasure. "That this one has been gifted such a place of distinction is…"

"They are unique," Sara supplied as the Ghost trailed off. "You will see."

Sara frowned. The rest of the Guardians also didn't know quite what to make of that either. Surely, though, it wasn't that bad of a thing, even if the Ghosts seemed less than enthused for some reason. It was striking that they held surprisingly strong opinions on whoever was inside, usually, she was used to them being pretty open and upbeat.

Whatever was inside appeared to have a reputation.

Then the Spire opened.

Surfaces unfolded across it's surface, opening up like a crystalline flower, with petals unfolding in infinite-seeming folds. The further the flower opened, the very space they were in expanded and changed around them. Sand shifted to white, luminescent pearls. Crystalline flowers the colors of the rainbow rose out of the ground; iridescent in red, blue, green, gold, and more depending on where the sunlight hit.

Then it emerged; cloudlike figure standing before the spire. Tangible, wispy ghosts whose presence seemed to beckon them closer.

They were shimmering, visually unstable. Shifting every second. There were flashes of faces, images, and scenes that triggered memories and brought forth knowledge in a way which seemed to have plucked them from her mind. She saw apparitions of deities that seemed as if they stepped off the text of Hindu texts; all based on impressions and visualizations that she inherently recognized.

Yet as they were before her, it seemed grander than all they could have been. It did not settle on a single face, or a single form, but continued shifting in place, making it difficult to focus on. As if it hadn't yet decided what form to settle on.

There was a distinct feeling of irritation from the cloud, but it was not directed at them - instead it seemed to be directed at the Ghosts. She could swear the cloud-like apparitions were glaring at the machines.

Sara?

Just keep moving, Sara answered. They are very particular with their schedules.

The figures dissipated once they got closer, and the once-smooth walls retracted soundlessly, revealing an entrance that they would have never thought to notice on their own. When fully retracted, it reminded her of an archway, within which she thought she heard some kind of music, and a warm light inside, inviting them in.

They entered the Spire proper, and the moment they crossed the threshold, everything seemed different. The pounding heat of the desert was replaced with a soft warmth, the comforting kind as though from a fireplace. Smells reminding her of happy memories, gardens in New Delhi, food from her mother's cooking, filled her nostrils. Music familiar and alien wafted over them, not loud enough to disturb, but enough to enhance.

She felt indescribably alive right now. A smile emerged on her face without thinking, and she saw the same happiness reflected in everyone around her.

It was strange to walk into the Spire, as all around them seemed to be little but beautiful white walls that arched over them, and golden ripples from the pure Light in the air. It seemed almost instantly that they moved from this hallway of Light, into what appeared to be the largest arena she had been in.

It was impossibly vast; expanding as far as the eye could see in all directions. She craned her head back, looked up and up, and saw only small honeycombed walls that extended impossibly upwards as if to the heavens themselves which faded into white nothingness.

The arena was bathed in a soft gold-white light, with no source but from the infinite space above. The ground was paved in white and gold material, with multi-colored grass and flowers lining the walkways. Streams of crystal-clear water wove through, around, and under the pathways in numerous, indecipherable patterns. Waterfalls from the heavens fell from multiple points, filling the streams she saw.

The air itself was also not empty space. There were tangible wisps and concentrations of strange shapes and energies which seemed alive and floated around and above them. They were colored blues, golds, and every color of the rainbow; as if concepts, patterns and shapes had been given life.

In addition to these strange entities, there were also flocks of what she could only describe as some kind of…robot-animal.

They floated around, alone or in small packs, making high-pitched whirring noises that reminded her of little mechanical cats. Their six eyes were an electronic blue, and wings whose color seemed to shift depending on the light lined their bodies, which flapped in an impossibly smooth way whenever they wanted to move.

The wings seemed too small to maintain actual flight, but perhaps were more to stabilize. When they weren't flying, Milya saw that they appeared to nest themselves in the millions of openings in the honeycombed walls.

Their bodies were clearly made of metal or some similarly hard substance, but they moved with a fluidity that betrayed their intricate engineering. It was fascinating to watch, as groups of the creatures floated around them, seeming to play with each other, and paying the visitors no mind.

She didn't know if this was heaven, but it seemed close to it.

They continued through the idyllic tranquility for an unknown amount of time. It seemed like hours, or maybe it was only minutes. None of them knew, and time did not seem to truly matter here – not like it did outside the Spire.

Though the more they walked, the more Milya began to notice other things. There were sections of the arena which she saw were filled with crates, which more obvious drones and machines were delivering too. She also now picked up an undercurrent of intensity as the machines were working.

It was a sign that they were reaching where they were supposed to go, and they soon spotted the entity which seemed to be waiting for them.

It was the first thing she could truly describe as alien.

Incomprehensible in a way she had difficultly processing.

Its body reminded her of a marble pillar, but one made of the same material as the Traveler's shell with all of the intricacy and mystery it implied. Golden and blue runes were carved into the body, which were glowing with unrestrained intensity. The 'head' if it could be called that, was difficult to look directly at, as it was a ball of blazing whiteness, above which was a polymorphic halo of golden light.

Arms were attached to the pillar, ones that were multi-jointed, multi-faceted, and with uneven numbers of hands and fingers. There was little cohesion, uniformity, or parallelism that she could see; and the arms, head, and even size of the entity seemed to change, grow, shrink, or otherwise alter, as if struggling to maintain or decide on a tangible form.

Or it was her mind struggling to attach some kind of visual to this creature that she could comprehend. She struggled to not attach some kind of Humanity to this entity, because it was extremely apparent that this individual was not from this reality.

The whiteness turned towards her, and the name of the entity appeared in her mind.

Given, of name AISN.

{[Honored and very, very tardy servants of the Light,]} they greeted. {[I welcome ye all, into the Spire of Ire. This is excusable, if very. Very. Aggravating.]}

AISN's voice and words manifested in her mind; a proud, booming, and powerful voice which seemed both genuinely pleased to see all of them, and also reproaching as if a parent expressing the shortcoming of a child. Its pillar-body seemed to shimmer, a flash as she briefly perceived it towering over them, before it returned to a more reasonable height. It was an unnerving, intimidating sight.

Greeting to you too, honored one. Sara dipped slightly, though in a way that was just on the threshold of mockery. A summons of such importance, we could not ignore.

Milya resisted a mortified glance. Don't antagonize them!

Don't worry, we all do it!

Milya cleared her throat. "Our apologies for the delay, AISN. This is a new experience for all of us, but we all answer Her call to the best of our ability."

The pillar oriented itself towards them, the arms situated themselves in a manner more aesthetically cohesive and manageable. Two of the hands clasped together, another pair extended their hands, the palms turned upward.

{[Honored Conciliators, Guardians of the Traveler, the fault is not yours. Rather, that of the faulty engineering of these…lackluster machines]}

One hand indicated the Ghosts, all of whom seemed to smart in offense. This clearly was not a one-sided affair, and likely some kind of minor feud that had been going on for quite some time.

"You may ignore parts of AISNs ramblings," Sara said. "They are responsible for the production of the weapons and armor of the Guardians. A mind of unparalleled ingenuity, who creates unimpeded with Her blessing. I expect you, and the rest of the Guardians, will be working closely with them."

"They also dislike Ghosts," Azaña added pointedly. "We are considered 'inefficient.' Our personalities 'wasteful.'"

"A patently absurd perspective," Sara concurred. "I fail to see how one can be so brilliant, and yet so incapable of accepting our own usefulness. After all, we are the ones She employs to assist her Guardians, are we not?"

The Ghosts seemed to bob in the air, as if all nodding in agreement.

{[I have served under all the Masters of the Sky and their Choirs. In the Choir of Stewards, the Choir of Creation, the Choir of Union, the Choir of Night, and now I serve Her, in the Choir of Journeys,]} AISN practically scoffed. {[This is objective fact. You, machines, are lacking. You could be improved, should She permit me the opportunity.]}

All of the Ghosts appeared to shudder at such a dark fate.

As the Given spoke, Milya was not ignorant of what she was sensing. The power that was embedded into their very being. They were not just a Skybourne. They were a Lightbearer, just like them.

But something different; something more.

"Your resume remains impressive," Sara said, orbiting her. "However, there are matters pressing. Much as I wish there was time to engage in this banter, you are doubtless aware of current events."

{[Banter! My elocution of necessary information requiring my expertise is of utmost importance, especially to a species yet uneducated. Yet simultaneously, I must acknowledge this point,]} one hand gestured upward. {[My schedule has changed. She has commanded me to give my utmost, in as little time as possible. Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh does not disappoint]}

Their personality is one that may be a bit much, Sara said privately. But despite our prodding, their ego is only matched by their skill. There are Given who possess skills in shaping the Light for the purposes of war. There is only one AISN. That She has summoned the master of the art is an indication of the danger She expects to face.

The Ghost tilted upward. On Neptune, on Earth, or in the far future.

"And," Ziv asked. "What is the service you provide Her?"

{[Armaments. Expressions of Her Wrath. The Sanctioned Unmaking. The Journeys of Death]}

Each word the Given spoke held a weight to it that hadn't been there before. Each phrase a hammer blow, as if reading the last rites of the living. Tones of heaviness and responsibility, an acknowledgement of what they were responsible for.

Not just weight; there was an inevitability behind them; a promise. The implication that the words had been spoken many times before, and the outcome was certain. She was certain that this entity was probably unfathomably old.

There was a brief distraction, as one of the animal-machines was getting uncomfortably close to Shaw's face, butting itself against his head, while the Guardian was trying to figure out how to make it go away. He reached up with a finger, and scratched it on its face, which the animal-machine seemed to greatly like, judging from its happy whirring noise, and doing an aerial backflip.

Milya had to smile. It was a cute interaction, even if it continued harassing Shaw.

