The safe house was quiet, save for the flickering of a battered television set in the corner. The dim light cast distorted shadows across the room, its cracked screen displaying a news broadcast on an old-world channel salvaged and repurposed.
"Another decisive blow struck by The Vanguard against the Midlands Confederacy," the anchor announced, their voice a blend of awe and trepidation. Grainy footage played behind them, showing The Vanguard storming the depot, their figures blurred by smoke and chaos. "While many praise the group's efforts to bring order to Britain's fractured territories, others question the morality of their methods."
The screen cuts to an interview with a gaunt-faced man in a threadbare suit. "They're not heroes," he said, his voice trembling. "They're gods with no leash. No accountability. Today, it's the Confederacy. Tomorrow, who knows? What happens when we don't agree with them?"
World-Shaman snorted from where he lounged on a fraying couch, flicking ash onto the floor. "Gods with no leash. Sounds like the title of a bad biography."
Shadowleaf sat at the far end of the room, fletching arrows with quick, precise movements. Her jaw tightened as she glanced at the screen, her green eyes sharp.
"They're not wrong," she muttered, not looking up.
"About the leash?" Shaman asked, his grin faint but mocking. "Or the gods?"
Shadowleaf didn't answer immediately, her fingers stilling on the arrow. "About the power. We're walking a dangerous line, and everyone knows it." She turned toward Swift Angel, her voice sharpening. "Even you."
Angel stood near the window, his wings casting long, jagged shadows across the room. He didn't respond, his gaze fixed on the ruins outside.
"You're awfully quiet, Angel," Shaman said, leaning forward. "Planning our next holy crusade?"
Fantasia, seated near the television, finally spoke, her voice cold and steady. "The world doesn't have the luxury of second-guessing us. We're not the only ones doing anything to stop the collapse."
"And who decides when we've gone too far?" Shadowleaf shot back, her voice rising. "You? Angel? Shaman when he's sober enough to care?"
Fantasia's eyes narrowed, the faint glow of her alien aura intensifying. "It's easy to stand on the side lines and criticise when you're not the one making the hard choices."
"That's rich coming from you," Shadowleaf retorted. "You don't even care about this planet. You're just playing the role of saviour because you're stuck here."
Fantasia's expression darkened. "Careful, Shadowleaf. I may be stuck here, but at least I'm not hiding in the shadows, afraid to make a decision."
Dark Ant leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his mask pulled back to reveal his hardened face. "Enough," he said, his voice low but commanding. "Fighting among ourselves isn't going to fix anything."
"Then what will?" Shadowleaf asked, her frustration spilling over. "Another raid? Another mission where we leave half a battlefield in ruins and call it justice?"
Dark Ant met her gaze evenly. "Justice doesn't exist anymore. There's survival, and there's chaos. We're choosing survival."
"For who?" she demanded.
The television then shifted to another clip, this one showing a cheering crowd in Manchester as crates of purified water were distributed. "The Vanguard has restored water to the northern territories," the anchor said, her voice brightening. "For many, they are saviours in a world that has forgotten the meaning of hope."
The image cuts to a starkly different scene: burned-out buildings and bodies lying in the rubble of Birmingham. A grizzled man in military fatigues stared into the camera. "They didn't save us," he said flatly. "They came, they destroyed, and they left. Tell me how that's different from the Confederacy."
The screen went dark as Fantasia clicked it off, her jaw set. "The media loves to spin their stories. Let them talk. It doesn't change what needs to be done."
From his corner of the room, Cray chuckled, his wrists still bound. "Oh, it changes everything," he said, his voice raspy.
Fantasia's gaze snapped to him. "And what wisdom do you have to offer?"
Cray leaned back, his smile faint but cutting. "Public opinion's a funny thing. They'll love you when you're giving them water and power. But the moment you step out of line, the moment they think you're not working for them anymore? They'll turn on you. Every. Single. Time."
"Then we'll deal with it," Fantasia said icily.
Cray's laugh was hoarse and dry. "You don't deal with a tide. You drown in it."
Swift Angel finally turned from the window, his grey eyes shadowed but resolute. "We're not drowning in anything."
His voice carried a weight that silenced the room. He looked at each of them in turn, his wings shifting slightly as if to emphasize his words. "We do what needs to be done. Not because we want power. Not because we're trying to rule. But because if we don't, no one else will."
"And if the world turns on us?" Shadowleaf asked, her voice quieter now.
"Then we'll face that when it comes," Angel replied. "But for now, we keep going."
The room settled into uneasy quiet once more. Shaman lit another cigarette, his smirk returning as he exhaled smoke. "Inspirational as always, Angel. Really makes a man want to grab a flag and march into battle."
Fantasia rose, her movements deliberate. "We're not here to debate this every time. Either we're in, or we're not." She glanced at Shadowleaf, her tone pointed. "Make up your mind."
Shadowleaf glared at her but said nothing, her fingers tightening on the arrow she was fletching.
Angel turned back to the window, the weight of their fractured unity pressing heavily on his shoulders. Outside, the world remained as broken as ever.