The Cusp of Legacy: Episode Twelve- The End is the Beginning

 “We didn’t know what we were creating. We just knew our current reality had to end.”- Li Xiuying, “Memoirs of the Rose Revolution” (1712)

 

December 22, 2019,

08:12 local time,

Tampa Bay Metro Diamond,

City of Tampa, Tampa Republic

 

As the transfer drama took place back home, Bruce, on vacation here on the other side of the continent, came to enjoy a different kind of pleasure.

 

Sports was always a path for Bruce. It was something he could do where he could achieve things, where he could do things that would lead to glory and admiration. Those things, though, were not pursuits of vanity- rather, they were pursuits of acceptance, pursuits of recognition and pursuits of notice.

 

Something, he hoped, that would finally get his parents to take one second out of their extraordinarily busy lives and actually start paying attention to him for a change.

 

He was already in soccer, and he was getting very good at it. The press took notice, and it wasn’t just because he was a McCrain. However, Bruce only started at the game because his friend, Kyle, led him to it. Thus, it was in his mind- but it was not in his heart and his soul.

 

Here, at the baseball diamond that belonged to the Borealis Bay Bacon- ostensibly a major league baseball team but one of the worst baseball teams of all time- Bruce hoped he could find the sport that would call to his heart.

 

As he watched the Bacon prepare for an American Baseball Council Winter League clash between the predictably last place Bacon (playing here in Tampa because of the weather up north) and the runaway first place Toronto Bluebirds, Bruce started feeling the sport tug at his heartstrings.

 

The more he watched the futile Bacon try and fail at the game of baseball, the more Bruce thought he wanted to see if he could try it himself.

 

So Bruce made his move.

 

“You know,” said Bruce, walking down to the seating area beside the Bacon dugout, “Jenkins’ form is all wrong. He’s not getting square to the baseball at all.”

 

That was enough for the Bacon’s manager, a stocky but bubbly blonde woman named Chelsea Stoddard, to take notice.

 

“Aren’t you the McCrain kid that’s a wizard on the soccer pitch?” asked Stoddard dismissively, as Albert Jenkins sent another lazy fly ball into the outfield, despite this being batting practice.

 

“Soccer wizard, yes,” said Bruce. “Kid, no. Not anymore.”

“Whatever,” said Stoddard. “Jenkins has been playing baseball for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“…and it looks like he’s too old for it now,” said Bruce definitively.

 

Stoddard was incredulous, but she was drawn by Bruce’s moxie.

 

“Well,” she said, “if you know so much about baseball…why don’t you go down and prove yourself?”

“Give me a bat and gloves,” said Bruce, “and I’ll do it.”

 

Stoddard gave it a moment’s thought and, realizing she had nothing left to lose- because Bruce was right, even though she didn’t want to admit it- Stoddard arranged for someone to bring Bruce a bat and some gloves, though Bruce found he liked holding the bat barehanded.

 

Bruce then took his spot in the batter’s box. He steeled himself for the first pitch from the batting practice machine- and then promptly blasted it well over the right field wall.

 

He then sent several more over the outfield fences, never missing a pitch and never hitting the ball softly ever. Stoddard was amazed this tall, gangly kid had the power that he did, but all those soccer workouts made his body look deceptive.

 

Watching the display was Jason “Cool Papa” Dimes, the Bluebirds’ top pitcher. He was just there on a scouting assignment, since Winter League ball was for younger players and veterans hoping for one more shot at the big leagues.

 

Dimes wasn’t there to pitch, but something about Bruce made him want to test himself. So he did.

 

“All right kid,” said Dimes, “let’s see if you can hit a real pitcher.”

 

Dimes could sure back up his bravado. His fastball clocked in at 112MPH but his best pitch was his signature “slurve”- a slow, knuckling curveball whose trajectory no one could ever pick up on, the kind of pitch that could only work if a pitcher perfected it…and Dimes did.

 

Bruce smiled, though inside he was nervous as he waited for Dimes to warm up. As a sports player, he was used to challenges…but this would be something else.

 

It didn’t start the way he hoped it would, as Dimes launched his signature slurve and made Bruce look foolish swinging wildly at it. Dimes laughed as the slurve toyed with Bruce, one time sending Bruce’s bat flying from his arms.

