November 12, 81 GWE
A gloomy darkness. A frigid wind. Such was the typical night for the Lonely Guardsman, stationed at a military outpost in the Mistral wildlands.
At a time when most of his fellow soldiers were enjoying the festivities in the capital, and those remaining on base hosted a celebration down on the garrison's drill grounds, he stood vigilant atop a watchtower, twice-unlucky for having missed both parties. One among four such men and women, faintly can he see his compatriots manning their own watchtowers. Separated, they each still commiserated with their little group, and every so often the radio would crackle as one of them grumbled a complaint to the rest or he would catch sight of an arm waving, a gesture which he always returned.
As the hour wore on and the revelry below grew more boisterous, the voices on the radio began to take on a slurring tone. Nobody made mention of it, least of all the Lonely Guardsman, who thought he may well cry if an uptight lieutenant confiscated his only solace for tonight. The bottles, half-consumed now, had been passed along to him on the quiet by the wine merchant's kindly assistant—a faunus girl with fox ears that he could never admit to his comrades he found fetching—and the scent of her cherry perfume yet lingered as he sipped the warming brew.
It happened then, just as he gulped down another mouthful. A shadow of some kind flitted across his view.
Uncertain if it had been a trick of the light, he lowered the bottle and peered out over the base, searching the rooftops near the spot for whatever might seem amiss. His caution eased as a couple came stumbling out between two buildings, uniforms disheveled. The woman handed the man his forgotten dog tags, causing the Lonely Guardsman to chuckle, though with a bitter edge. What a night for everybody but him.
He could either cry or drink. He drinked.
Drinken? Drank.
Mere minutes later, his pity party was interrupted again, this time by the lights in the security office shutting off.
Working through the heady sensation left by the alcohol, the Lonely Guardsman tried to discern signs of movements in the darkened interior, wondering which fool had broken the lightbulbs because the room stayed unlit for far longer than it should. He started to get the feeling that something had gone wrong when the shadows appeared to come alive all across the outpost, slithering from place to place. A few blurred figures darted up the other watchtowers, and the realization of what he was looking at finally cleared the fog from his mind. The bottle dropped from his hand. The Lonely Guardsman fumbled for the radio strapped to his hip in order to alert the base.
Clumsy fingers managed to brush the metal casing right as a hand not his own swiped away the device. From behind him arose a voice he did not recognize.
"Sorry, dude. Can't let you do that."
He tried to swing around with a fist, hoping to catch them on the jaw. Next thing he knew, he was being swung through the air. The subsequent impact with the floor knocked the breath out of his lungs, and he laid there, groggy. Two people clad in clothing that concealed their features then held an indistinct conversation above him, though he had difficulty hearing the words due to the thunderous heartbeat, brought about by fear, pounding in his ears. He didn't want to die.
Soon, he felt hands grabbing him, binding his arms and legs. A gag was shoved in his mouth, and one of the unknown assailants hoisted him on their shoulder. Despite the situation, hope sprang forth. These were not the precursor actions to a throat-slitting maneuver. He might live.
"Again, so sorry," said the one not carrying him. "I can't promise it'll be a comfortable month for you. Our camp food is pretty meh, and the less said about the bedrolls the better. On the bright side, at least my friends and I got the Broody Bull to try things our way. He wanted to go choppity-chop on you guys. No compromise, no nothing."
Hearing of that alternative, the man found it hard to argue the point, metaphorically and literally. He was rather attached to his body, thank you. Still, nobody would call this good fortune, so the Lonely Guardsman spared a few seconds to curse his thrice-damned luck. Once done, he considered the possibility of an escape attempt. What would await him afterward from his superiors?…His eyes fell shut and he welcomed unconsciousness.
Yo ho ho, it's a prisoner's life for him.
The Mistralian military base went radio silent that night, prompting a recall of all forces previously on leave. Upon their return, the soldiers discovered an empty garrison devoid of both men and arms. Graffiti of ravens matching the calling card of the Branwen Bandits littered the area.
The ruse did not hold up forever, but it bought time enough.
-o-
"The artillery pieces are in Adam Taurus's hands, sir."
"Wonderful news! And what of our friend?"
"Extracted. He and his family have been picked up on the 'passing' merchant airship we scheduled, and are enroute to Arcadia."
-A conversation, office of prince Jaune Arc, November 14, 81 GWE
-o-
November 20, 81 GWE
Life as a slum rat in Vacuo got Sun Wukong used to the idea of punching up.