The Given extended a hand, the air rippled around it, and with a little squak, the animal-machine suddenly appeared, hovering in the Given's palm, who had seemed to pluck it out of space itself. The Given appeared to be speaking to it, somewhat sternly, but Milya couldn't comprehend what was saying; some kind of song-like noises that were likely not communicable to their perception of reality.

Apparently satisfied, the Given released their hold over the animal-machine, which flapped its wings into the air, seemingly just as happy as before.

{[My apologies for the interruption,]} the Given oriented itself back to them. {[The Aurals are still acclimating to their reality, and can be overzealous in exploring that which fascinates them. The Pouka shells allow them to comprehend in a way they cannot when formless, but such requires a period of training]}

Milya looked up, remembering the strange energy-like entities. "Those are Aurals?"

{[Indeed they are. Many come here from the Sky to experience places beyond the Sky. As they would do poorly in a space as dimensionally restricted as yours, the Spires are the only places they can safely live,]} the Given said. {[If they wish to go beyond, protection is required. Thus, the shells. They are carefree, honest, and pure creatures, whose enthusiasm is only matched by the frustration they can cause because of their curious natures. Yet such is the way of the Sky]}

One hand waved absentmindedly. {[They are under my guidance, to be trained in the ways of unmaking. They require… expertise to deal with]}

The Given waved their hands in an intricate manner, as Milay realized that it was using the Light to bend the reality around them; shifting them from one place to another. With a sudden blur around them, they suddenly found themselves in the middle of what appeared to be an equally expansive space – only this time it was a factory.

There were complex and intricate machines which stretched as tall as stories buildings and across entire city blocks; drone armies which existed only to collect and ferry the finished products from one place to another. Crates of who knew what stacked atop each other; waiting to be distributed.

Before their own group was a large box seemingly intended for them. A simple, plain one, not much different than what might be seen in naval shipping. This one only differed in that it was made of silver metal, though lines of light were engraved across it.

Milya knew that there was more to this crate than met the eye - though perhaps that was expectations working against her. Perhaps sometimes a box was just a box. Even Celestials needed to store things, didn't they?

AISN raised their multitude arms, a hundred hundred fingers snapped. Before their eyes the box unfolded into an armory the size of a small building. Grenades and munitions were stacked neatly within boxes. Armor was laid out on tables, or rested on stands. Every weapon she could think of was placed on racks or hung from railings.

And there were so many weapons. Enough that there were audible sounds from the more military-oriented members of their entourage.

There were rifles, sidearms, sniper rifles, machine guns, and other kinds of weapon archetypes she recognized, but didn't have names for.

She saw bows intermixed with rifles.

Spears alongside swords.

Pollaxes with rocket launchers.

The sheer amount of weaponry before them was any soldier's dream, and it seemed to extend as far as she wanted to look. It seemed to have everything that one could ever want. All of what she saw was distinctly familiar, yet had that distinctive touch of the Light.

{[Your armaments. Refined. Perfected. The history of Human warfare, made nearly flawless,]} AISN proclaimed. {[I have no grasp of Human experience, only my insinuations from what I have been able to divine. One more step remains, and your opinions are immediately required. Imperfections will not be tolerated. Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh will not disappoint]}

Sara floated upwards through the armory, looking down at her. Magnificent, aren't they?

Milya, along with the rest of the Guardians, moved into the armory, and the vast array of weapons. She felt out of her element as she picked up a few of them, looking closely. A dagger, a pistol, as she picked them up, she saw something engraved on each one. A symbol, one that she struggled to assign any meaning to, but looked to her close to a visualized supernova.

A signature? She knew that was something artists did.

And it seemed obvious AISN was an artist of war.

The Given picked one weapon up with two of their hands. {[The Weapons of the Light.]}

Guardians and non-Guardians alike were investigating the new weapons, others remained fascinated by the power of the technology on display around them, and more were fixated on the strange machines. Milya knew that there was some kind of paracausal power at play, which was containing this space in something which shouldn't be able to hold it.

It was so vast.

"What are these machines?" Castillo asked, indicating the smaller devices which were in a smaller section of the armory.

{[Replications of the Foundry you find yourself in, able to operate within the confines of a restricted-dimensional space,]} the Given said. {[Fabricators able to create nearly anything one can imagine. Such Celestial technology is not fast by your standards, but you will never want for options or creativity]}

It indicated the other device. {[An embodiment of Her creative power. Your world is wounded and poisoned; this device will allow you to bring life to your lands. Your withered fields to become lush meadows, your empty deserts of become oases, your urban tombs to be given parks and vegetation once more]}

Milya knew that this technology would be a major boost for the Caliphate – the terraforming machines in particular. Arabia could be turned into something more than an endless desert. An oasis was a pleasant thought.

It was clear why all of them had been summoned now. It wasn't just to give her the opportunity to meet the other Conciliators and coordinate with them. It was to arm them to win a war. It was to equip them with the means to build a better world. Yet all of this raised a certain alarm in her head.

"She has allowed this to play out without interference before now," Milya said. "Has something changed to empower Her people in this way?"

There was something that had made the Traveler abandon Her previous stance of letting this play out in an eventual victory. This was forcing an endgame, overtly and without apology. The implications were that She had changed her mind – or something had forced her hand, or altered her calculus.

What was impactful enough to force such a change was ominous.

There was only one force which could challenge Her.

{[This one does not ask,]} AISN finally answered. {[This one obeys. Today, my work is to prepare your people for action when your system is cleansed. She has commanded that your unification come swiftly. The command is simple, and Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh does not disappoint.]}

No, Sara's voice was strangely somber. No they do not.

The Given clapped their arms together, and the scene behind them shifted in flashes of blinding light. A recreation of a firing range came into existence, with a curated selection of weapons and armor set up within it. {[These weapons have been sanctioned to bring your people into peace, by force.]}

She found there was some inherent contradiction in that statement - though she understood it. "A Blessing?"

The form of the Given shifted. It assumed the form of a Human, a sculptured figurine made of marble, without joints, its limbs simply connected by Light where joints would have been. The ornate runes and designs across all of its body remained, a statue come to life that was uncanny, terrifying, and inspiring all at once.

With two fingers, it picked up a pistol, showing it to all of them. {[There are many in your entourage. Who among you travels paths of conflict? Come forth.]}

Milya expected one of the military officers would answer, but with shockingly little hesitation, it was Shaw Han who stepped forward first. He snapped his fingers and the Given tossed the pistol in his direction which he smoothly caught. The ease by which the young man held the weapon, fluidly aimed it, showed them all that he was intimately familiar with the art of combat.

Which made it curious when she saw him frown a few seconds after holding it. She saw his fingers run along the grip and barrel, as if feeling for something. He weighed it subtly, clearly confused about something that wasn't adding up to him. Unfortunately she couldn't guess it due to her lack of knowledge concerning weapons of any kind, much less ones like this.

Behind him, targets began manifesting in the firing range.

All of them were recreations of enemies they were likely to encounter; formed out of some kind of gray-silver material. There were Soviet soldiers in power armor. Americans in jungle gear. Chinese in light armor. Indian desert soldiers. All of them bristling with a multitude of weapons, all of them raised against the opposite end of the firing range.

AISN grabbed a second pistol. {[Firstly, attune it to the wavelength of your Light]} They took a stance towards the target; their Light then rang, and the weapon answered in tune. The sounds continued for a few seconds more, the ringing sounding, until there was only one noise.

Satisfied, AISN lowered the weapon. {[Secondly, munitions are for lesser implements of craftsmen restrained by the limits of perceivable reality. She expects more from Her soldiers. Your Light is gunpowder. Your will firepower. Your limits only what you define]}

They fired the pistol, and a white-silver streak emerged and slammed into one of the targets. A half-dozen successive shots followed, and Milya saw that with each hit, it didn't penetrate the target - instead it left behind a swirling, living, multi-colored crystal patch on the target which seemed to spread on grow like some kind of oil - or creature.

The liquid crystal seemed to stretch; grow, expand, as if trying to link itself with the other pools of liquid that were growing across the body. When the last shot hit, it sent the liquid crystalline into overdrive, which overtook the target, hardened, leaving behind a statue of brilliant crystal.

AISN lowered the weapon, turning to face them directly again.

{[Thirdly, the Blessing of Petrification. Subjugator of all things living.]} AISN placed the pistol down on the counter. {[Neurological matter is preserved via transformation into static crystal. All other carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen and oxygen is transmuted into a preservative shell around a core neurological crystal, formerly the brain, containing soul structure in a static state. Loss of life. Loss of information. None.]}

She was just able to follow along - and if she was right, these weapons weren't intended to outright kill. If done right, if used properly, they would be able to defeat the Triumvirate without a single casualty. Perhaps a tradeoff, but if this could be done with just hitting a few shots…

The rest of the group seemed to not be as upset of the non-lethal nature of the weapons. Shaw's eyes widened, and he looked at the crystal statue with unrestrained excitement. He seemed to be in a conversation with his Ghost, as he tried to do…something with the weapon, before holding it out to his Ghost, who resolved what he was trying to do with a flash of Light.

"Now where would our Guardians be without us?" Sara commented.

"Worse off, for sure," Azaña agreed.

If a faceless, marble facsimile of a human could glare, then AISN had perfected the art. {[You lack integrated weaponry of any substantial level.]}

Sara definitely seemed smug, as her forward-facing fins twitched. "So do you."

The Given flashed, and the marble statue was replaced by the multi-armed pillar with the white orb they had seen before; with the white orb seeming to glow just a little whiter. They they transmuted back to the more humanoid form.

Shaw was now getting more familiar with the pistol, going through some exercises, and preliminary aiming to get a feel for it.

{[Ergonomics?]} AISN asked. {[Weight? Feel?]}

"Exceptional," he murmured, mostly focused on the handling. "Never used anything anywhere near this quality, and I've gotten my hands on Black Armory weapons before. No magazine is going to take some getting used to, but…"

He fired the pistol towards one of the targets, creating another statue. Then without ceasing continued shooting. And continued shooting. Shooting for a period that Milya knew was far more than what should be possible within that tiny weapon, and he did not stop until there was a new field of statues.