 

What Dimes wasn’t noticing was that Bruce was gradually picking up the slurve’s habits and noticed it was more predictable than it let on. So when Dimes launched his sixth slurve, Bruce had studied it long enough to pick up on where it might go- and this time, to Dimes’ surprise, Bruce ripped it far over the outfield fence.

 

“Lucky shot,” said Dimes, trying to hide his disappointment behind cockiness.

 

It was no lucky shot. Though Bruce wasn’t perfect with hitting the slurve- Dimes wasn’t a top baseball pitcher for no reason- Bruce still hit enough of those pitches hard enough that even Dimes himself had to take notice and appreciate it. Bruce also wound up hitting Dimes’ fastball better than any player Dimes had ever seen.

 

“Man,” said Dimes, tired out after the ordeal, “I think you should change your soccer cleats for baseball ones. You got real game, kid.”

“It’s Bruce,” said Bruce, shaking Dimes’ hand. “Bruce McCrain…not ‘kid’.”

“Whatever man,” said Dimes, heartily shaking Bruce’s hand. “You got a future. A real one. You owe it to this sport to try it.”

“I think I might,” said Bruce.

 

Later that evening, Bruce would get the opportunity to try his hand at baseball. The Bluebirds brass were skeptical of signing Bruce after just one tryout, no matter how much Dimes vouched for Bruce.

 

Borealis Bay? They were practically begging for Bruce to sign. Just two years removed from their infamous two-win season- still whispered in shame throughout baseball lore- they figured they had nothing left to lose, and everything to gain if this gangly prodigy turned out to be real.

 

Bruce’s mother objected, reminding him of MCFC. Bruce reminded her that he was a legal adult so he could make this decision on his own. Plus, his contract with the MCFC technically ended in the new year, so he was free to sign the baseball contract, which he heartily did.

 

So began a new chapter in Bruce’s legacy- playing a sport, baseball, that truly called to his heart, which he realized after he impressed Dimes. He wasn’t sure what the future held for him- and, for the Bacon, it might not be all that bright from a team perspective- but he realized this was now the path he was supposed to go on.

 

January 6, 2020,

16:42 local time,

Marian City Police Department,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The first flakes of snow stuck to the MCPD’s stone steps, but inside the station the air was warm with laughter. Roy Finnegan didn’t like this sort of thing- fuss, ceremony, spotlight- yet the bullpen had been transformed anyway. A cake with lopsided icing declared “Good Luck in Sǫ̀mbak’e, Roy!” in shaky blue frosting. A cheap plastic party hat perched on his head, pushed down by Sofie McCrain herself, who insisted he looked “absolutely adorable.” Roy grumbled, but he didn’t take it off.

 

Norm Olson had shown up too, making a grand speech about Roy’s “service to the Republic,” though half the room knew the Ranger had barely read the notes. Zeke Coleman clapped him on the back hard enough to rattle his ribs, while Park Avenue raised a cup of coffee like a toast which everyone powered through because it was Roy’s signature strong blend.

 

Capitol Commissioner Jim Gordon, Vanessa Harper and Teresa Gibson came with kind words of their own, Gibson even managing to smile- which was rarer than cake in this place. Pascal Yves cracked a joke about the MCPD finally escaping Roy’s terrible coffee; Tulip laughed loudest.

 

For once, Roy played along. He even let himself smile. He had spent his career keeping his head down, weathering storms, carrying ghosts- but tonight he allowed himself this small indulgence: to be the center of a room that respected him.

 

When most of the others drifted off, Norah lingered. She was the one who had bullied him into the party, after all. She stood across from him now, arms crossed, her usual fire dimmed just a little.

 

“Keep the fort down,” Roy told her, the words heavier than they sounded.

 

Norah nodded. “I will. At least until Jim gets around to naming a new Captain.” A beat passed, and her voice softened. “I’m hoping it’ll be me.”

 

Roy studied her for a moment, then pulled her into a hug. Neither of them were huggers, but the moment deserved one.

 

“You’ll do fine,” he muttered, allowing himself a small but wistful and encouraging smile.

