The Seventh of Mon, 2081
Ravengra, Daygis
The oppressive grip of the Capitol's lockdown had transformed the once-thriving metropolis into a haunting ghost town. The usual lively parade of pedestrians, bustling market stands, blaring horns, irate commuters, and the constant rumble of the monorail connecting Ravengra to its commuter suburb of Benita had all vanished. In their place was an eerie silence, broken only by the mechanized hum of the city's inhabitants going about their daily routines with mechanical precision.
For Francis, the life of the average Ravengradian felt monotonous, a never-ending cycle of robotic existence. Each day began with the same ritual: wake up, perform the necessary hygiene rituals, get dressed, step out the door, either drive or take the rail, clock in at work, endure the long hours, break for lunch, return home, and then prepare to do it all over again. It was a life devoid of spontaneity, passion, or any semblance of true living.
In stark contrast to the coastal and northern cities like Altmar, where trees flourished in abundance, Ravengra appeared as a bleak and lifeless expanse of bricks and mortar. Altmar, nestled on the high plains, had gone to great lengths to import trees from across the nation, adorning its streets and even some skyscrapers. It stood as a testament to Daygisi engineering, city planning, and environmental consciousness. Altmar had proudly earned its title as one of the nation's first "Green Cities," a designation that filled Francis's memories from the pages of a magazine.
But Ravengra remained in stark contrast. It lacked parks, greenery, or any national monument worth mentioning. Instead, it clung to its industrial roots, housing many of the older industries, factories, and, consequently, much of the nation's political elite. The senators, often leaders of these industrial enterprises, made their homes in this city. For them, Ravengra was nothing more than a sprawling plantation, and its citizens, slaves, dominated by their pride in their twisted perceived cultural advantage.
Elber had long nurtured this environment when they ruled the nation, deliberately maintaining the status quo. Its puppet leaders, the ones dancing to Elber's tune, had never entertained the idea of relocating the seat of power to a sunnier, more progressive location. Ravengra served as the heart of their control, a symbol of their dominion over Daygis, and they had no intention of letting that grip slip away even in independence.
Cecilia Johanson stood atop the Unmanned Ground Vehicle, her gaze fixed on the line of captured senators as they emerged from their confinements. In an orderly fashion, they began to form a line along the cold, unforgiving wall in front of them. The biting wind tugged at her voice as she spoke.
"What else did you have stored away in those bunkers, Cole?" She asked, her tone carrying a hint of curiosity and accusation.
Francis Cole took a moment to grit his teeth, battling the instinct to bury his hands in his pockets for warmth. The chill in the air was unforgiving, but he pushed through it, his resolve unshaken.
"I had thirteen years on my hands to produce what I could. It helps when you've monopolized the defense industry. Varsta Atlas's motto is 'For your needs, We Prepare.' I figured you'd know I am a man of my word, Johanson," he replied, his voice steady despite the cold that threatened to seize his words.
Cecilia's voice quivered slightly as she continued to speak, her discomfort evident.
"Didn't think you'd literally build an entire army."
Francis couldn't help but smile, not just at Johanson but also at the discomfort the traitors were experiencing. Unlike him, they were being stripped naked by his men, a symbol of their defeat and humiliation.
"Did you put out the memo to the delegation?" He asked, referring to the diplomatic team sent to Kelssadreth under the banner of peace.
"We did, but still no word. We could have prevented that city's fall if it wasn't for that damned snake, Oswal. You know they found Elberian gold in his vaults, right?" Cecilia's words dripped with disdain.
Of course, they did. Francis knew nothing could remain hidden from First Sector, the National Intelligence Community of Daygis, where he had undergone his training.
"Complications were to be expected," Francis replied, moving closer to the unfolding scene. "And to make matters worse, some overly vain government members have recently fancied themselves the best option for president. Their interference is precisely why we've taken this next step."
Cecilia's eyes met his, a look of fascination and something close to fear.