"Yeah," Shaw nodded, eyes bright as he looked at the weapon. "I can get used to this."

"A question, honored Lightbearer," Amjah stepped forward. "Are these artifacts only meant for the Guardians? Or may any utilize these weapons?"

{[The Light provides,]} AISN said. {[Any attuned source of Light grants them strength. Any]}

There was a sudden whirring noise, and one of the Poukas, who had somehow hidden itself in one of Amjah's pouches, emerged happily, as if it had been personally summoned. Amjah leaped back, swearing in Arabic as the creature flapped its wings, circling him. There were some chuckles from the group.

How the hell did it hide without him noticing? She wondered.

Admittedly, Sara pointed out. All of you are a bit distracted. Besides, they are clever. Clever, curious, and on occasion, aggravating.

{[Do not be afraid,]} AISN assured them. {[They are unable to bear you malice]} With a motion, an assault rifle was in his hands. {[This one is well trained. He understands much. He has yet to receive a name speakable with a Human tongue.]}

"No, no, don't leave them in suspense," Sara demanded. "I want to hear it!"

The Given would have sighed, if that was something it could. But it did comply, and didn't…speak in a sense. It instead projected something; it was a mixture of air, song, and color. Milya had absolutely no idea how to possibly interpret it, but she knew that was the name the Aural was called.

"Thank you," Sara said, her fins twitching. "It's a beautiful one."

She tilted down to Milya. "Don't worry. In a few years, you'll be able to understand that. Aurals are fascinating conversationalists, especially the younger ones."

"I can feel the headaches coming on already," Shaw muttered. "My mouth is not designed to do that."

AISN offered the weapon to Amjah. {[Take it, and be not afraid of it]} with a sweeping gesture, they pointed down the firing range. Amjah took a few seconds to get familiar with the weapon, seeming to be as impressed with it as Shaw was, before firing it towards a line of targets. Unlike the pistol, so many bolts of the white-silver light spewed out it was almost blinding.

It took only moments of barrages for the targets to be turned into statues, and by the end of the demonstration, Amjah was firing in short, concentrated bursts that were incapacitating the targets, leaving nothing but a crystalline statue field behind.

"Incredible," he murmured, looking at the weapon.

"Yeah," Shaw nodded. "The Triumvirate won't know what hit them."

{[These are attuned to Her Light,]} AISN said. {[They can be attuned to any Light. Hers, her servants, or her Skyborne.]}

"I think," Amjah said. "This is going to win us the war."

{[These are your weapons,]} AISN said, as they turned to the second part of the demonstration. {[These, however, are your armor]}

The armory shifted, and they were on the opposite end of it. Now there were machine guns pointing at them. Heavy machine guns which the Triumvirate liked to employ atop their vehicles, or manned on their forts. Guns with a high enough calibur to rip enemy vehicles apart, much less people.

Behind them, segmented armor laid flat on a table. The Pouka that had been hovering around Amjah whirred again, and with a smooth loop and dive, slotted itself into a section of the back torso - which seemed to have been explicitly designed for it.

Then the armor came alive.

A faint white outline surrounded the segmented armor, which rose of it's own accord, linking its pieces together as it faced them. Milya realized that the Pouka weren't just strange metal creatures that held Aurals - they were battle shells, and meant to accompany the forces of Light into battle. Ghosts for the Lightless.

Amjah looked at the possessed armor warily. The helmet of the armor appeared to be looking at him, and the faint, expectant whirring could be heard. "Does it…want me to do something?" Amjah asked hesitantly.

{[This one has chosen you. He awaits you,]} AISN said. {[He will be to you as soul-mate]}

"Congratulations," Shaw bumped him in the shoulder. "You've been adopted."

Milya chortled, echoed by some of the others in the group, while the rest just smiled.

"Just what I always wanted," Amjah took a breath, and stepped towards the armor as pieces of it lifted off, and allowed him to step into it. "I guess I should get used to this."

"Do all Lightless get one of these?" One of the American soldiers who'd accompanied them asked while Amjah put on the armor properly.

The Given's motion was pensive. {[For those who have been gifted that which I have created, they will find an Aural bound to them, one eager and willing. Not all of your species will be given gifts of this magnitude, but those who are will be empowered in ways no mortal will comprehend.]}

Hands came together, a strange note entering their voice. {[There are few Aurals who are trained and ready for such tasks. Your associate found one of the few mature ones. More will be trained, more will come, but not yet. Not until the Darkness in this system is cleansed.]}

AISN turned towards Amjah again. {[Now, step forward, and do not be afraid.]}

A barrier of golden Light manifested between them, and Amjah. The machine gun lines opened fire directly on Amjah who raised his hands instinctively - only to find himself still standing. He seemed amazed at the fact that every single bullet either bounced off the white-gold shield that surrounded him, or was transformed into a drop of Light.

The Pouka sprang from the back of the torso, flitting around in the air, seemingly thrilled by the entire experience. Milya realized that the Aural must have transferred itself to the suit, but still had the ability to control it's shell. Like a drone. Or a Ghost.

Once a minute had passed, the guns fell silent, the demonstration made. The shimmering around Amjah faded, as he seemed almost petrified that he was still alive. He took off the helmet, breathing heavily, while the Pouka flew close, nuzzling him. He smiled, and scratched the machine under its proverbial chin.

{[The Aural generates an aegis of Light, and a secondary field. Anything that you perceive as a hostile attack will be transmuted into photons,]} AISN said. {[The plating is of godsteel. Deadly impacts will yield. Wounds, what little may occur, will heal. All weight will be negated. Jump]}

He followed the order, and was surprised when he practically floated. He did a few more tests, and they watched as he demonstrated that he could moon-jump. The Pouka returned to the torso, apparently wanting to ride.

{[Your every motion, as light as you wish it, or...]} AISN said, pausing. {[As heavy as you need it]}

The Given spread his arms. The place shifting, folding and unfolding in impossible geometries, then to a place that had been prepared for them.

A thousand suits of armor knelt before them, assault rifles braced against their shoulders. Swarms of Pouka were floating around them, some seemingly sleeping atop helmets, shoulders, or the weapons.

They awoke as one.

A long, keening purr echoed. Light rose in the air, as the armors stood up. Took hold of their rifles, and slammed their fists across their breastplates.

{[My time was limited. My commission grand,]} AISN stated. {[One thousand Pouka, one thousand Weapons of Light, one thousand Aegis suits. Each of them crafted by my hands. I have been commissioned to ensure you are armed and armored to satisfaction. Choose your champions well, and choose them soon. The hour of reckoning and choice approaches.]}

They all stood and beheld the army in awe. The power that would soon be at their command.

A thousand soldiers. A thousand weapons.

Could that be enough to bring down empires that had stood untouched for decades or centuries?

Right now, the answer seemed obvious.

Yes.

Yes, Milya believed that they could.

{[I ask then, of thee, does Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh disappoint?]} the Given asked.

"No," Milya said. "Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh does not disappoint."

A chant rang across the tower, from the very bones of the Spire. From every Pouka, and Aural within.

Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh.

Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh.

Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh.

{[Then let it be known, to all servants of the Light!]} the Given declared.{[The Steward of the Spire of Ire, Aya, Iyah, Saha, Neyoh, will never disappoint!]}.

Milya looked at Sara, who seemed to wiggle in anticipation as the air was charged around them with power, excitement, and emotion. A turning point was approaching; a leap which had been long in the making.

Everything was going to change, for the world, for Humanity, for each other.

Well? Sara bounced in the air, indicating the army before them. Let's get started. There's a lot of work to do.

---

FORWARD STAGING GROUND | NEOMUNA | NEPTUNE

Fang exhaled as he fitted his gauntlets, and began the final checks of his equipment. Assuming everything went well – they wouldn't be in such restrictive conditions, and would be able to actually use the Light. However, it was clear that was no longer something that could be relied upon.

Apparently the Traveler thought the same.

Gone was the conventional Triumvirate-origin armor, or other personal equipment that the Guardians had been using. Ghosts had teleported entire crates of armor and weapons that they said came from the Foundries within other Spires. Fang supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that more of them existed - and it was a good thing they had.

The armor was originally a white-silver, with a functional yet sleek craftsmanship to it that was far lighter than it looked. As the Guardians and Triumvirate forces had suited up, he was struck by how much they looked like an army of Light. He'd made a few decorative modifications - mostly having Shadow add some red coloring to the armor.

It wasn't just suits that the Traveler had delivered. There was a slew of firearms which had also been delivered - though calling them 'firearms' was a misnomer, since as Shadow had described them, they were weapons that drew upon the Light. Nearly every archetype was there - pistols, rifles, even some heavier weapons.

Fang knew that the weapons were more for the Triumvirate's benefit than their own - they had the Light to protect them which was more powerful than any gun. All the same, he'd grabbed one of the pistols, and kept the COLDHEART weapon - just in case. Based on the Traveler's willingness to arm Triumvirate soldiers with this kind of weaponry, it was clear conventional weapons were going to be ineffective.

Or She just wanted to indulge in overkill, which was understandable.

He slung the trace rifle over his shoulder, flexed his fingers, rolled his shoulders, and let the Light remain on the edge of his reach. The rest of the Guardians were similarly preparing, as the launch of the operation was likely hours away. The Triumvirate forces had been mostly working to restore order, but a significant number had begun preparing to support it.

It wasn't going to be the tens of thousands which had taken part in the initial Neptunian operation, but from what Fang had heard, there were upwards of four hundred of the Triumvirate's best (who were still alive) being mobilized for the Spire. Clovis Bray was among that number, and Fang noted that many of the forces he'd seen were Exos and special forces.

If they found it strange, or were uncertain of the weapons and gear they'd suddenly been given, they didn't show it. What they'd faced had likely made them unwilling to turn down help of any kind. It was clear for some of them that this was more than just in the interests of the Triumvirate. Humanity itself was at stake.