 

The hug lingered a second longer than expected, and then it was done. The snow outside thickened, the laughter in the bullpen faded, and Roy Finnegan- party hat still crooked on his head- walked toward the future.

 

January 7, 2020,
07:14 local time,
Marian City Police Department,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The station smelled like burnt coffee and floor polish, the way it always did at sunrise. Norah Anam, now the Acting Captain, sat behind Roy’s old desk, which still bore the faint ring of his mug and the scratch marks where he used to shuffle reports into stacks. The office felt too large for her and too small for everything it demanded. She hadn’t changed anything yet. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to.

 

The knock came without hesitation. Commissioner Jim Gordon didn’t wait for her answer before stepping in, hat tucked under one arm, shoulders carrying the weight of the Republic.

 

“Wish I could say it’s going to be an easy first day,” he said.

 

His voice had the tired gravel of a man who’d been awake all night.

 

“…but I’d be lying.”

 

Norah leaned back in the chair. “Go ahead. Bad news doesn’t get better with age.”

 

“Downtown core,” Jim said flatly. “Ruffians tore it up last night. Broken windows, paint on the walls, cars flipped. It’s not a riot, not yet- but it smells like one brewing. We can’t let it spread.”

 

Norah’s jaw tightened. She had heard the whispers already: poverty lines stretching, workers muttering, landlords squeezing. “Vandalism or message?”

 

“Bit of both,” Jim said. “I need eyes and boots before it gets worse.”

 

Norah reached for the radio on her desk. “Strike Force?”

 

“Zeke and Park are ready,” Jim said. “I told them you’d lead.”

 

She clicked the receiver. “Coleman. Avenue. Gear up. We’re downtown in ten.”

 

“Copy,” came Zeke Coleman’s voice, deep and steady.

 

“Already on the way,” Park Avenue chimed in, too casual, as if a city block hadn’t just been gutted overnight.

 

Norah set the radio down, then looked at Jim. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Me in the chair, not for the paperwork but for mornings like this.”

 

Jim didn’t smile, but he didn’t deny it either. “I don’t appoint captains. I test them. Marian decides the rest.”

 

She stood, pulling her coat from the chair. “Then let’s see what the city has to say.”

 

As she brushed past him, Jim’s hand caught the edge of the doorframe. “Be careful, Anam. A vandal with paint is one thing. A mob with nothing to lose? That’s something else.”

 

Norah stopped, met his eyes. “The job’s not to make it fair. The job’s to make it stop.”

 

She didn’t wait for a reply. The boots echoed down the hall. The city outside was already waiting.

 

January 7, 2020,
08:03 local time,
Downtown Core,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The streets were still wet from the night’s snowmelt, though the air smelled of burnt rubber and cheap accelerant. Norah Anam led the Strike Force in tight formation, Pascal Yves trailing with a notepad and that restless edge he never shook. Zeke Coleman had his rifle shouldered, eyes scanning windows. Park Avenue spun his baton once like a gambler cutting cards, then stilled when Norah shot him a look.

 

They didn’t make it three blocks before the first shot cracked. Glass splintered from a third-story window. Zeke dropped, sighted the muzzle flash, and returned a warning burst that chewed plaster.

 

“Cover!” Norah barked, dragging Pascal into the shadow of a burned-out sedan. Avenue ducked behind a lamppost, swore under his breath.

 

The firefight lasted less than two minutes- panicked bursts, no real discipline. Whoever they were, they weren’t soldiers. When Zeke and Avenue pushed up the stairs, they found the gunmen gone, weapons ditched in a stairwell. Kids, most likely. Kids or drifters pressed into something they didn’t understand.

 

When the echoes died, Norah holstered her sidearm. “That wasn’t an ambush,” she said. “That was theater.”

 

Pascal scribbled furiously, already noting down details. “Theater for who?”

 

“Whoever shows up next,” she muttered.

 

They pressed deeper into the core. That was when the riot revealed itself in color. Shopfronts shattered, cars overturned, streetlamps bent to angles like broken fingers. However, it wasn’t the destruction that froze them — it was the words, repeated in spray paint from one block to the next, looping like a chant without a mouth.

 

ZIRCON-III.
THE END IS THE BEGINNING.

