The battle near Sheffield had ended, but its effects rippled through Manchester like an aftershock. News of The Vanguard's victory spread quickly, carried by whispers and hastily scrawled graffiti on the city's crumbling walls.
Some hailed them as heroes, their triumph over the resistance seen as proof of their strength and resolve. Others muttered in hushed tones, calling them tyrants who sought control through violence and fear.
In the narrow alleys of the city, where survivors huddled in makeshift shelters, opinions clashed as fiercely as soldiers on a battlefield.
In what remained of Manchester's market square, a crowd gathered around an impromptu debate. The speaker was a wiry man with a patchwork coat and a voice that carried over the murmurs of the crowd.
"They say the Vanguard brought order to Birmingham and Manchester," he shouted, his fists clenched. "But at what cost? They tore through Sheffield and left it in ruins. They're not saviours—they're conquerors!"
A woman stepped forward, her face lined with exhaustion but her voice steady. "And what's the alternative? Chaos? Warlords? We've lived that already. At least they're trying to fix things."
"They're not fixing anything," the man countered. "They're building their own empire, and we're the ones who'll pay the price."
The crowd's murmurs grew louder, divided between support and suspicion.
In a cramped flat overlooking the square, a mother watched her children play with broken toys salvaged from the rubble. Her eldest, a teenage boy named Callum, stood by the window, his expression dark.
"They're no better than the gangs," Callum muttered, his gaze fixed on the crowd below.
His mother turned to him, her voice weary. "That's not fair. They've brought food, medicine. They've kept the worst of the gangs out."
Callum scoffed. "For now. But what happens when we don't follow their rules? When we don't bow to their 'orders'?"
"They're trying," she said softly, her hands trembling. "That's more than anyone else has done."
Callum didn't respond, his jaw tightening as he stared out at the square.
At the edge of the market, a merchant named Priya tended to her stall, selling scavenged goods and handmade trinkets. Business has been slow since the battle, fear keeping many of her regulars at home.
A customer approached—a young man with a nervous expression. "Got any food?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder.
Priya hesitated. "Depends. You with The Vanguard?"
The man quickly shook his head. "No. Just... looking to get by."
She handed him a small bag of dried beans, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Careful who you trust. They've got eyes everywhere."
The man nodded, disappearing into the crowd.
As night fell, graffiti artists emerged from the shadows, their paint cans hissing as they scrawled messages on walls and fences:
"Freedom, not fear."
"No rulers, no saviours"
"The Vanguard is watching."
In one corner of the city, a particularly bold message appeared in bright red letters:
"Who will save us from our saviours"
From the top floor of their temporary base, Swift Angel watched the city through a cracked window. His wings were folded tightly against his back, his expression unreadable.
Shadowleaf entered the room, her steps silent. "The people are talking," she said. "Not all of it is good."
Angel didn't turn. "They'll come around."
"Will they?" she asked, her tone sharp. "Or are we just giving them a new reason to hate us?"
Angel finally turned, his gaze steady. "We're giving them stability. Order. A chance to rebuild."
"At the cost of their trust," Shadowleaf said. "You can't force people to follow you and expect loyalty."
Angel's jaw tightened. "Loyalty comes later. Right now, we need results."
In the square below, the mother who had argued with her son sat on the steps of a ruined fountain, watching the crowd disperse. She held her youngest child close, her eyes scanning the faces of those around her.
She saw fear, anger, and doubt—but she also saw something else. A man shared half of his bread with a stranger. A woman handed out scraps of fabric to patch torn clothes.
The mother smiled faintly, her grip on her child tightening. "Maybe," she whispered to herself. "Maybe this time will be different."