(1 year later)
In the belly of a fortress of cold steel and unforgiving concrete, the ragged inmates of Forgrenn's most feared maximum security prison called Iron Eclipse, huddle around a flickering screen. The televised propaganda—a charade masquerading as news—emanates from a screen bolted to the wall, the anchor's smile as tight as the shackles that bind those who watch.
"Good evening, dear citizens of Forgrenn," the anchor begins, her eyes darting nervously to something, or someone, just off camera. "Today we celebrate the glory of our beloved protector, Kanoan, as the industry of our planet leads the economy to new heights, all under His watchful grace." The word 'beloved' sticks in her throat like bile, the fear tainting the edges of her carefully scripted assurance.
A grizzled inmate, skin drawn tight over knotted muscles, chuckles bitterly. "Yeah, right. 'New heights' for those sitting in the towers, while the rest of us choke on the ash."
Another, younger, his face not yet hardened by the brutal regimen of the prison, leans in closer. "Have you heard about the Eastern Quadrant?" he whispers, a dangerous glint in his eyes. The huddle tightens, a collective lean into conspiracy. "My brother was there—before they patched him up and turned him into one of those cyborg things. He said people were going missing. Talk of a secret project, deeper than the mines, darker than the emptiest space."
The screen now shows the exuberant visages of Kanoan's 'Harmony Youth,' parading down the Avenue of Triumph, their youthful energy weaponized into rigid conformity. The anchor's voice quivers with faux-excitement. "The future of Forgrenn stands strong, as the Harmony Youth pledge their lives to our visionary leader."
A hoarse laugh erupts from a shadow in the back, an older woman whose gaze could etch glass. "Pledge their lives, eh? More like whipped into subdued lapdogs. My neighbor's kid, he questioned them once – just once. They made an example of him in the public square..." Her words trail off, silence swallowing the unfinished tale.
An unmerciful static buzz interjects, the screen distorting, then refocusing on the anchor as she introduces a segment on the wondrous technological advances, "All thanks to the wisdom of our great leader, who tirelessly works for the progress of Forgrenn."
A fourth prisoner, skin stitched with scars, voice as rough as the prison walls, speaks up. "Progress? They built a damn monument to Kanoan where the Central Library used to be. Torched the books, said our history began with him. My father... he never forgave himself for bowing to it. Burned his own books, his research, in our backyard. Said it was better than letting them take it."
Murmurs of assent ripple through the small crowd. Every inmate here has seen or heard something, bits and fragments of a world unraveling outside the iron bars.
The younger one speaks again, feverishly now, "Above—above in the skies, there's something happening. I hear them talk, the guards. Ships disappearing, a void they can't explain. And there are rumors of a message from the stars, something the CSP is trying to decode."
The anchor's final words, promising peace and joy under the vigilant protection of the Cyborg Sector Patrol, fade into empty platitudes as the prisoners discuss in hushed tones. Tales of hidden routes out of the city, of a network evacuating children to supposed safe zones, of encoded messages spreading through graffiti symbols only understood by the initiated, of black markets thriving on nostalgia, trading trinkets of the before-time.
With the broadcast finished, the prisoners are left with the ghosts of their pasts and the uncertain whispers of hope. Each story shared, each rumor passed along, is a testament to the human spirit that not even Kanoan's regime can suffocate. As the guards come to snuff out what little light there is, to drag them back to the obsidian embrace of their cells, the murmurs do not die; they are but carried deeper into the heart of the concrete labyrinth. And in the gloom, the conviction that Forgrenn's story is not yet over flickers fiercely—in the shadows of the prison, amidst the bonds of the broken, within the courage of the condemned.
..
Through the smog-choked streets they walk, a solitary figure shrouded in the overlapping shadows of crumbling buildings and twisted iron structures that loom like silent sentinels in the gloom. Here, on the fractured sidewalks of Forgrenn, beneath the sickly glow of dim and flickering streetlights, every step is a perilous journey through a world gone mad.
The enigmatic wanderer passes by the remnants of a once vibrant marketplace, the stalls now offering nothing but tarnished trinkets and faded dreams. Above, the ever-present drones dart like carrion birds, their camera eyes unblinking, seeking the smallest infraction against Kanoan's draconian code.