 

Scrawled in black, in red, in dripping white. Across brick, glass, steel, and snow. Many having only half of the statement. Some sprayings were neat, some sloppy, all insistent.

 

Zeke tapped one wall with his glove. “Zircon’s a mineral, right? Fancy rock?”

 

Pascal shook his head. “Zircon-III isn’t geology. It’s… industrial. I’ve seen the name in old procurement files.” He hesitated. “Military procurement.”

 

Park exhaled through his teeth. “So we’re not just looking at vandals with a cause.”

 

Norah studied the spray paint, her reflection fractured in the glass it covered. The end is the beginning.

 

It wasn’t a slogan. It was a prophecy…and it was being written into the city one wall at a time.

 

She keyed her radio. “Control, this is Captain Anam. Downtown is compromised. Strike Force has engaged and dispersed armed vandals. Beginning investigation of organized activity…and tell Jim-” She looked again at the words bleeding down the wall. “Tell Jim we’ve got a problem bigger than broken windows.”

 

January 7, 2020,
08:19 local time,
Downtown Core,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The Strike Force spread out, boots crunching over broken glass. Norah stared at another spray-painted wall, the words dripping down brick like blood thinned with snowmelt:

 

ZIRCON-III.
THE END IS THE BEGINNING.

 

Zeke Coleman snorted. He jabbed a thumb at the graffiti and glanced at Pascal Yves, who was scribbling in his notebook.

 

“Hey, genius,” Zeke said. “Tell us what Zircon-Three is. Because unless it’s a new brand of beer, I’m not impressed.”

 

Pascal pushed his glasses up, his voice dry but steady. “Zircon-III is a rare earth. Real. Documented. It’s used all over- ceramics, fuel rods, maglev linings. Rome swears by it, UCSS too. Mostly benign. Mostly.” He tapped the notebook with his pen. “But lately… leaks out of the CIA suggest there’s fresh interest. Same from a handful of Japanese defectors, and even whispers inside the Ottoman Harbiyye İstihbarat Dairesi.”

 

Park Avenue tilted his head. “Which translates to…?”

 

“Department of Military Intelligence,” Pascal said. “Their black room for this sort of thing.”

 

“…and what’s it mean?” Zeke pressed.

 

Pascal shrugged once, sharp. “No one knows. Not yet. Just that Zircon-III is on briefing sheets where it wasn’t before. In the margins of budgets. In the leaks that weren’t supposed to see daylight. Something’s moving.”

 

Norah looked at the dripping words again. The End is the Beginning.

 

“Then whoever painted this,” she said, “either knows more than we do- or wants us to think they do.”

 

Snow drifted down, settling on the letters until they blurred into shapes the city itself seemed to whisper.

 

February 12, 2020,
21:37 local time,
The Blue Lantern Bar,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The bar was half-lit, neon tubes humming in broken blues and pinks. Esme Errons leaned across the counter, mime-inspired makeup on point, blue bandeau glittering under the lights. Her sixpack abs caught the glow as she shifted her weight, tiny briefs riding sharp against her hips, a navel ring winking with each move. Flats tapped on the floor, knee-high lace stockings completing the look, and her blue hair was tied in double ponytails- sharp, provocative, playful, deliberate.

 

Norah sat opposite, nursing water. Weeks of dead leads weighed on her: Zircon-III on every wall, conspiracy blogs screaming a dozen different stories, none of them coherent.

 

“You’ve been chewing on it long enough,” Esme said, tossing her rag aside. “Spit it out.”

 

“Zircon-Three,” Norah said. “What is it?”

 

Esme smirked, poured herself a shot. “Depends which idiot you ask. Rome’s miracle alloy, UCSS’ maglev booster, some defector’s fever dream about turning hurricanes into weapons. Noise. Just noise.” She knocked the gin back, set the glass down with a snap. “Me? I keep circling back to Pickle Lake.”

 

Norah’s jaw tightened. “Of course you do.”

 

Esme leaned closer, ponytails swinging. “Biggest Zircon-III deposits in the hemisphere…and don’t tell me you don’t already know that place isn’t just rock and trees.”