Francis Cole stood before the drone camera, his appearance meticulously rehearsed to convey authority and determination. Francis took a quick breath and knew every movement, every twitch in his face. He knew his message would be broadcast nationwide, reaching millions through phones, holoprojectors, movie screens, and computers. His subsidiary's control over much of Daygis's internet and social media had allowed him to ensure that his address would be seen and heard, whether people wanted to or not. It was a bold move, but he believed it was necessary to convey the gravity of the situation.
"Daygisi, migrants, homesteaders, lend me your ears, all but for a moment, to entrust you with the responsibility of your…our nation. Here before you is the choice of execution or imprisonment of those who sold our nation to our long-awaited enemy to the north across the Nirn Sea, an enemy that sees our people as slaves needing punishment. We have not forgotten the Liberation War, we have not forgotten their "Terms," many of you have relatives interned at the Mausoleum of the Redeemed, forty-seven thousand of our ancestors, butchered under a peace agreement proposed by the same invaders we face today, THAT…was the price they paid for Elberian treachery. These roaches ate their food, bought stocks, traded valuable resources, and sold our security. So I, Francis Cole, and members of this committee did our duty. These empty souls are guilty in our eyes, but you, my people, have the last say. Shall we rid ourselves of this infestation?"
A poll appeared in the left corner of screens all across the nation. As Francis watched, his heart pounded in his chest. The fate of the captive senators hung in the balance, and the nation's opinion was being measured in real time. The occasional whimpers from the imprisoned senators punctuated the dramatic silence, but Francis couldn't help but think about the soldiers holding the line outside of Kelssadreth.
Just as anxiety threatened to consume him, a ping from his tablet drew Francis's attention. A smile, deep and triumphant, blossomed across his face.
"Twenty-nine million and counting," he announced, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Yays, well over half the nation approves of the necessary action. This is not a decision likely taken lightly by the committee. I understand that some of you bear relations here today. That is why I will allow these men to be spared execution by these masses they left for dead."
Francis paused for a moment, savoring the tension. He panned the camera to reveal a large pit enclosed with auto turrets chambering 50-caliber rounds. His men, their faces obscured by masks, pushed the naked senators into the pit. The eleven-foot fall left them disoriented and helpless in the clay-red, dusty interior.
"Roaches," Francis proclaimed, his voice dripping with a sinister tone. "I am not one to kill men who are bound, defenseless. No, I have far more honor than that. Your lives will be spared, but only if you make it out of here."
He spread his arms wide, his grin taking on a nefarious edge. The suspense hung thick in the air as he continued, "Oh, and of course, kill the bloodsucking traitor next to you. Bring their heads, and I will see you free. You have an old soldier's word that you will leave here alive."
The drones recorded every moment of the unfolding spectacle as the senators faced their harrowing ordeal. Francis dropped his theatrical façade and turned to Cecilia, signaling for her to walk with him toward his metro station.
"Cole, the people wanted them all dead; what—" Cecilia began, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Francis turned to meet her gaze, and a sense of dreadful realization settled over her.
"You gave your word... They were never meant to leave," she said, her words carrying the weight of their shared understanding.
"I said whoever makes it out will be free to leave alive," Francis replied with a devilish smile. "I made sure the minefields were geotagged so we can demine the area later on, but most importantly, this story needs an anti-hero. Someone who will unveil the deceit that clouds the citizens' eyes and show them the harsh reality. I fit that role rather well, don't you agree?"
Cecilia considered his words for a moment before nodding. "If it means purging the cowards, removing the weak and greedy from power, then I don't mind at all. Someone has to do it."
---------------------------------------------------
Ninth of Mon, 2081
Karwin City, Camp Garcia
The Sky Shield was a marvel of military engineering, the first piece of hardware produced by Varsta Atlas, Francis Cole's company. During his days as an Operator during the Brush War, Francis had never understood why the Senate had failed to invest in long-range Surface-to-Air Missiles (SAMs). Instead, they had touted Jair Industries' MELT manpads, a decent weapon but lacking the range needed to protect the southern villages. As he observed the young marine operating the radar complex, he couldn't help but be impressed by the dedication and sense of purpose in the operator's eyes, despite his youth.