A child, hollow-eyed, watches from a bombed-out husk of what was once his home. He clutches a faded photograph to his chest—a family ripped apart by the Harmony Youth's cruel harvest. Our mystery figure pauses, offering only a fleeting glance, a silent nod that speaks a thousand words of shared anguish, before moving on.
Further down the street, the thumping boots of the Cyborg Sector Patrol resonate on the cobblestone. Cold, relentless machines, they bear down upon an old man clinging to a threadbare book of poems—an act of defiance in Kanoan's regime, a spark of forbidden knowledge. With terrifying efficiency, they apprehend him, his pleas for mercy drowned out by the cacophony of the CSP's synthetic growl. The passerby diverts their gaze, hiding the smoldering fury within.
An underground tavern—illicit, raucous—hides beneath a nondescript façade. A secret knock, a whispered word ("Revolution"), and doors open to a buffer against despair. Inside, the thrill of sedition percolates. The figure slips in, unnoticed among the throng of rebels and outcasts. Hot on their heels, the pang of paranoia runs through the crowd as a figure in the corner gestures subtly—a signal. Contact with the resistance or a CSP plant? The air is thick with suspicion and stale smoke.
In the alleyway beyond, the specter of violence—bodies of the fallen lie discarded, wrapped in the flag of the old republic. Murals, once vibrant, now defaced with the visage of Kanoan, leer menacingly at those who dare to remember the time before. The enigmatic traveler presses a hand against the cold wall, sensing the pain of the world through its decaying pulse.
A sudden commotion—a blaring siren, the crack of lightning guns. A flock of dissidents scatter, their secrets exposed. The CSP closes in, a metallic swarm of ruthlessness. The figure is swathed in shadow, evading detection through a forgotten passage, their identity shielded by the dusk.
Emerging onto the outskirts, where the city's tentacles give way to the barren wastes, the silhouette gazes out toward the reddened horizon. Here, nature retches at the touch of Kanoan's industry, the ground trembling beneath the weight of tyranny. But even as the darkness stretches its tendrils, a spark ignites within our mystery person. Smuggled codes, clandestine rendezvous, a pamphlet with a message of uprising—these are the tools of their trade, the machinations of hope that even the most tyrannical cannot extinguish. They continue, a phantom amongst the tumult, a harbinger of the reckoning that brews within the cracks of a planet's broken heart.
In the ashen ruins where society once thrived, vengeance brews within the heart of a grieving widower named Corin. He had long black hair and hjs sight was barely there as he wore black shades to indicate she had trouble seeing well. The loss of his wife, snatched from him by the merciless hands of the Cyborg Sector Patrol, has left nothing but the echo of hollow emptiness and a searing need for retribution. Today, he faces an embodiment of his darkest hatred—the CSP enforcer known as Dreadnaught. A behemoth of metal and malice, Dreadnaught stands amid the desolation like a statue of doom, his very presence mocking the fragility of life.
Corin clutches his crowbar with sweat-slicked hands, the rusted metal a feeble promise of justice against the unfeeling juggernaut. He crouches behind a wall pockmarked by blasts, his breath a fog in the chill air. He waits for the telltale clank of Dreadnaught's approach, the monster's every step a dirge to his fallen love.
As the shadow of the beast looms close, Corin leaps with a guttural cry, crowbar raised like the sword of an avenging angel. "For Mara!" he screams, the agony of his soul poured into the blow. But Dreadnaught turns, monumental and unshaken, his arm rising with a whir of servos to easily catch the arc of the strike. The impact sends a shockwave up Corin's arms, the reverberation a mocking laughter.
Eyes blazing with fury, Corin wrestles against the iron grip of Dreadnaught, trying to reclaim his weapon, his last hope. "You took everything from me!" he strains against the vise-like hold, every word a shard of broken heart.
Dreadnaught regards him with cold, lifeless eyes. "You are nothing," he booms, a voice devoid of compassion. With a casual flick, he sends Corin sprawling to the rubble, the crowbar clattering away into darkness. The man's determination, met with brutal indifference, sparks a futile rage.
Scrambling to his knees, Corin lunges for his crowbar, swinging wildly, breathlessly, as if the spirited dance of combat could bring back the dead. His strikes are relentless, yet Dreadnaught stands unmarred, a monolith against a tempest of grief.
"Feel this, you monster! All you bastards do is terrorize! What kind of planet is this?!" Corin lands a solid hit against the chassis, the crowbar's bite leaving not a dent, but the echo of his wife's laughter in his memory. The juggernaut swats him away like a pest, contempt etched in the stark lines of his metal face.