Which, Fang mused, might be one and the same for some of them. Certainly for Clovis.

To him, fighting alongside the Triumvirate was still a strange experience, but given what they'd faced thus far…

He was going to take all of the help they could get. Maybe Clovis would come to his senses and make peace after this, though he doubted it.

The period of rest had been short, but as Guardians, it was enough. Aunor was still recovering, and last he'd heard she was at least sleeping more soundly. He was glad to hear that, and that there were a few more Guardians coming in from Earth. That Neptune had already been cleansed of most of the Darkness no doubt helped their recovery.

And the Traveler who hovered above the world, bathing it in the Light.

The gold-white power of the Light was so bright and empowering that it was effectively a second sun in the sky. He knew that it was because She was working to heal the world from what had been done to it. Neptune would soon return to what it had been, but until that point, it was a distinctly different feeling planet than before.

The bitter cold was almost non-existent, the winds no longer blew strongly, even if the cold remained. But it was a pleasant kind of cold, and when he stood under Her presence, he could feel the warmth. He wasn't the only Guardian who'd taken to spending more time outside than in.

Under Her, the pains, discomforts, and ills of the world melted away. His new armor seemed to also react to the Traveler's power, encasing him in a comfortable golden cocoon.

"It's a beautiful sight, isn't it?" A nearby voice commented.

Fang turned to see a massive mountain of a man – almost as big as Shaxx standing beside him. He was clad in a mixture of the armor of the Traveler, with gear reminiscent of special forces strapped to it in various places. Conventional grenades, ammunition magazines, a couple knives, and even a medical kit.

It was an interesting mix, two very different styles clashing, but they did manage to work as the man had colored his own armor in muted colors of green, brown, and white. It was as if he was expecting to operate in a forest or jungle environment.

He was armed to the teeth with the new weapons of Light, a pistol and submachine gun holstered or hanging from his waists. Two rifles hung from his back, one of them a Light auto rifle, and the other - notably - one of the Häkke rifles, and the Colony weapon they'd recovered. He'd wondered where it had gone.

One thing was clear – this man was a soldier. A guerilla, and given the cool confidence he carried himself with, he was very dangerous. That was before even taking into account the Ghost hovering above his shoulder.

His hair was combed back, falling almost to his shoulder, eyes as brown as his skin, and with a mixture of Arab and Turkic facial features. He withdrew something from one upper pocket – a cigar, Fang noted, and snapped his fingers as a small flame of Light appeared above them, lighting it.

He smiled towards Fang. "Want one?" There was a flash of Light, as a new cigar materialized around his fingertips as he took a puff with the one in his mouth. There was a strange, almost playful, while also sharp look in his eyes; it reminded Fang of a criminal mastermind – an individual who possessed a certain illuminated madness.

"I'll pass, thank you," he politely declined.

There was a flash in the man's eyes; what seemed to be the faintest glimpse of disappointment - and irritation. It vanished so quickly that Fang wasn't sure he'd actually seen anything at all.

"As you say," the man said, as he placed it in his pocket. "Not like it's going to kill you anymore. The wonders of the Light, to render the vices of the world with all of the pleasures, none of the drawbacks."

Fang decided to move on. "I see you found the weapon."

"Of which I have you to thank for that, I hear," the man said, turning to look back at the Traveler. "A clever piece of engineering, one that might have a place in the battle to come. So long as the enemy deigns to fight on the conventional plane. I am curious to what conclusion this piece of the story is coming to."

"In what way?" Fang wondered.

"This display by each side, pushes and pulls, gambits and sacrifices," he mused. "This war is beyond our comprehension, frankly, it's beyond anything a mortal mind can grasp. Yet at the same time, I see her game being played."

He raised an eyebrow, though joined the man in looking up at the Traveler. "Do tell."

"She wants them to think they have won," he continued. "Why let it reach this far? Why not destroy the Spire? Is it because She is incapable? No, no, I think there is a game of assumptions and expectations being waged. Tell me, if you were the Voice in the Dark, what would be your choices?"

Fang considered for a moment. "Cause as much damage as possible, create as much chaos, sow as much havoc. Extract every drop of blood possible from the Traveler. Kill as many Guardians as feasible. Maybe destroy the Spire when everything is lost."

"I find these answers reveal the kind of person one is," the man said. "You are a fighter, a warrior, looking to face the enemy head-on in the glorious field of battle. Valid, from that point of view, but that is not the Traveler, and my answer differs from yours."

"And what is yours?" Fang inquired.

"The most important victory, for the Darkness, has already been won," the man smiled, pointing towards the Traveler with his cigar. "They know where we are. The chaos? The destruction? Even the killed Guardians? Pointless, useless distractions. As if the Traveler could not create a thousand more Guardians in a day. As if destruction cannot be mended, and chaos cannot be tamed."

The cigar seemed to go out. The man scowled, and relit it. "Anything more does nothing except draw more and more investment; critical experience and intelligence is conveyed to us. Their capabilities, their plans, their intentions. Imagine, if you will, if we were denied the experiences we are getting? If the first time we fought these forces was when they invaded?"

He smiled again. "Instead, they are kind enough to give us a taste of what is coming. She knows this. The mind behind the Darkness is a warrior; it is driven by a straightforward order of battle. A usage of existing resources to maximum effectiveness. She is more cunning, she fights with guile and subtlety."

"Or perhaps," a man said nearby, sitting cross-legged on the ground, eyes closed. "They are simply arrogant."

"Perhaps, perhaps," the man chuckled. "I should hope not though – because that would mean they are more dangerous. Based on what I have seen, if it is arrogance that makes them so sure of their strength, then they are in their rights to be arrogant."

A sigh from the seated man. "It's rude to not make introductions before you pick the minds of strangers."

"Forgive me then, manners are something I am not used to," the man said with a cocky smile, glancing down at him again. "Rezyl Azzir, Guardian. Good to meet the Voidwalker in person. I suspect we are going to need your particular talents in the battle to come. And the man who's just as bad as introducing himself is Jaren."

"Jaren Ward," the cross-legged man opened his eyes, standing. Unlike Rezyl, his attire was more understated, even though he also wore armor clearly of the Traveler. The armor was thinner, and covered up by survival gear that was still intricately woven together. He didn't look especially stand out like Rezyl did. With his hair in a military cut, pale skin, and Caucasian features, not much distinguished him from other white Americans.

Still, the eyes were more insightful, and Jaren's were…there was certainly a calculation to them, but also a softness that struck him as unusual. His confidence was more quiet, more assured, and the only weapon Fang saw was a pistol holstered at his waist - though not one of the Light weapons.

"A pleasure to meet both of you," Fang said, inclining his head towards Jaren.

"Likewise," Jaren returned the nod. "I'm glad we'll have you with us when we storm the Spire."

"So it seems," Jaren glanced at Rezyl's cigar. "I don't suppose you have another one of those?"

Rezyl smiled, openly pleased with the inquiry. "I can rely on you to have good taste, Jaren," he pulled the cigar and flicked it towards Jaren, end over end, which the man deftly caught.

"Do I need to light it myself?" He asked rhetorically.

Rezyl just smiled, and snapped his fingers, and a white flame appeared under them, which Jaren used to light his own cigar. He didn't hold it with the same experienced ease as Rezyl, but he took a couple small puffs as Rezyl extinguished the flame, seeming to be a bit more relaxed than before.

"It'll be good to have you at the Spire as well," Fang said, continuing the conversation. "If what I've heard is right, you both were with Osiris, and your mission was likely executed the cleanest out of all of us."

Rezyl chuckled, but his voice was proud. "Word spreads it seems. We get the job done, quick, clean and efficient. I suspect that's why they made sure we were in for the Spire itself."

"A slight embellishment of our accomplishments," Jaren said in an amused tone, with a raised eyebrow in Rezyl's direction. "Our task was, fortunately, straightforward compared to the other fireteams. If we'd had the complications other fireteams experienced, perhaps it wouldn't have been so smooth."

"I suppose that's true," Fang said.

"Or it's Jaren being modest - which I won't be," Rezyl smirked. "It's a pity that Siren didn't show up for us. Alas, I feel like I'll be tested once we enter the Spire."

"I'd be careful what you wish for," Jaren warned in a neutral voice. "She isn't to be taken lightly."

"Of course not," Rezyl waved off. "Far be it from me to downplay this particular scourge."

He smiled to himself. "Siren or no, it was an invigorating experience all the same," Rezyl recalled. "Neither Osiris nor Jaren would use such terms – but there is little that is as demanding as war, and there is little that is satisfying as testing yourself against those who fight for your ability to shape reality."

Between his fingers sprang strings of Light, which he played with as he continued. "It is one feeling to experiment in the comforts of peace, and put theories into the acid test of battle. The accursed choir never stood a chance."

That was not an attitude that Fang had found in the Guardians before. He'd definitely seen it in the military; that kind of boisterous, glory-seeking arrogance; the thirst and desire for battle. He'd not really enjoyed interacting with people like this, and what kept him from politely ending the conversation was there was something more behind Rezyl's boasting, and Jaren's moderating presence.

Besides, the Traveler had chosen him. She wouldn't do so without good reasons.

"What was your target?" Fang wondered, getting the conversation back on track.

"Another Darkbearer singing the Antiphon," Jaren answered. "An enemy that would have been difficult, were it not for Osiris' ability to counteract it. The intricacies of this particular school of paracausality elude me for now. So long as he could suppress or disrupt the Song, both of us could manage the wetwork."

Fang glanced back at Rezyl. "Something both of you have experience in, I assume? You've worked with each other before?"

"Not before our resurrection," Jaren said, his voice amused. "However, under Shaxx, we got to talking, and found we have a few things in common. Strange, considering what you likely see from us, but he is more philosophical and intelligent than he likes to let on. Many a man has died underestimating his persona."

