The armoured convoy rumbled through the ruins of Kent, its tyres kicking up clouds of ash and grit. World-Shaman sat in the back, his head resting against the cold steel wall, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Outside the window, the shattered remnants of Britain rolled by—a landscape of collapsed buildings and blackened trees, their twisted forms etched against the evening's pale grey sky.
He exhaled smoke slowly, watching it twist and curl. It reminded him of the way reality had warped that day, bending and buckling under the weight of his grief and fear. He hadn't meant to bend the world. Hell, he didn't even know he could. But when the bombs fell, something in him cracked wide open, spilling out into the world like a dark tide.
He'd been sitting in his parents' kitchen when it happened. The light outside had turned impossibly bright, blinding him even through the curtains. The shockwave came next, knocking him to the floor and shattering every window in the house. His mother's screams rang out as she scrambled to drag him toward the cellar. But it was too late. The world had already ended.
The first days after the blast were chaos—roaming fires, choking smoke, and the cries of the dying. He remembered searching through the rubble for food, for water, for anything. And then he'd found his father.
At least, he thought he had.
His dad had been sitting at the kitchen table, wearing the same threadbare sweater he always wore on chilly mornings. He'd looked... normal. Smiling. Like nothing had happened.
"What's with the face, lad?" his dad had asked, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
They'd talked for hours that day. And the next. And the next.
It wasn't until a week later, when the smell became unbearable, that World-Shaman realized the truth. His father wasn't sitting at the table. His father was slumped over it, his flesh rotting and his eyes empty sockets. The conversations, the laughter—they'd all been him. His power.
That was the day he understood what he was. And what he could do.
"Shaman."
The voice pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced toward the doorway, where Dark Ant stood with his arms crossed, his black armour gleaming faintly in the dim light.
"We're here," Ant said, his tone flat.
World-Shaman nodded, stubbing out his cigarette on the metal wall. "Right. Time to save the world or some shit, yeah?"
Dark Ant's expression didn't change. "Just don't get in the way."
World-Shaman smirked, pulling on his jacket. The fabric smelled of stale smoke and regret, but it was better than nothing. "You're a ray of sunshine, you know that?"
Ant ignored the comment, turning sharply and heading back into the main cabin. World-Shaman followed, stepping out into the cold air.
The meeting room had once been a war room, its walls lined with faded maps and rusting equipment. Now, it was just another ruin. The rest of the team was already there.
Swift Angel stood at the head of the table, his golden wings tucked tightly against his back. His polished armour and perfectly combed hair looked out of place in the dingy setting, but his presence was undeniable. He radiated authority, even as the lines of exhaustion carved deep into his face betrayed the weight he carried.
"Nice of you to join us," Swift Angel said as World-Shaman entered.
"I aim to please," Shaman replied, lighting another cigarette.
Fantasia leaned against a broken console, her radiant blue skin shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her alien features were as striking as ever, and her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Oh good, the drunk's here. I was starting to think we'd have to do this sober."
"I'm not drunk," Shaman said, exhaling smoke. "Yet."
In the corner, Shadowleaf was sharpening an arrow, her movements quick and deliberate. She glanced up briefly, her green eyes narrowing. "Do we have a plan, or is this another 'hope for the best' situation?"
"We have a plan," Swift Angel said firmly. He pointed to the map spread across the table, its edges yellowed and curling. "The Midlands Confederacy has seized a shipment of purified water. It's being held at a depot outside Birmingham. If they keep it, they'll control the entire region. We can't let that happen."
"And how, exactly, do you plan to stop them?" Gentle Illusionist asked, perched elegantly on the arm of a broken chair. Her voice was honeyed, her tone dripping with mockery. "Last I checked, we weren't exactly swimming in resources or manpower."
"We've faced worse," Swift Angel replied.
"Have we?" Shadowleaf muttered under her breath.
As the conversation continued, World-Shaman tuned out, his thoughts drifting back to the window, to the ruined landscape beyond. He didn't believe in heroics anymore. Not after what he'd done. But here he was, standing in a room full of people who still thought they could make a difference.
"Shaman," Swift Angel's voice cut through his reverie. "Are you with us or not?"
World-Shaman blinked, focusing on the team. They were all staring at him, waiting. He shrugged, taking another drag of his cigarette.
"Sure," he said finally. "But don't blame me when this all goes to hell."
The team filed out, readying themselves for the mission ahead. As the convoy rumbled back to life, World-Shaman leaned against the window once more, the ghost of his father's rotting grin flashing through his mind.
The Vanguard was moving. Whether they were marching toward salvation or damnation, only time would tell.