It started out with fighting the older kids over stale bread. Then came the adults, thugs and coppers who towered above him, and who believed that breaking bones was the best method for teaching hungry kids not to steal, not to mention the times they just found it funny to beat up someone smaller. Once he reached the age where their physical differences mattered less, it was the gangs that he contended against, people who claimed they owned a slice of the city and demanded tributes from those that had too little to begin with. Training to be a Huntsman had felt like the natural extension of a life that was all about making those stronger than him quit acting like bastards. Who else deserved to get knocked down a peg more than the Grimm?
Well, today he was going to punch a Kingdom.
Probably. Maybe. So long as the plan went off without a hitch. The situation was very fluid.
Sun smacked his cheeks with his hands to snap himself out of the spiraling doubts. The action drew a questioning look from the man waiting beside him, which he waved away with a smile.
"It's nothing, Adam. Just nerves."
Kneeling in a formal resting position, the bull Faunus nodded. "Such is common before any battle. I recommend that you meditate as I am currently doing."
"Nah. Nah, that suits you better. Staying still is bad for my health." Antsy, he leaped from his seat on the boulder and began pacing.
Adam seemed to regard Sun's lack of discipline with a reproachful air, but not to the point of commenting on it. The forest greens hid them from view anyway, ensuring their presence would not lead to discovery even if Sun decided to gather everyone for a rendition of the cancan dance. The anti-airship cannon was an exception due to its size, a risk mitigated by covering the thing in camouflage cloth.
He had to admit, the sight of that massive weapon calmed him down. Attacking an airship sounded impossible until you see the size of the shells this cannon could fire; a person hit by it would leave a smear at best. Aimed at the sky, the artillery piece awaited its prey.
What it can do to an airship, he shuddered to think. Each ship carried a lot of crew and soldiers, many of whom were sure to die due to the choices he made. Merely thinking of it was making his hands shake. Team leader he may be, the weight of responsibility here dwarfed anything he had ever done. A little voice in the back of his mind told him to run, and he will not deny how attractive he found the suggestion.
Vacuo taught him a lesson on that, though. Fleeing, or averting his eyes, never stopped the wrongs being committed from happening.
Drifting off to childhood memories of the bad old days, he missed Deery—a deer faunus recruit of the White Fang—waving to catch his attention. She soon gave up and walked over to press a scroll into his hand. His sheepish apology was met by a quick smile—one that looked rather cute, he noted—before she returned to her post.
The voice of his best friend came from the device.
"Sun? Suuun? Hello-ooo."
"Yo, Neptune! How's it going on your end?"
"Everything's good. We ran final calibrations on our gun. Right on time, too. Social media accounts from the nearest town blew up a minute ago with pictures of the Armada passing above them. I estimate about half an hour before they reach our location."
Huh. How about that. Trust Neptune to chill on a scroll in the downtime, and unintentionally rendered all of their scouts redundant in the process.
Around Sun, the outpost awoke in a flurry of activities at the news. The firing team performed their last checks to ensure proper operation; two men were practicing their reload technique while Deery reset the targeting program on the computer. Adam ended his meditation and slid down the boulder to land beside Sun, where he stood with a quiet focus.
"Got it, bro," Sun said. "Nice job catching that detail. I knew there's a reason I brought you along."
A jest, that. He never asked his team to, they followed him; Neptune, Sage, Scarlet, and the dozens of their classmates who overheard him explain to Neptune why he was leaving Haven. Turns out, a lot of people shared his ideals of punching bastards in the face. Even— especially when that bastard was a Kingdom.
As was common by now, Adam could not resist sniping at Neptune for long. "You had better keep your mouth shut about our location, human. I wouldn't put it past an idiot like you to post a selfie next to the damn cannon."
"C'mon! What do you take me for? The Nepster is a master of secrecy." One could imagine the sparkly grin his friend must be sporting on the other end of the call.
Sun winced as he heard Adam ground his teeth together. The other man has a bit of a problem with humans existing on Remnant, and made that clear on many occasions. Neptune responding to the many threats with a deliberately-flippant attitude has put him right in Adam's crosshairs, and it's been hell on Sun serving as the peacemaker between them.
In the interest of forestalling another tirade from Adam on cutting off heads and whatnot, Sun bade a hurried farewell to Neptune, and hung up. He then leveled a disappointed look at the bull faunus.
"What?" Adam crossed his arms in an almost petulant gesture. He knew what he did.