 

“I know,” Norah said flatly. She hated the words the moment they left her mouth, because admitting it meant dragging the weight of that place into the room. “I just wish it was.”

 

Esme watched her for a long moment, the bar’s lights catching on her navel ring, reflecting in the glitter of her bandeau. Then she smiled, faint and dangerous. “Wishing doesn’t change dirt. If Zircon-III means anything, you’ll find it there.”

 

Norah exhaled through her nose, staring down at her untouched glass. Pickle Lake again. Always Pickle Lake.

 

February 14, 2020,
23:58 local time,
Velour Nightclub,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The Velour had been selling champagne and “love slaves” under the same roof for years, dressed in velvet and neon, pretending exploitation could be luxury if the price was high enough. On Valentine’s night, the glass atrium glittered with couples in red dresses and black ties. Then the doors blew open.

 

Anahi Maria entered first- though tonight she wasn’t Anahi Maria. She was Harley Quinn, down to the candy-striped pigtails, smeared rouge, and the manic tilt of her grin. Behind her came the Marionettes, a makeshift militia in patchwork motley: ruffled collars, painted faces, jester bells jingling as they swung bats and pipes. The music cut. Screams followed.

 

“Ladies and germs!” Quinn shouted, voice shrill with glee. “The show tonight is called Freedom! One act only- and you’re the stars!”

 

Chaos moved quickly. The Marionettes swarmed the security staff, cracking batons against tailored suits. Patrons scattered, champagne spilling, silk dresses torn. In the basement cages, the “love slaves” cried out as their doors were smashed open.

 

Quinn skipped down the stairs, pulling vials from her coat- clear liquid glowing faintly pink under the lights. “Drink up, puddin’s! This here’s the antidote to Cupid’s Kiss- that nasty Zircon-Three they been slipping ya to keep ya all obedient!”

 

The freed slaves hesitated, staring at the vials like foreign objects. One woman finally spoke, voice ragged: “We were never given anything. No drugs. Just locks. Just chains.”

 

Another shook his head, bruises bright against his cheek. “Don’t even know what Zircon is.”

 

Quinn froze, bottles clinking in her hands. The grin faltered but didn’t disappear. “What do you mean you don’t know? Internet said-” She stopped, eyes darting, painted smile twitching.

 

The Marionettes cheered their victory above, but Quinn stood in the basement shadows, staring at the liquid she’d believed was salvation. She had cooked it herself from recipes buried in fringe forums, convinced Zircon-III was a “Cupid” compound, a chemical leash. If they hadn’t been dosed, then what had she actually created?

 

She tucked the vials back into her coat, laughter returning but brittle now. “Happy Valentine’s, dollfaces,” she whispered, more to herself than the rescued. “Guess love’s still the real poison.”

 

The freed slaves stumbled out into the cold night, clutching their borrowed coats. Upstairs, the Marionettes sang and jeered, reveling in their painted justice. Quinn, though, lipstick smeared across her grin, trailed last into the street- her mind spinning faster than her act.

 

March 8, 2020,
15:27 local time,
Downtown Core,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

It was supposed to be a protest, then a march, then a sit-in. By the time Norah Anam arrived with Zeke Coleman, Park Avenue, and Pascal Yves, it was all three layered on top of each other- and breaking apart at the seams.

 

The banners told the story better than the chants. Zircon-III IS A LOVE DRUG. ZIRCON-III IS A NUCLEAR WEAPON. ZIRCON-III CURES CANCER. ZIRCON-III DOESN’T EXIST. Every wall was still painted with The End is the Beginning, and every faction swore it was theirs to interpret.

 

A cluster of students dressed in lab coats waved hand-drawn charts of chemical structures. Down the street, a self-styled militia in desert fatigues carried toy rifles spray-painted black. Clowns, literally clowns, handed out flyers claiming Zircon-III was the “key to eternal laughter.” None of them agreed on anything except that they hated the Republic and loved the sound of their own noise.

 

Norah shoved her way through with the Strike Force, trying to divide the chaos into manageable pieces. Every time she calmed one scuffle, however, another ignited across the block. A bottle shattered near her boots, liquor soaking into the pavement. Zeke barked at a group of masked vandals until they scattered, only for Avenue to point out smoke rising two streets over.