"Trade secret, Jaren," Rezyl blew a puff of smoke, as Fang idly noticed that Jaren hadn't put the cigar near his mouth since it'd been lit. "Here you go, spilling all of my tricks to the world." He shook his head in mock disgust - though Fang felt there was an irritated undercurrent in the voice. "That's not polite."

"What goes for politeness seems to have developed for the worst, if your definition is to be taken at face value," Jaren said in a voice that could have been construed as sarcastic, but to Fang sounded just pointed. "He was Turkish resistance before his unfortunate death to the Triumvirate."

"Got fucking lucky is what they did," Rezyl grumbled, some genuine emotion seeping into his voice. No mistaking the anger there. No, not anger…embarrassment. "Drones are the weapons of cowards, and at the same time, only idiots wouldn't use them. No honor in war and counterinsurgency, and I respect that."

He said that, but his voice rang hollow to Fang's ears. As if saying it more for their benefit, than how he really felt.

"And you?" Fang asked Jaren. "American, I assume?"

A small smile crossed the man's lips. "Yes. As I understand, sniper corps. Unfortunately I lack the memories of my past like Rezyl does."

Rezyl laughed. "You're leaving out a tiny bit of context, Jaren. Want to tell him when exactly you died?"

"Now who's sharing personal details?" Jaren chided, though didn't seem offended. He fished in his pocket, and pulled out a small medal; a golden one, with the face of a man emblazoned onto it. Definitely a campaign medal of some kind. "This was found on my body, along with some dog tags. That's how I know my name."

"It's impressive, I presume," Fang said, looking at it more closely. "Unfortunately, I'm not…familiar with Confederation awards."

"It's not from the Confederation," Jaren said. "According to Shaxx, it's a campaign medal distributed to soldiers of the Union Army."

Now that brought it all together. Fang hadn't gotten caught up on all American history, but everyone knew about the American Civil War, which would mean Jaren Ward was… "All the way from the Civil War? You're probably the oldest one of us." He said, unable to keep some awe out of his voice.

"Yes, I suppose so," Jaren scratched the back of his head. "It's not quite as impressive, or interesting as it first sounds. It's not as though I remember anything from that time, and the Ghosts pumped us with knowledge of the modern world, so I can't even speak in an old-timey way, or be surprised by the marvels of modernity."

He chuckled to himself. "Probably for the best. Still, I do have a skill with marksmanship, and that seems to have carried over."

"Understatement of the day," Rezyl said. "I don't think I've seen anyone outside Marin come close to you – and she had the advantage of being trained by Simo. Besides, you put that thing together in a cave on Mars with barely more than a box of scraps."

He indicated the long-barreled pistol holstered at Jaren's waist. Looking at it closer, Fang could tell that it was very well-put together. The aesthetic reminded him of old western pistols, but this was bigger than any pistol. And it contained certain technologies found in modern, Triumvirate-era firearms.

Anyone who could put that together had a talent, that was certain.

"I confess to having an affinity for this particular interest, which might be more useful, in an age where guns mattered – one I suspect we're moving away from," Jaren said modestly. "But I digress – I feel we should be preparing for the Spire. I do not think it can be too much longer."

"I think the order will come momentarily," Fang said. "We won't be waiting forever. I don't think Valentin will want to, especially when there is war happening on Earth now."

"Hopefully there is something left when we are done here," Rezyl cracked his knuckles, his tone intense in a way that made Fang slightly uneasy. "I want to be there when this Caliphate marches upon New Delhi. I have unfinished business to attend to."

"And do what?" Fang asked.

"Find some closure," a dangerous light glinted in his eyes. "I recall quite vividly the rule of the Russians and Indians – but mostly the Indians. I have a few axes to grind, a few cities to raze, and the heads of a few people to collect. Justice, if you would prefer."

Fang was caught off-guard by the unrestrained venom in his voice. He knew very well that Guardians had strong feelings about the Triumvirate - himself among them. But at no point had the idea of razing cities been among his goals, or exacting specific prolonged assassinations.

Jaren raised an eyebrow. If he was annoyed, he didn't show it, or let it color his tone. "What are you, Rezyl? A Mongol? Genghis Khan coming to burn the cities, plunder their cities, and rape their women?"

Rezyl gave an exaggerated sigh. "Metaphorically, Jaren. Please, I'm not a barbarian."

"They you should stop talking like one," Jaren said mildly, putting out the cigar with an idle tap. "The Triumvirate is our enemy. They are going to be defeated. They would raze the cities, and destroy everything without a care for the lives, cities, and histories that have stood for centuries. That is not our way, and never will be."

"Alright, alright, point taken," Rezyl raised his hands in a mock surrender, a sharp note in his voice indicating he wanted to move on. "Still, I'm not going to lie and say that it's just about the greater, noble good. It's as much vengeance for me, as anyone else."

"Because it's right, or because you want it?" Jaren prodded.

"Oh, it is far more than just me," Rezyl said. "This is the vengeance of entire peoples against the crimes and oppression inflicted upon them. Vengeance that will burn the accursed Triumvirate to the ground, and instill the iron rule of the Light in its place."

He once more looked up at the Traveler, and tapped on the end of his cigar as he finished, his voice turning melancholic. "Men have ruled themselves, and the world has found them wanting. They have been given their opportunity. It is only right for the gods to now have their turn."

There was a prolonged silence after he finished, and Fang was more uncomfortable with the insinuation that Rezyl considered himself one of those gods who would rule.

Jaren's face was impassive, but Fang felt he was thinking of a more involved response. He'd since felt like he'd been caught in the middle of a conversation with a tempo and energy that indicated that both men regularly engaged in it. It was an extremely odd pair, one boisterous and arrogant, the other reflective and calm.

Both of them Guardians.

Jaren opened his mouth to speak, before Rezyl frowned, as he glanced to his right. Jaren did the same, and Fang echoed him.

"It seems destiny approaches," Rezyl said as Khojin approached them, armored, armed, and ready for war. Behind her were a small group of Guardians she'd likely also mobilized. "It's time?" He asked as she approached.

"It's time," she affirmed, glancing at Rezyl and Jaren. "Ready yourselves. We march on the Spire shortly."

"Understood, sir," Rezyl extinguished the cigar, and disintegrated it in a flash of Light, and a predatory smile remained on his face. "Let's go hunting."

---

SITUATION ROOM | THE MORNING STAR | ORBIT OF NEPTUNE

They gathered once more in the Situation Room within the Morning Star. The last meeting before they would arm and armor themselves before launching the operation to cleanse the fallen Spire.

The number of participants within the Situation room was of a similar number to the previous time, which seemed farther away than it had been. Valentin noticed that there were different Triumvirate officers or soldiers this time; replacements for casualties, or different personnel for this particular mission.

Clovis hadn't provided him a reason for the personnel changes. In the end, it was less relevant so long as they were capable, and truthfully, the non-Guardians were meant to serve a singular purpose.

Distraction and force multiplication.

With the equipment the Traveler had provided, participation on a large scale was no longer a suicide mission for the Triumvirate forces. Valentin was glad that they would be gaining some extra firepower, and the outcome wouldn't have to fully rely on the Guardians. Alone, the Triumvirate would certainly fail.

Together, they had a better chance to succeed. And they needed every edge they could, as the more Valentin had prepared to retake the Spire, and learned its capabilities, the more daunting the prospect had seemed.

Most of the gathered and assigned Triumvirate forces were made up of Exos and special forces. The frontline infantry were not sufficient for an operation like this – not unless they wished to be sacrificed. Only the best of the best on Neptune were prepared for something like this, and they were going to face an enemy in an environment that was almost certain to be worse than what they had faced so far.

Once again, Clovis and Valentin took their positions before the dimmed holotable, Triumvirate officers on the side of Clovis, and Guardians on the side of the Speaker, each of them waiting to begin. While there was a lingering divide between both forces, there was an understanding that hadn't existed before Neptune.

In this fight, they were all on the same side.

What happened after was a question when they had won.

Ghosts hovered above the assembled group, fins rotating and golden lights projecting from their cores as they created an approximation of the Spire which was hovering in the Neptunian sky.

"The Enochian Spire," Valentin began. "Our target of operation, and one which is deceptive from the exterior. This is not a place that is confined to the limits of our perceivable reality. Whatever you are expecting, be prepared to have it challenged. The interior is larger than it seems. However, this Spire can be broken into four distinct sections."

The Ghost focused on the lower section of the Spire, with panels and sections of the wall exterior highlighted. "Spires are designed with innate automated weaponry as a first line of defense," Valentin continued. "This will almost certainly have been appropriated by the Intercessor. These are automated defenses, which employ Godsteel rounds."

He looked around the room, at the soldiers and Guardians. "Each round is capable of penetrating any conventional armor – and even the Celestial armor will not be able to withstand concentrated rounds. Do not allow yourself to be hit, or you will likely die. Is that clear?"

There were affirmations throughout the room.

"Can they be disabled or hacked?" Elsie asked, pacing behind them.

Valentin shook his head. "Not these. They are directly controlled by the Spire, and the Ghosts are unable to access it from the outside. Our weapons will be able to take them out, but we can expect automated defenses and simple drones first."

Small projections of said drones were displayed in white light. They were basic by Celestial standards, and only capable of light fire support. Valentin knew what kind of drones She was capable of producing which drew upon the Light, closer to Ghosts. Without the Light, the Intercessor was kneecapped as to what it could produce.

Though against a conventional force, the drones would easily hold their own. Fortunately, they weren't a conventional force.

"Will we need to contend with Light-based or paracausal defenses?" Clovis asked. "Unless your Guardians are prepared, we are vulnerable without the Reality Anchors."

"Normally those would exist," Valentin said. "However, as the Spire has been corrupted, any Light-based paracausal technology is inoperable. In theory the Intercessor could employ similar Darkness technologies, but ones of that complexity can't be built with the resources and time they have. Not in this instance."