"My friends already showed what side they were on when they helped in the raid, didn't they? At this point, you're just playing a broken record every time you question their loyalty or competence."
"Pheh. A one-off means nothing. You will see in time that I am right."
With a rueful shake of his head and a fake smile, Sun let the matter rest, knowing well by now they would talk in circles if this continued. Still, he took heart at what sounded very much like a grudging acknowledgement hidden under the stubborn prejudice. Two weeks ago, the man would not even allow that; never a positive word on humans, was Adam.
What strange bedfellows the situation has forced together, with Sun Wukong shoved squarely in the middle.
The culprits responsible for the massacre of Durnel deserved whatever came their way, every member of the cheekily-named Sunny Troopers agreed on that. Those psychos, and the White Fang as a whole, did not represent the faunus race, no matter what they claimed. Yet, Menagerie was not synonymous with the White Fang and the decision of Atlas to send their armada to the southern island instead of combing through their own land for the perpetrators made sense in only one context: Atlas intended to kill a whoooole lot more than just terrorists.
Menagerie will burn unless somebody stops the armada. It so happened that the 'somebody' included the White Fang themselves, faunus who hate the organization, and humans.
Deep down, Sun wondered if this crisis would create the chance for people to foster a real understanding of each other at last. That one hope was what prompted him to keep a smile ever-present across his face these past few weeks as he played mediator among the various factions of their little army. Maybe, just maybe…
Eh. That was a thought for the future.
Time passed at a deceptive pace, seeming slow to the point that he wanted to lie down for a nap. Other people checked in to hash out the details of the operation. The calls arrived often enough that it became easier to just connect everyone into a video chat. As expected, it led to Adam and Neptune continuing their spat, providing entertainment for the bystanders. A fretful Deery kept worrying needlessly over the equipment that had been inspected to hell and back. The hectic scene reminded him of the days leading up to the Vytal Festival. Atlas was supposed to host it this year with his team slated to travel there next month. The plan sure has changed.
Connected by the video call, they all heard the shout from Reese of Squad Four.
"The armada! I see them!"
The atmosphere changed in an instant, sharpening to an edge. Whatever misgivings they harbored fell by the wayside as time ran out. Taking positions, everyone turned their eyes towards the sky.
It began as dots cresting the distant mountain, visible to those with the sharpest eyes. The dots grew larger, more distinct each minute until the people on the ground could tell apart the individual details on each aircraft. The ships featured a uniform design, slim hulls flanked by two bulky engines and six spiky tail fins. The fleet as a whole cut an impressive figure, fifty-strong to shake the forest far below with the force of their propulsion. One in particular dwarfed its brethren, identical but for measuring thrice the size of a normal craft to proclaim its status as the flagship. The ship flew at the foremost position.
Such a big, attractive target. Little wonder that the five artillery pieces oriented themselves to fire at the thing. Cut off the head of the creature, and they could end this madness before it truly begins, while keeping casualties to a minimum. That was the one idea everyone was happy to throw their support behind. A singular, decapitating strike to achieve victory.
"Target in range," reported a spotter from Squad One. The other teams soon chimed in with similar confirmations. To Sun, the ship still appeared too far, too high for them to hit. He peeked at the computer screen showing the targeting reticle and calculations, but was unable to make neither heads nor tails out of the numbers, and so accepted their words on the matter.
"Target locked." Five times the words were said. The people in the seats waited for the command. Without hesitation, Adam obliged them, a vicious grin on his face at the prospect of laying low his sworn enemy.
"Fire!"
Deafening booms rang out across the forest as five fiery streaks shot for the head of Atlas's 3rd Armada. With no time to react, to evade, the flagship had to bear the full brunt of the attack. Explosions, the type that could have leveled entire houses, bloomed in the sky to create a second sun. Despite his qualms, Sun Wukong whooped in triumph at the sight. They've won! One and done!
His heart sank, and so did the grin on Adam's face, as they noticed how parts of the blast looked out of position, not centered on the ship according to their expectations but detonating a distance past the target. Not all their shots struck true. Apprehension deepened when the smoke cleared and they were granted a view of the flagship yet flying aloft.
The shields had gone up in time. Scorchmarks peppered the aircraft's bow, and sections of the steel hull bore minor dings here and there, but ultimately the shields mitigated the worst of it. A fraction of the damage dealt had bypassed the Hardlight.
"I've got a hit." Neptune notified the video chat.