"I love these lads, you know," one of Francis's Varsta men remarked to another. "The Corps has saved this nation at Kovo River and again at Garcia. That's why they named their base after that battle. They lost all their heavy equipment to airstrikes and fended off the Sevincians for two days, wave upon wave. The commies threw tanks, IFVs, artillery, but these fuckers wouldn't budge."
"There were no tanks at Garcia, but everything else is true," Cecilia chimed in, her voice filled with pride. "My brother was just a mortarman back then. Spike said he had to piss on the tubes to stop them from overheating. Those tubes were red hot. Garcia is the day they were truly born, a wild day for the airborne as well."
"The Sky Shield has proven that it can prevent another Garcia from happening again," Francis said, gesturing toward the modular command radar. "Not a single missile has made even an inch of contact with the base thus far. I have four more systems coming online in the next few hours just beyond the city, well over two hundred miles worth of safety should keep this place secure. But this is nothing. At Arzac, we are testing a new variant, smaller sections but triple the range if the math I saw adds up."
As they discussed the Sky Shield's capabilities, Major General Kazama, the Commander of the 7th Marine Division, approached them. Francis recalled his encounters with the man from their days in the Brush War to the Highland Insurgency in Nagansk. Kazama was a shadow, a former operator himself, and he moved with the quietness and precision of an owl.
"Mr. Cole, Major General Kazama, a pleasure to see you again, sir," Kazama greeted him, his voice soft but filled with respect. "Unfortunate to see you have become a suit, an odd thing to see after all these years, if I can speak frankly."
Francis couldn't help but appreciate the compliment, knowing that Kazama was a formidable and respected figure in the military.
"Of course, it's always a pleasure to hear your words, General," Francis replied. "I came to announce the finalization of the Cougars. They are leaving the yard and will arrive in about three hours. These models are mark-one variants, but nonetheless, they will shield your men and women finely."
General Kazama nodded appreciatively before gesturing for the Varsta officer and his entourage to come with him to the barracks, his office located on the bottom wing of the southern half of the compound.
As they walked down the main road to the barracks, Francis couldn't help but take in the bustling scene around him. The air was filled with the sounds of orders being barked, boots hitting the ground in unison, and the occasional clatter of equipment. Young citizens, mostly in their late teens and early twenties, were engaged in rigorous training under the watchful eye of seasoned drill instructors.
The recruits were divided into groups, each focused on different aspects of military training. Some practiced combat arts, engaging in hand-to-hand combat exercises involving grappling, strikes, and holds. Others were honing their marksmanship skills at makeshift firing ranges, the sharp cracks of rifles and the smell of gunpowder filling the air.
As they approached the barracks, Francis noticed a group of recruits who stood out from the rest. They were dressed in woodland camouflage uniforms, their faces etched with a mix of determination and anxiety. He realized they were conscripts, this attention consumed by the Gem Broadcast playing in the middle of their huddle, the sounds of artillery and gunfire soon brought others, all dreadfully curious to the howl of war. The sight of these inexperienced recruits undergoing rapid military training was both impressive and sobering. Francis couldn't help but wonder how they would fare in the coming days and weeks as they transitioned from civilians to soldiers. The burden of responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders as he realized that the technology he had developed, such as the Sky Shield and the Cougars, would play a crucial role in their survival. Amidst his thinking, he strayed from the path and collided shoulders with a passing soldier, both men staggering before catching themselves.
"Boss, you alright?!" a voice came from somewhere behind him. Francis instinctly responded, "Yeah, I am good, just getting old."
"Oh sorry sir, I wasn't talkin about yous, I meant skip here, my captain." the young man spoke with a timid screech in his tone, skinny, loud and has a dependant feel to him, Francis's anaylized him twice more but didn't find anything of note.
"My apologies, he was talking about me, uh sir, sorry we have to meet each other in such a way, I am skip-um, Henry, Corporal Henry if I understand the LT right. This is Private Heindal, but we called him Bugsy for the longest time." Henry said, his tone confident despite it's uneasy words.
"No need to apologize son, I am just an old man deep in thought, Henry is it? You don't strike me as a conscript, what is your last name?"
Henry's eyes narrowed briefly, a splint second before he said. "De Clare"