"Good," Clovis stated flatly. "Do you have exact points where the turrets will emerge?"

"Yes, and where the drones will likely emerge from," Valentin answered, before launching into the details.

A short discussion followed as they went over each position where the various turrets would appear, how often they fired, and strategies for mitigating the initial barrages. With the Guardians able to project shields, or directly attack the defenses, a plan was devised which would – if it was successful – mitigate the threat of the exterior defenses.

Valentin wasn't worried about this part of the operation, nor did anyone else seem to be either. They all knew the real battle would be inside, and Valentin would have been surprised if the Intercessor committed significant resources to defending the exterior.

That was not where their advantages lay.

The projections shifted, recreating an approximation of the lowest level of the Spire, which was reminiscent of an arena with honeycombed walls and streams of water flowing through it. "This is the Expanse," Valentin said. "The lowest region of the Spire. Intended as a acclimation zone for integrated Skyborne, and a staging ground for transporting supplies or materials outside. Normally, it is intended to be one of the most grounded and 'attuned' for visitors."

He paused briefly, allowing everyone to look at the outline. "It is very unlikely that it has been untouched. They have likely fortified it extensively to reduce the open spaces. They will likely employ snipers or ranged defenses along the latter third or half," as he indicated, a white line was created showing the area. "It will be a dangerous advance."

"We will be able to replicate their actions," Shaxx noted. "We can erect defenses as quickly as necessary with the Light."

"Agreed, but it isn't something we significantly prepare for until we see them," Valentin said. "They have numerous methods of preparation, and have an advantage in shaping the battlefield to their advantage. It is possible, though unlikely, they will only have minimal defenses to probe our capabilities. The Intercessor will likely use this first engagement to observe and adapt."

"Then the question is where the real fighting is guaranteed to happen?" Calumet asked.

"The Foundry," Valentin said, as the projection changed again to resemble a massive and expansive industrial floor. "This is where they will have to engage us. They need it if they want to continue supplying their forces. The Foundry allows the creation of paracausal and non-paracausal technology, weapons, armor, through fabricators."

"Can they produce the weapons and armor we have been provided?" Clovis asked.

"They can produce the physical models, but no," Valentin confirmed. "Celestial weapons and armor require a Light connection – which they don't have, and cannot synthesize. What they can do is produce armor and support technologies for their forces that are above conventional baseline."

"Ah," Clovis rumbled. "So this is how they've been equipping their forces."

"Yes," Valentin nodded. "They cannot afford to lose the Foundry if they want to maintain an equivalent military force, small as it might be."

"I expect our plan of attack will be methodical, moving from Fabricator to Fabricator," Shaxx said, indicating the layout. "They are likely unfamiliar with how to use the Fabricators effectively, which may be limiting their output."

"For complex paracausal technology, yes," Valentin said. "For 'basic' conventional equipment and tech, no. The Intercessor is aware of its limitations, and will have the knowledge to use the Fabricators as well as possible."

"Pity, but expected I suppose," Shaxx sighed.

"Once we gain control of the Fabricators, the Ghosts can begin using them to produce Celestial drones and technologies to use." Valentin continued. "It is another reason they will not let this go without a fight. The further we advance, the worse their position will become."

"That is assuming they allow us to keep the Fabricators," Clovis pointed out. "If they are losing them, they might attempt to destroy them to deny us this advantage."

"Possible, but they can be repaired relatively quickly," Valentin answered. "Either outcome is a victory for us. However, like in the Expanse, they will have time to entrench themselves and prepare for our attack. This will not be easy, but when we win, we remove their ability to equip themselves further."

"And from there?" One Triumvirate officer asked.

"We end their ability to raise an army," Valentin said, as the layout changed again. "The Well of Souls is above the Foundry. It is a mass-cloning facility where bodies are created, and souls placed into them. This is how they've been able to create their army – and why they kept coming. So long as they have souls captured, they can repeatedly put them into bodies."

"The implications of this aside, I presume this is not an instantaneous process?" Clovis asked.

"Correct, it isn't," Valentin confirmed. "At least if the process is to be done correctly – if done incorrectly, it will not produce anyone useful. They can't rush the process, and cannot treat their soldiers as expendable anymore. Though the closer we come to the Well, the more they will throw at us no matter the risk."

"Will the Intercessor intervene here?" Fang wondered.

"Possible, but unlikely," Valentin said after a moment. "The Intercessor is unlikely to intervene until we reach it at the top of the Spire. To maintain control of the Spire, it must remain at the center of power. When we reclaim the Well, it will shift towards a battle orientation, and likely cede much of it's attempted control over the Spire. We are likely to encounter the Siren, assuming she does not intervene beforehand."

"And in that case, that is something the Guardians will handle." Calumet finished.

"Correct. When it comes to the Siren, or the Intercessor, stand down and let us fight them," Valentin said, making sure to emphasize the point. "Non-Lightbearers will not survive – Clovis, Elsie, each of you will support, but do not attack under any circumstances. You will be made a priority target, and will likely die."

"Understood," Elsie said.

"Noted," Clovis said in a clipped tone. "Then the Triumvirate forces will focus on securing the area, and fighting the last of the Intercessor's forces. A task that is easier said than done, I suspect."

"As it is with everything in this operation." The last projection was another simple, small arena that was clearly at the top of the Spire. "Once the Well is secure, that will be the last place where Triumvirate forces can reliably assist. With the exception of Clovis and Elsie, myself and the Guardians will proceed to the top of the Spire, and fight the Intercessor."

The Ghost's projection changed to a recreation of the armored Intercessor, an imposing construct, with simulated Resonance around it, and holding swords in its upper set of arms, while the lower arms had the hands steepled into the distinct shape of a triangle.

"While most of you will not be fighting the Intercessor, it is important to understand how it functions, in case it intervenes earlier," Valentin said, looking around the table. "It will create an aura around it, which will debilitate and freeze all within it – including itself."

Another figure, an illusionary soldier stood opposite the Intercessor. "The Intercessor primarily operates on a simple mechanic – it cannot act until you do," Valentin continued. "You will be allowed to move, and then it will. No matter your action, beneficial or otherwise, it will interpret your action as a move, and act accordingly. You cannot make mistakes against it. Every action it takes will be perfect and intended to maximize each opening."

Clovis seemed skeptical as he beheld the projection. "I am curious why it would be constructed in such a way. Why induce such a field, but apply the same rules to itself? A strange self-induced weakness?"

"Because the paracausal effect cannot be induced without including itself in the aura; it is a Law that cannot be altered if the power is to be employed," Valentin said, deciding the simplified version was more useful than explaining the intricacies of the Sword Logic he had been becoming more familiar with. "It can fight without the effect, but it usually employs this strategy because its enemies don't understand it. Thus, if any of you face the Intercessor, you must not act without coordination."

He looked at the two nearby Exos. "Clovis, Elsie, that is where each of you will be critical."

"So we will have unlimited time between each action?" Clovis considered, then nodded. "Excellent."

"Correct, the power the Intercessor has is a double-edged sword. The larger the group it is fighting, the more vulnerable it is – as long as we properly take advantage," Valentin stated. "While it can focus it's power on a single target, it will expand it into an aura if the threat is sufficient. Everyone must make their move before it does. If executed correctly, we can inflict enough damage to kill it outright. If not, it will punish every single mistake we make, big or small."

There were nods around the room, and Valentin suspected that most of the soldiers were glad they likely wouldn't have to worry about fighting this enemy. "We each have our orders, plans, and parts to play," Valentin said, looking around. "This is not the time to be heroes – the further we advance, the weaker they become. Stick to the plan, follow orders, and don't take risks."

"This is correct. Do not deviate from what Valentin said," Clovis stated, explicitly addressing the Triumvirate forces. "The Guardians are better-equipped and prepared to face what is inside. You will rely on them, as they rely on us. Speaker, we are ready to begin."

It was said in a tone that left no room for debate. Valentin was mildly pleased that Clovis appeared fully on-board with the plan, with little debate. That struck him as strange, Clovis' questions had been focused and relevant, and he had been willing to defer without complaint.

It wasn't as though Clovis was unreasonable, but it was though he had realized this was an area he had little authority in – and ceded accordingly. While also doing what he could to maintain authority.

Strange.

"Disseminate your orders to your teams," Valentin ordered, returning to the meeting at hand as the Ghosts ceased their projections. "Ready your soldiers. You have six hours, and the assault will commence."

The Triumvirate soldiers saluted Clovis, and the Guardians gave their affirmations to Valentin as they filed out of the room, the clock already starting to tick down.

Soon, the most important battles of their life would happen.

And everyone knew there was a good chance that many of them wouldn't be coming back.

---

THE WHITE HOUSE | WASHINGTON D.C. | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES

It was not time for the declaration of war – not yet, at least.

However, Amanda believed that everything was in an acceptable place to begin the offensive. If war was going to come, then they were prepared to meet it head-on. The Navy was prepared, the Army was mobilized, and the Air Force was ready to strike. Soldiers from across the Confederation were arriving on the East Coast from South and Central America.

Battle plans were drawn up, the points of control identified, and the targets of interest to be captured, killed, or hunted. She knew that the Constitutionalists were doing the same thing, and their intelligence apparatus was more advanced and widespread, much as Brask and the DIA were keeping her ranks as clean as possible.

It wouldn't be enough to stop the Light from crashing upon them.

Perhaps the Constitutionalists would see reason, but more than likely they would refuse and force another civil war to happen. That was what she, and the rest of her cabinet, were expecting.

No time like the present to find out which.

She stood in the Oval Office as the call was made. Before her was a holoprojector, a piece of technology which had become commonplace throughout the Confederation government once the technology had been mastered. She knew that Cheyanne Mountain also had such equipment installed, and suspected they would know who was calling, and why.

A regular call would have been fine, but this she believed deserved to be made face to face.