"Hit."
"Miss."
"A miss here."
As Adam screamed a guttural "Fuck!" in the background, Sun added his report, "Hit. Everybody reload, we have time—"
"No!" Neptune cut in. "Squad Two, get out of the area, they've got a lock on you!"
Sun's head snapped up towards the fleet. Whereas most of the ships opted to gain altitude as fast as possible before backing off, one among them stayed relatively low, moving fast and charting a wide circuit to minimize their exposure to the undiscovered AA cannons.
"That's our quarry, then. Squad Two, evacuate. Other squads, aim for the inbound ship." Adam ordered. "Fire, fire, fire!"
A countercommand followed from Neptune. "Belay that! All guns go silent. Don't shoot!"
"Ignore the human!"
"We're panicking. Shoot now, we'll just miss and give away our positions. Hold fire. Trust me."
Adam certainly did not trust him, but Sun did, and after he gave an endorsement for his friend to the chat, the two faunus men stared down one another. The sound of an AA gun firing marked a partial failure on either of their parts. A glance at the scroll showed Squad One heeding Adam's order, the rest maintaining cover though very unsure if it was the right course of action. The succession of misses registered by the person manning the call on Squad One's side caused many to groan in dismay. Their grasp of operating the weapons were rudimentary at best, and Squad One demonstrated that flaw here, failing to land a blow on every count.
Past the treeline, they watched the pursuing airship slow down to hover in place, the cannon strapped to the underside of the hull emitting a glow. Everyone flinched as the subsequent blast shook the ground, and rendered one of their few means of striking at the armada into wreckage. Scant minutes later, a repeat marked their second loss, Squad One and Two on the run from what their camera screen displayed.
"It's a bust."
Sun did not recognize to whom the defeated voice from the video chat belonged. He tried to refute them, but found himself gulping air, unable to deny the reality of their situation. They have tried, and they have failed. The justice touted by Arcadia had been unable to stay Atlas's wrath. The alliance of faunus and humans today slowed the fleet for less than an hour. Nothing remained to prevent the 3rd Armada from exacting vengeance upon Menagerie. The island was doomed.
Whatever morale, whatever confidence they gained the last couple of weeks vanished in seconds, hopelessness setting in. Already, some were shedding tears. They had families on Menagerie. Lived there, during their childhood.
Sun hung his head, and sighed.
Then, a cannon roared. Neptune's team started firing. Full tilt, all out, shell after shell loaded and unleashed like clockwork. In between shots, he explained his plan.
"Aight, I'm gonna need y'all to keep quiet for me. Leave them the impression that everyone else has run off." Boom. "I'll make us a threat they can't ignore. Invite a response. There's a pause they do when they bombard the area. That's your chance. We're going to at least give them a black eye for the shit they're trying to pull." Boom. "Sure wish we still had another cannon, but I think this can work. And Adam? This is why you leave the planning to the intellectual. Boom, mic drop." Boom, cannon shot.
The airship in question hesitated at this new show of opposition, no doubt requesting orders, especially as Squad Five hit their groove, and the shells impacted the shields more often than they missed. At last, the ship started to accelerate towards the source of the attacks, trusting in its Hardlight defenses to weather the damage.
Sun understood the plan at that moment. One cannon was incapable of piercing the shields of a ship. Two together may find success.
"Just need to keep up the pressure, is all." Boom. "I've got this, be ready." Boom.
The ship passed above their heads, casting them under its shadow. Even knowing it would not help them stay hidden or cause their detection, Sun stifled his breath on reflex, as did Adam, Deery, and co. After it was gone, he said into the scroll.
"Anytime now, Neptune. It's getting awfully close."
"Not yet. Gotta draw them in a little further." Boom. "Have patience, man."
When, then? The airship was almost in position. Worried, Sun judged the distance, and glanced at the crew working at a frantic pace to adjust the angle and aim of the artillery piece.
"Target locked," Squad Four's spotter declared.
Sun checked with Deery, and echoed, "Target locked. Good job, dude. Leg it!"
"Not yet. We're ready but they haven't committed to the maneuver yet." Boom.
"Uh…" Sun looked up again, and paled. "Neptune. Bro. Fucking go!"
Instead, his friend called out, "Fire! All guns, fire!"
The recoil of the nearby cannon sent a shockwave under his feet, and Sun stumbled, landing flat on his face. Pushing up, he craned his neck to observe the result.
A direct hit! Two!...Three?
