The depot was quiet now, the clamour of battle replaced by the faint crackle of smouldering fires and the low hum of machinery winding down. The crates of purified water, their metal sides gleaming under flickering floodlights, stood as the spoils of another grim victory.
Commander Cray sat slumped against a crate, his wrists bound, his face bloodied but defiant. The Vanguard moved around him like wraiths, their shadows stretching long and jagged in the dim light.
Swift Angel stood apart from the others, his golden wings folded tightly, his face unreadable. His armour bore smudges of soot and ash, but he seemed untouched, a figure carved from marble and steel.
"You're quiet," Fantasia said, stepping up beside him. Her voice was cool and detached.
"I'm thinking," Angel replied.
Fantasia raised an eyebrow, her sharp features catching the light. "That's dangerous."
World-Shaman leaned against a twisted beam, lighting a cigarette with a flick of his fingers. He took a deep drag, exhaling smoke that curled unnaturally in the stagnant air.
"Another depot down," he said, his tone flat. "Another win for the good guys. Let's all pat ourselves on the back."
Shadowleaf shot him a glare from where she was packing her gear. "You think this is funny?"
"Funny?" Shaman's grin widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No. It's just predictable. We break in, we tear the place apart, and we leave. Same story, different setting." He gestured toward Cray with the glowing tip of his cigarette. "And him? What's the plan there? Let him go? Kill him? Keep him as a pet?"
Fantasia snorted softly, crossing her arms. "He's alive. That's more than most get."
Cray coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. "Generous of you," he rasped, his voice dripping with venom. "Maybe I'll send a thank-you card."
Swift Angel turned to face him, his gaze piercing. "You've lost. This facility, your resources—it's over."
Cray barked a laugh, ragged and bitter. "Over? Do you really think one raid changes anything? There are ten more depots like this. A hundred. You can't win this war."
"We don't need to win the war," Shadowleaf said, her voice low. "We just need to make sure you can't fight it."
"And that makes you what? Heroes?" Cray sneered. "You're no different from us. You kill, you destroy, you take what you want."
Fantasia tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "The difference is, we're right."
Cray's eyes burned with defiance. "Are you? You think tearing us apart makes the world better? It won't stop the next war. Or the one after that."
Shaman chuckled, exhaling another cloud of smoke. "You're not wrong, mate. Humans love their wars."
The room fell into an uneasy silence. Swift Angel's fists clenched at his sides, his jaw tightening.
"We have to be better," Shadowleaf said finally, her voice softer. "We can't keep doing this—storming in, leaving bodies in our wake. It's not enough."
Fantasia glanced at her, the faint glow of her skin intensifying. "And what's your solution? Sit back and let them keep hoarding water? Weapons? Starving people until they bow to their control?"
"No," Shadowleaf shot back. "But there has to be another way."
Dark Ant stepped forward, his voice low and deliberate. "Another way? These people don't listen to reason. They only understand force."
"And force hasn't worked," Shaman interjected, his tone almost playful. "Not really. We smash a depot, they build another. We kill one warlord, another one takes his place. It's a hydra, mate. Cut off one head, two more grow back."
Swift Angel stared at the floor, his wings shifting slightly. "What are you suggesting?"
Shaman's grin turned sharper. "Maybe it's time we stopped cutting heads and started burning the whole bloody thing down."
The room went still.
Fantasia's voice cut through the silence, calm and cold. "A single government. One power. One authority. No factions, no warlords, no splintered nations clawing at each other for scraps."
Cray laughed again, though his voice was weaker now. "And who decides what's right? You? The Vanguard?"
Swift Angel's gaze snapped to him, steel-grey and unyielding. "Someone has to."
"And then what?" Cray asked, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and desperation. "You rule the world? Tell everyone how to live, what to think, what to do? You think that'll stop the bombs from falling again?"
Shaman stepped closer, his smile fading. "It'll make damn sure there's no one left to drop them."
Shadowleaf hesitated, her grip tightening on the bow slung across her back. "This isn't what we signed up for."
"No," Fantasia said, her eyes narrowing. "We signed up to fix the world. And if that means taking control, then so be it."
Dark Ant's voice was steady, almost chilling. "The only way to stop chaos is with order. Absolute order."
Swift Angel turned away, his wings twitching. His voice was quieter now, almost to himself. "Maybe it's the only way."
Shadowleaf's voice was sharp, cutting through the tension. "And if we become the very thing we're fighting against?"
Swift Angel didn't answer.
The team secured the purified water, the crates loaded onto their convoy. Cray was hauled to his feet, his defiance flickering but unbroken.
As they left the depot, the quiet stretched between them. No one spoke, each lost in their own thoughts.
For the first time, the Vanguard wasn't just fighting to save the world. They were considering what it might cost to rule it.