Bloodied and battered, Corin clutches a photo of his wife from his pocket, his resolve steeled by the soft curve of her smile. With a mournful whisper, "Mara, I won't stop," he charges one final time, his love a banner in an unwinnable war.
Dreadnaught's arm extends, connecting with a sickening crunch against Corin's ribs. The crowbar drops, a silent spectator to its master's fall. "Pathetic," Dreadnaught sneers as Corin collapses, his breaths shallow and ragged.
Corin's vision blurs, the world turning dark at the edges. He reaches out, fingertips brushing the photo as he murmurs her name. Dreadnaught towers over him, the harbinger of oblivion. "End of the line," the machine declares emotionlessly and raises his boot.
"No," Corin gasps, a final, futile protest, as Dreadnaught's foot descends, the light of life snuffed out with merciless force. The crowbar lies beside its master, an epitaph of steel, and as the dust settles, the silence is a deafening requiem for another lost soul of Forgrenn.
Dreadnaught exclaimed to the people around them, watching, "Let this be a lesson to you all. We will not stand for belligerent people. If you do not respect Kanoan, you will die. You are all free to leave."
…
The bleak corridors of Forgrenn's maximum security prison, Iron Eclipse, echo with the heavy tread of booted feet and the subdued groans of the incarcerated. A pair of guards, clad in the dull gray of the CSP, make their way through the dank underbelly of the facility, their voices a hushed rumble beneath the cacophony of confinement.
"Heard about the kid on level six?" gruffs the older guard, a thick-necked man with scars crisscrossing his face like a map of brutality. "Jyan, they call him. Barely eighteen and he's like a damn hurricane in a fight."
The younger guard, fresh-faced and eager with the zeal of the indoctrinated, nods. "They say he took down some of the toughest guys in here. No fear in his eyes, not even a damned second's hesitation."
Their boots clank over a grated walkway, a chasm of darkness yawning beneath them. Prison cells flank each side, the eyes within them hollow with defeat, yet they all seem to watch, to wait, as the guards pass.
"Escorting him back from the hole," the older guard continues. "They chucked him in isolation after that scrap with the Red Spiders. Took five of us to pull him off their leader. Kid's a demon, I tell you."
As they walk, a sudden commotion stirs ahead—a pair of inmates scuffle, their snarls filling the hall. The guards' hands shift toward their stun batons, but before they intervene, another prisoner, a giant of a man, steps in. With an almost paternal chiding, he separates the fighters, quelling the violence with a few muttered words. The guards exchange a look but move on, the hierarchy of the prison's dark society policing itself.
"Heard Jyan's got a brain on him too," the younger guard remarks, eyeing the now still inmates warily. "Some say he's been reading up on the old world, teaching himself... Hell, I heard he's been learning engineering from an old fossil in D-block."
A cynical snort from his elder companion. "Won't do him any good in here," he grimaces. "Only lesson that matters in these walls is survival."
Their journey continues with a hum of electric doors and the clatter of keys. They pass through checkpoints, their clearance eliciting well-practiced salutes from fellow guards. A tense silence falls between them as they approach the solitary confinement block. Here, the despair is palpable, the air itself heavy with desolation.
As they reach cell 673, the senior guard slides a card through the reader, the red light flickering green before the door slides open with a hiss. Jyan, the boy with the reputation of a force of nature, stands there. His youthful face is calm, his eyes betraying nothing of the tempest that apparently rages within.
"Time's up, Jyan," the older guard declares, a note of grudging respect threading his voice. "You're headed back to the general pop."
Jyan nods, stepping out with a presence that seems too large for his frame, his aura at odds with the chains that bind him.
As they flank him and begin the walk back, the lights flicker—a brief stutter in the prison's lifeblood. Somewhere distant, a siren wails, a routine alarm. The guards tighten their grips on their weapons, a precaution against the normalcy of chaos. But Jyan keeps his pace even, his gaze fixed ahead.
The rebellious whisper of his name, Jyan, follows them like a shadow through the bowels of the prison. In his silent march back to the general population, the young man carries the weight of a broken system on his shoulders and in his heart, the unspoken hope that one day, beyond the bars and beyond the oppression, change might come from the most unexpected places.
'..Kanoan..'