Before he got a chance to question what he saw, the ship returned fire, the shot sending dirt and trees high in the air. The airship had committed, and the AA guns punished the opening with another round of shells. Then again as the craft's engines thrummed with Gravity Dust, shifting from an offensive to an escape. A cheer went up as a secondary explosion occurred inside the protective cocoon, spurring the two teams to continue the assault. On the third volley, chunks of the outer hull broke off. A thought passed through the minds of each person there: The end was near.
The next pair of shells proved that prediction true as they drained the shield of its last Hardlight Dust and punched through, blowing up near the engines right as the thrusters pushed the ship forward. That was the one to do it in. Humans and faunus alike watched agog as the airship listed to one side.
Credit to them, the ship's crew endeavored to salvage the flight, engaging the failing engines to eke out lift so that they may soften the impact, the ship careening on a diagonal descent instead of a straight drop. The landing still kicked up what felt like an earthquake, with plumes of smoke and dust covering a swathe of the sky afterwards.
Adam was the first to break out of his stupor, a disbelieving laugh escaping his throat. It turned into roaring guffaws, the man falling on his ass as he gazed in the direction of the downed ship. Others awoke, and—spluttering, laughing, crying—they shouted their amazement to the heavens. The video chat dissolved into a mess of staticky noises as the volume of the celebration overloaded the speakers.
To the world at large, it would be but a footnote in history—unrecorded, untelevised, and forever downplayed by Atlas. To the people here, they will always know today as the day humans and faunus banded together to strike the first blow in this age of airships against the invincible Atlas Military, mere ants daring to stand up against those stronger and giving them a black eye.
Amidst this moment, a boy stared at the blank spot on the chat screen where a camera had disconnected.
"Neptune?...N-Neptune?"
-o-
James Ironwood had seen commanders fall apart in situations like this. Complete breakdowns, due to either guilt of the lost lives or fear of career ramifications to themselves. He respected one type of commander over the other.
In his case, James did neither. He closed his eyes, and in the span of three seconds he compartmentalized—or suppressed—any and all emotions so that he could focus on the task at hand. His Semblance revolved around the process, and it had acclimatized him to performing the steps by simple will rather than by soul.
Opening his eyes, he looked to his aide-de-camp with a stoic expression. The man was prepared, a scroll in hand bearing a report of the crashed ship, the SW005, that he summarized for the general. Listening to it threatened another wave of inner turmoil.
No casualty list existed yet, not so soon. The surviving crew of the downed ship were still reeling. What they had was a cursory estimate based on the sections of the vessel where requests for contact by the bridge went unanswered. As of now, most of the ship returned with complete silence. It boded ill.
First, he dispatched two ships to render aid; the NNE002 to eliminate the enemy emplacements, which would allow the SW004 to approach its brethren. Then, he ordered the armada to continue heading southward.
Simple and efficient. The minimum force to rescue the survivors and salvage critical parts of the ship before it can fall in White Fang or, worse, Mistralian hands, while sticking to the timetable dictated by his superiors.
Heartless? Perhaps. As much as he wanted to say he would 'leave no man behind', HQ demanded otherwise. The mission took precedence, and whatever he failed to accomplish as a consequence was on him to accept personal responsibility for.
(Of course, those who wished to see him resign in disgrace would now spin the situation as him taking 'multiple' losses instead of one, and sustaining 'unacceptable' damage to his flagship. Compound that with the men he stationed in Mistral city to investigate the slew of missing officers and ship personnel, and a minefield of factional politicking awaited him in Atlas.)
Just as he turned his attention towards the next set of issues to be addressed, his aide-de-camp stiffened in place. The tell was a familiar one.
"What has happened?"
"Sir! Unidentified hostiles rushing at the South West Fiver. The men are mustering a response to meet them—" An update arrived. "Confirmed use of Aura." A rush of notifications sprang onto the screen, and the aide's tone grew decidedly harried. "They're dodging bullets! Imminent contact…unidentified hostiles have breached the ship!"
More than Aura, it seemed. The level of skill suggested Huntsman training or equivalent. He wanted to say White Fang operatives, but there had been that recent piece of news about missing Haven students…
No matter. If they were the latter, then they have lost any protections afforded them by Mistral, whether from citizenship or status, the moment they attacked his troops. The real concern was in how he would answer this new development.
With a grimace, James shed his forces of four Specialists teams, to be deployed on dropships as soon as the rebel's cannons were silenced. A dear price, yet one marginally better compared to a third airship waylaid for days subduing insurgents and rescuing hostages.