Sure enough, a few minutes later the figure of Gordon Mirs appeared. The former Vice President of the United States, and now acting President of the United States. She'd not really had strong feelings regarding him. His claim to relevance was his low-key personality, administrative skills, and respective competence – all of which were ideal to Quinn.

Quinn hadn't wanted a puppet Vice President, but also not one too independent-minded. As a result, she'd treated Gordon closer to a subordinate than a partner, giving him significant freedom, authority, and resources to execute her agenda. He'd been an extension of her in all the ways that mattered, and had managed to flee before the capital had been secured.

She wasn't actually sure he'd been in the capital at all, she only knew that he'd been gone, and later turned up in Cheyenne Mountain as the de facto leader of the Constitutionalists.

He modeled the traditional Washington politician look. Clean-shaven, wearing a pressed suit with a red tie, Caucasian, short greying hair, his face starting to wrinkle, and thin-rimmed glasses resting on a long nose. An unremarkable, ordinary man by appearance alone - but not a fool, though not necessarily someone who could be reasoned with.

For better or worse, he was loyal to Quinn, and that was going to cause problems.

A flash of disgust crossed his face, though he hid it quickly behind a veneer of neutral professionalism. "Holliday."

She inclined her head, noting he didn't address her by her rank or title. Fine, she'd respond in kind. "Mirs. I wondered if anyone would answer at all."

"I was thinking the same," he said, his voice tactfully neutral. "Though I suspect neither of us is going to like what the other has to say right now."

"Perhaps," she shrugged. "I hope I'm correct in saying that war is something both of us want avoided."

"You are," his smile was small, and suspicious. "But as usual, the devil is in the details. Go on, I can tell you have something to say."

She nodded. "I would hope you are not delusional enough to think that things can go back to the way they were."

He grimaced at that. "Unfortunately, I must concede that fact. Your actions ensured that we are easily picked apart by outside forces. From the alien in particular – though as its agent, this doubtless pleases you."

Amanda kept her expression impassive. "I did what was necessary to preserve and protect the Confederation."

"By destroying it?" He snarled, this time not bothering to hide how he felt. "By letting it be carved up by the national separatists and communists? By fracturing the Triumvirate? By breaking the sacred tradition of the military being subordinate to the civilian government? The Rubicon has been crossed, Holliday. You destroyed America, and even if we win, that will remain with us forever."

She wasn't impressed or otherwise affected by the blistering spiel. His attitude was likely held by most of the Constitutionalists who held power. It did nothing to shift her view, and she felt not a single bit of guilt for what she'd done.

Not when she knew what came next would be a better America than what had come before.

"Your opinion is not relevant. You will not win," she said very explicitly; impressing on him the certainty of her words. "If what I have done has destroyed America, then so be it. If it was destroyed, it deserved to be, and I had been serving an illusion. The Confederation will endure, and I will make it better than before."

Mirs seemed equally unimpressed with her answer.

"You're a military woman, Holliday. An admiral, not a statesman," he retorted with a thinly disguised sneer. "Thinking isn't your strong suit. We both know that Gheleon and Wyndham are running things. I admit, I didn't expect you to throw your lot in with the communists, but traitors apparently are always full of surprises."

She only sighed. "If all you have are insults, then we should end this schoolyard childishness and focus on matters of actual importance. I have a war to prepare for, and so do you. Say your piece, or this call is over."

He pursed his lips, straightened, and looked her dead in the eyes. "Fine. My demands are simple. First, the immediate release of President Quinn, members of her cabinet, and any other political and government officials who were detained. Secondly, the reinstatement of the United States Congress, and safe return of sitting members. Third, the military surrenders power to the Speaker of the House until such a time as there are new elections."

He huffed, his face somewhat flush. "I am proposing a reset. We try and…repair the damage that has been done. Quinn is gone, which is what you wanted. Neither of us retain the Presidency. Power is returned to the civilian government. Elections held in half a year. Crisis averted. It isn't something everyone will be happy with, but compromises never are."

If she was being honest with herself, it was a far better proposal than she'd expected. Mirs wasn't a liar, nor was he particularly good at the Washington political game, so she didn't think he wasn't being sincere. The problem for him was that he was negotiating with a losing hand, and was pretending things were equal.

The decision was theirs.

The Traveler had allowed them to choose the path they would walk.

It was time to commit.

She cocked her head. "Or what?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'or what?'"

"Or what will you do?" Holliday repeated. "I have no reason to believe anything will change. I'm not interested in a reset. I'm not interested in pretending the ghouls and politicians in Congress have the interests of the nation and people in mind. I'm not interested in compromise, Mirs."

She clasped her hands behind her back, staring directly at the both flustered and angry man. "My own demands are as follows. The immediate surrender of all so-called Constitutionalist forces and leadership to American military officials. All territories, resources, and positions will be vacated in return for no prosecution following this surrender."

Amanda's glare became piercing. "Quinn and the presently-detained officials will be tried, but the remaining ones do not have to be. Surrender, and you will escape the judgement that is to come. Continue and you will be tried, convicted, and executed."

"You didn't call to find a solution to war," Mirs growled, his voice rising. "You just wanted to deliver an ultimatum!"

"You cannot win," she impressed upon him. "And you know you cannot win."

"Better than succumbing to a power-hungry tyrant," he shook his head in disgust. "I thought better of you, Admiral. A pity, but if you want a war, then you will have one, Amanda Holliday. History will view your choices poorly."

"We shall see," Amanda demurred. "We have nothing left to say to each other. I will see you on the battlefield, or the day of your execution. Until later, Mirs."

She ended the call before he could answer, with no doubt that he was fuming right now. MacArthur flew beside her. Are you sure that wasn't a little overdramatic?

"Maybe, maybe," she admitted half-heartedly. "But it did feel good. It takes a special kind of delusion to look at…" she motioned with a hand, drawing the golden power around her. "This and think 'yes, I can defeat this'. If Clovis can't, I'm not sure why he can."

Humans appear to have an impressive capability for self-delusion. MacArthur's fins clicked back and forth. A trait that is both fascinating and enraging in equal measure.

"Tell me about it," Amanda sighed, as the sun lowered before her, and another day came to an end.

It was done. The ultimatum had been delivered.

In only days, war would be declared, and the Second American Civil War would begin.

No going back now.

And this time, she would make sure the failures of the first Civil War were not repeated.

This time, reconstruction would not be carried out with an open hand, but with the sword.

Her Garden would be sown in blood; her enemy would have the swords buried in their hearts.

She had made her choice.

She had committed.

And she would not stop, until the last traitor was bled dry.

---

UNDER THE ENOCHIAN SPIRE | NEPTUNE

The faint sounds of the Antiphon wafted over the air as the forces of Guardian and Triumvirate alike gathered. Yet no longer was this the bombastic, overpowering, and entrancing song that had once existed, but seemingly focused on acting as a warning.

One the forces of Guardian and Triumvirate were preparing to discard. The division of power was no longer as stark as it had once been. Conventional weapons and armor had been exchanged for paracausal power, as the forces of the Triumvirate were now outfitted in the equipment of the Celestials.

The Traveler hovered over the Spire, as if an inverse eclipse where everything was bathed in golden warmth; all but the Spire, which turned away the passive Light in its shield of sickly orange luster.

An amber pillar which hovered in defiance against the Sky, a pointed spear under the Traveler which looked down upon it. Observing, threatening, at any moment with the power to obliterate it should She choose.

Instead, She refrained.

It was their task to complete, and theirs alone.

Valentin stood under it, looking up to where they would soon breach the Spire. The possibility and raw creation he saw; the golden, beautiful landscape was once more restored on Neptune – all but for the Spire, which stood as a static force. Unnatural, irregular, opposite to him on a fundamental level.

To reclaim it was not merely a victory for the Light, but a restoration of the natural order of how things should be. A healing of something that had been once warped beyond all recognition.

Every fight before now had led to this moment. Today they would succeed, and purge the Darkness from Sol, or they would not and She would suffer the price of their ineptitude. There was no acceptable outcome but victory today.

No matter who it was with.

It mattered little what happened next, today they had one single enemy.

Even if it was the last time they'd find themselves on the same side.

"[We are ready,]" Clovis said as he walked up. "[It is time to end this.]"

Valentin turned around; turned towards the organized divisions of Triumvirate forces, Exos and soldiers alike, with Guardians standing in front of many of the divisions. Hundreds who were about to fight in the name of a united Humanity. Men and women who were likely to die today.

They had each been given a fighting chance, even if he wondered if it would be enough to save them from what lay within. There was that lingering uncertainty, that question of what they would face inside.

He believed he knew what to expect.

But he did not know for sure.

It changed nothing.

Clovis was right.

It was time to end this.

He turned to Clovis Bray, and nodded at the General Secretary. "[Then we will begin.]"

Vigil floated in front of him as Clovis walked away to join his forces. The Ghost's voice was confident, calm, and proud. You are ready.

Perhaps not ready, but I know what I have to do.

You are Her Speaker. You were chosen for this. She has no doubts, and neither do I.

He smiled under his mask. Thank you.

In only a few minutes, each division of Triumvirate and Guardian was prepared, and he stood in front of the assembled armies. There were no more speeches to give, no more preparation to undertake. They were as ready as they were ever going to be. All that was left was to begin, and not stop until they died, or the Spire was liberated.

The Light cocooned him as he drew upon the power, all the more empowered by the Traveler looking down over them; Her benevolent and kind gaze giving them strength and life. She would be with them as they walked into the heart of Darkness, from the first moment, until the last.

Portals in front and behind him manifested, each one leading to the exterior base of the Spire which floated in the heavens above. He began stepping forward, as he already saw the defenses of the Spire activating at the approaching threats, and the first drones being launched.

He did not hesitate, he did not stop, his only feeling was resolve.

The Light protect, and the Light provide.

There was only one order to give.

His voice rumbled throughout the area; infused and layered in power, speaking with his voice, and Her own. An order of warning, power, and authority.

"||March||"

---

THE MAUSOLEUM OF VLADIMIR LENIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION

The Mausoleum was an attraction which brought a steady stream of visitors to it. That was if 'attraction' was the appropriate word that could be applied to it in the first place.

It was a memorial, a tomb, and a symbol all in one. One powerful and expansive enough that people from across the world came to pay their respects or tribute to one of the greatest men history had ever known.

Vladimir Lenin, one of the founding fathers of Communism, and the Soviet Union itself.

The man who had led the Bolsheviks against the corrupt Tsar, and ended the idea of Russian royalty forever. Who had served as the Chairman of the Council of People's Commissars, long before the modern structure of the modern Soviet Union had been established. Who had put Russia on the path to a superpower, and entrenched communism in the minds of Humanity forever.

But Lenin was only a man, and one who inevitably succumbed to the mortality innate to Humanity.

The Soviets would not let their symbol fade, however, and the choice was made to preserve the body for future generations to look upon.

Since this decision had been made to embalm and display Lenin's body so many decades ago, there had been discussion and controversy over the practice at all at regular intervals. Some had argued that displaying the corpses so publicly bordered on desecration, and that it was more honorable to bury the body, and turn the Mausoleum into a monument to Lenin himself.

These efforts, though passionately argued, failed each and every time.

Lenin to the Soviet Union, and the Communist ideology worldwide was more than just a man. He was a symbol of the Revolution; the hero of the proletariat, and patron saint of the most impactful movement the world had seen, one which had unquestionably changed the course of history.

And if the Soviet Union had their way, he would remain that way forever.

The Mausoleum received high-profile guests from across the world. Members of the Chinese Communist Party's Politburo, multiple Indian, and even American Presidents had come for official ceremonies or private pilgrimages. In the Soviet Union, from Iberia to Siberia, Lenin's legacy was unquestioned.

Even outside of the Soviet Union, from the Americas to Africa to south Asia, Lenin's name was as symbolic as it was powerful. A figure of such importance equivalent to George Washington, Mao Zedong, or Mahatma Gandhi in the world consciousness – perhaps greater than all of them.

A man to whom recognition and respect was owed, even for those who did not subscribe to the Communist ideology.

The number of visitors to the Mausoleum had dipped in recent months, a statistic that Diana was more attuned to than many of her contemporaries, though she was certain they noticed that the crowds were smaller than usual for this time of year.

It wasn't necessarily something she was concerned about, that was for the tourism teams to resolve. She was just a groundskeeper of the Mausoleum, and had been for nearly two decades. She knew the entire building – and the history of the man enshrined within – inside and out. Because of the prestige associated with the Mausoleum, it was a well-paying job, and those who helped maintain it were treated with respect.

That she was also in charge of groundskeeping efforts was an extra perk. She liked to do things her way, and took great pride in making the Mausoleum one of the greatest attractions not just in Moscow, but the entire Soviet Union.

One only had a single first impression, especially for foreigners, and having well-maintained, clean, and immaculate grounds went a long way to securing retention.

She kept appraised of other foreign monuments and attractions, such as the American Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, the Indian Taj Mahal, or China's Forbidden City. The Mausoleum was not quite those in function, but in terms of symbology and importance to the Soviet psyche, it was comparable.

Beyond the history, it was merely the myth of Lenin which she found fascinating, and had ever since she'd learned it in her classes. She was no theorist, though she was familiar with the tenets of communism quite well, and while she would never voice it aloud, found Lenin's brand of communism one she preferred.

She wondered what he would think of what the Soviet Union had become.

He'd be delighted, no doubt.

Still, even as visitor numbers declined, she wasn't exactly surprised. She couldn't blame people for being more preoccupied with…other things these days. The effects of war had reached even Moscow, and everyone was looking at what was happening in Europe with apprehension and fear.

She'd heard the General Secretary was returning. She hoped he was, and he would fix this.

Until then, the daily tourists mostly consisted of a few foreigners and elderly citizens.

It didn't necessarily matter to her job; she tended to the building all the same with a small team of women. She admittedly found her work a good distraction from everything going on. Privately, she was uncertain about some of what she'd heard –going into Africa was a strange adventure. Yet it was not exactly smart to announce such thoughts publicly.

She was only a groundskeeper; it wasn't as though she would be able to change anything.

Evening was coming, the last of the visitors were departing, and she began the regular routine of cleaning and dusting everything. Usually, the guests were respectful and didn't leave trash scattered around, even if they had a habit of touching things they shouldn't.

She gave a few friendly smiles and nods to the guards who had taken up the night shift, one of whom delivered his weekly package from his mother, who was a good friend of hers, who always shared some of her baked goods.

She'd enjoy those after she finished her work tonight.

Duster and broom in hand, she was so focused on her work that she failed to see or hear the black shadow dart above her, moving towards the room where Lenin's body lay. With few cares in the world, she methodically moved from room to room, cleaning and sweeping, before she'd routinely finish in Lenin's tomb itself.

And she froze upon hearing a very distinct sound.

Was that…breaking glass?

It was so unusual that she only somewhat registered where the sound was coming from. This had never happened before – vandalizing any part of the Mausoleum was so out of the question she dismissed it from her mind. Something had to have fallen, or another groundskeeper accidentally dropped something.

Perhaps she should have notified the guards, but the idea that she could be in danger never entered her mind.

She grabbed a broom and dustpan and made her way towards the sound, frowning as it led her to where Lenin's body was displayed. It was enough to give her a brief moment of pause. No one should have been tampering with anything in there at this hour – not even for cleaning. This time, she considered calling a guard just to be safe – before curiosity overrode her sense of fear.

With a jingle of keys, and one hand she opened the large doors. Taking a step into the room, and brightening the lights, she was suddenly aghast at what she saw.

The glass on one side of the Tomb was shattered – and Lenin's body was gone.

The sheer shock at realizing the body was gone was enough to paralyze her. The broom fell numbly from her hands, and blood drained from her face. She felt lightheaded as panic bubbled inside her at what had happened, and utter terror about if she would be blamed for a crime of this-

Her brain came to screeching halt for a second time as she realized that she was not the only one in the room.

On one side of the room, a short distance from the Tomb, stood a figure facing one of the walls where a portrait of Lenin was hung. The Tomb had been greatly expanded from the first years into something far grander, where portraits and certain artifacts of Lenin's were on display with plaques with trivia, quotes, and information.

The figure stood before one, not reading the plaques, but looking up at the portrait itself. A figure with pale skin, a balding head, and wearing a suit she had seen every single day for as long as she'd worked here.

Her mind struggled to process the reality before her.

It couldn't be.

He turned towards her, methodically and deliberately, likely after hearing the door open, and the broom fall from her hands. His face, so long having been embalmed, waxy, and preserved, was now once again alive. His moustache and facial hair on his chin was as full as ever, and with a healthy brown.

He appraised her with a piercing gaze, taking into account her dress, her shock, and her paralysis. It was then that she noticed some kind of white star-shaped…machine? Drone? She'd seen those before hovering around Guardians.

It was hovering over his shoulder; the fins twitching as it also seemed to watch her.

That alone would have terrified her, were she not already paralyzed.

He cocked his head and finally spoke. "[Do you understand me?]" He asked, his voice sounded slightly different than she was used to, but it was fluent Russian.

"[Y-yes,]" she managed to answer.

He looked around the room. "[Where am I?]"

"[Moscow, sir,]" she said, not sure how to address him. By his title? His name? Both seemed wrong.

He looked at the machine, as if holding a private conversation, then turned back to her, adjusting his suit with one hand. "[I apologize for the surprise you must feel, such was not my intention. Yet considering where I find myself, it is clear you know who I am. What is your name, madam?]"

"[Diana, sir,]" she answered in a small voice. "[Diana Andryukhina.]"

He inclined his head respectfully. "[A pleasure, Diana,]" he answered. "[I expect much has changed from last I remember – and I must become acquainted with what the Soviet Union has become. I hope the Rumyantsev Library still stands.]"

"[The Lenin Library?]" She automatically answered, and her cheeks reddened as she spoke the name. Of course he wouldn't have known about the name change. It was only because of her historical knowledge that she'd known what it had been called in the first place.

He only raised an eyebrow. "[Quite interesting. Yes, I think that will suffice. Would you be so kind as to guide me to it?]"

"[O-of course, it would be an honor,]" she said. "[I…they may be closed, but-]"

"[Then you need just take me to the location, I will manage the rest,]" he looked back to the tomb, an inscrutable expression on his face. "[I would prefer to leave this place as soon as possible. Lead the way, Miss Andryukhina. My time is short, and as I understand, Russia is once more at a crossroads.]"

She nodded quickly. "[Of course, it is not far.]" She waited until he was near, still wondering if this was some kind of dream or delusion, but together both of them left the room.

As she glanced beside her, she saw the man had a firm, satisfied, and confident smile on his face as he walked. His posture was straight, his gait confident, and his eyes were those of a man who had met the call of history once before – and was ready to do it again.

Together, both of them left the Mausoleum to the frozen and gawking guards, as the Ghost hovered beside the shoulder of Vladimir Lenin while they walked into the Moscow night.

---

TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XXVI | REQUIEM

A/N: So, Lightfall released. It was definitely one of the expansions of all time. I did not like the campaign. At all.

Moving on, this was a chapter I've been looking forward to for a few reasons you can probably guess (Happy International Workers Day, everyone). It was nice to have something of a downtime chapter before the next one, which will be 100% devoted to the Spire raid. I'm afraid you will have to wait for Vladimir Lenin's Adventures in Moscow for a couple chapters, sorry about that.

However, I think the next chapter will be interesting on its own, and I hope you found some interesting and enjoyable things about this one as well; a lot of work and help went into it. As usual, Edumesh and King have applied their talents to it, which elevated my own foundations beyond what I could do on my own.

Until the next chapter, and as always, thank you for reading.

- Xabiar