The costs were adding up before he ever reached the shores of Menagerie.
-o-
November 22, 81 GWE
"Only one ship disabled for good? Disheartening, but I suppose as a test case it proves our strategy somewhat viable."
"They do lack training, sir, and possess five cannons, all told."
"Quite. I expect our fifty will do a better job."
Jaune would prefer fifty actual airships. Nothing beats numerical superiority.
Current production capability for Arcadia can eke out four ships in the next two years, so that dream was not happening any time soon. And while they can muster the number if they summoned all airships operating the trade routes in Vacuo and Mistral, along with the few not yet withdrawn from Atlas, the act carried ruinous implications for the economy of his home. Near total loss of revenue, immediate debt recalls, supply shortages across the board, international sanctions…let's avoid that option.
It would look too alarming at the current juncture, besides. The world need not find a reason to fear the little Principality. Yet.
The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and clouds of sand whipped into the air as one of his airships set down the next gun emplacement next to the shore. The work crew proceeded to the now familiar task of securing the installation, before testing it for normal functions.
The cannon was just the newest link in the long chain winding back and forth along the beach. Unlike ships, anti-airship artillery required a fraction of the material, cost, and time to produce. Even better, some were already built and had been sitting in reserve back home for months until he requisitioned them for the cause. Shipped by sea, they served as the cornerstone of Menagerie's defense.
Judging by how some individuals among the spectating crowd wore a certain look, covetous and calculating, he would not be surprised if there were people drawing up plans to commandeer the cannons. Fewer than it would have been three weeks ago, considering the majority of the island were terrified of him, but enough to draw caution. He would have to bolster the guard presence.
The sound of sand crunched under footsteps brought his attention to the approaching Blake Belladonna. The AA guns have captured her interest, though in a negative light. She frowned as she studied the constructs.
Wistfully, she said, "The night I allied myself with you, I had hoped to soon see trees and fields of grass springing forth from the barren land, not armaments. Crops that we can use to feed the hungry, rather than bullets."
"Were that I could, I would, and gladly. The sort of developments you seek will come later."
"I wish I could be as confident in our chances. A war with Atlas…I don't know if any of us will survive."
"It may not even come to that," he reassured her, and swept a hand across the beach. "This here is a show of force. A way to send a message with emphasis. The mere act of arming ourselves will give them second thoughts."
"And they'll retreat?"
"Ideally. Airships are not cheap, and we are an entrenched military force with the means of hurting their armada. The cost to displace us—no, the cost to simply try is higher than they know at this time. To see for themselves, it may change their mind."
The gloom cast over Blake thawed, and a soft smile took its place on her face. She must have needed to hear someone say it, that everything was going to be okay. Jaune shared a glance with his Adjutant; a surreptitious nod established an understanding. Silence is golden.
Clearing his throat, Jaune shifted the subject to a different topic. "Blake, I have a request to make of you." The cat ears grew still to convey her interest. "There is an opportunity here, I think, for our people to collaborate. The cannons represent a significant drain in personnel, and my soldiers have a thousand and one jobs to perform. If you are able, may I request your assistance in finding volunteers to alleviate the issue."
"Y-you mean, to operate the cannons?" Sheer incredulity laced her voice. Are you mad? Is this a trick? her expression seemed to say.
"Yes, they'd join a mixed regiment of Arcadians and Menagerians. Think of it as a test on how well we can integrate our societies."
And, how well he can turn them to his side. At the moment, Menagerie was split between those who despise the occupation to the point of wanting to kill him and those who fear it too much to do anything. He wished to fracture the population further, and cultivate a new group. Those who would love his rule.
No matter their intentions going in—to fight Atlas, to spy on him, to get paid, to seize control of the guns in the future—they would catch condemnation from their people for seeming to collaborate with the 'enemy'. Isolated from their neighbors and surrounded by his soldiers, they will find camaraderie, common cause, and respect. Good pay, good food, and good company awaited them. People have sworn their loyalty for less.
Then, someday, they would travel the sky in his name, and be proud of it.
On the other hand, if they harbored ill will, and saw this as a chance to turn his own weapons against him? Well, only one group operating the AA artillery pieces will carry arms, and it sure would not be the Menagerians.
Just because you were taking a risk, did not mean you neglected to anticipate the worst scenario.
Author's Notes: (。￣-￣)