 

“It’s like plugging holes in a sinking ship,” Avenue muttered, sweat streaking his brow despite the cold.

 

“No,” Pascal said, scribbling furiously even as he ducked a flying can. “It’s like plugging holes in five sinking ships. With one cork.”

 

Norah didn’t bother answering. She was watching the crowd’s faces. Fear, anger, glee- all blending into one volatile mask. This wasn’t one movement. It wasn’t even ten. It was a hundred little fires, each convinced theirs was the only flame that mattered.

 

The Strike Force pressed on, but it felt more and more like futility. By sunset, the city would calm. By sunrise, it would flare again.

 

Norah keyed her radio, voice flat. “Control, this is Captain Anam. Situation is ongoing. Unstable. Contagious.”

 

She cut the line before Control could answer.

 

March 12, 2020,
11:03 local time,
Parliament House,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The chamber stank of sweat and fear, even though the air vents roared at full blast. Outside, the Army patrolled the streets in convoys, armored transports rumbling over cobblestone. Soldiers in riot gear had been ordered to “restore order.” Instead, they were trapped in the same loop as Norah’s Strike Force- putting out one blaze while five more lit behind them.

 

President Pancratius Danilis “Daniel Duke” Ducatus presided from his chair with the same grin he wore at ribbon cuttings, as if refusing to change expression could hold the Republic together.

 

Minister after minister rose to speak. Broken supply lines. Hospitals choked with the injured. Storefronts shuttered. The Army itself stretched thin, unable to contain riots that were no longer riots but rolling seizures of the city.

 

Oswald Cobbledick, usually Duke’s most loyal echo, broke from his script. His voice trembled but carried. “Mr. President, we need martial law. Now. The Army must not only be present- it must govern. Curfews, checkpoints, total control.”

 

Others, emboldened, nodded. One slammed a folder down. Another wiped his brow with a shaking hand. “Lock the city down. Every day we delay, we lose another block. We lose another thousand citizens. Sir, this is no longer a protest- this is contagion.”

 

Duke chuckled. Actually chuckled. “You make it sound like a plague,” he said, voice oozing with scorn. “As if this city is infected.” He tapped his notes, flashing his teeth. “What it is, gentlemen, is impatient. People want quick answers. They want quick fixes. They want handouts…but we will not become like the world outside, running scared every time someone shouts ‘crisis.’ Marian is strong. Marian endures.”

 

“Sir-” Cobbledick tried again, sweat darkening his collar.

 

“No,” Duke snapped, slamming his hand on the desk. “No martial law. No lockdown. Marian does not hide in its homes like a frightened child. We face our problems in the open. We work harder, we show grit, and we move forward. That is how we win. That is how we always win.”

 

The chamber fell silent. Outside, another plume of smoke twisted into the skyline, visible even through the high windows. A distant crack of gunfire punctuated the stillness.

 

For a heartbeat, even Duke seemed to hear it. Then he straightened, smirk fixed once more, as if ignoring the sound could make it vanish.

 

March 15, 2020,
19:22 local time,
Stately McCrain Manor,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

Thomas McCrain knew something was wrong the moment he saw the gates. Gravel scattered across the drive, headlights fading in the distance, the manor’s front door splintered on its hinges.

Inside, the house had been gutted by intruders who knew what they were looking for- desks rifled through, cabinets overturned, papers torn and scattered like trash. The walls bore the same dripping marks as the city outside, scrawled in paint that stank of gasoline and rot:

 

ZIRCON-III.
THE END IS THE BEGINNING.

 

He followed the trail into the drawing room and froze.

 

Alfred sat bound to a chair with electrical cord, his face battered, blood drying along his temple. Beside him, his teenaged daughter Niege was tied the same way. Both were bruised, both bloodied, and both stripped of their clothing- the bandits had stolen garments as if seams and fabric might hold secrets.

 

However, it was the cuts and swelling on their knuckles that struck Thomas hardest. They had fought back. Alfred, stooped with age but unbroken in spirit. Niege, trembling now, but clearly defiant until overwhelmed. They hadn’t been subdued easily.

 

Thomas crossed the room in quick strides. He freed their gags first, then shrugged off his coat to wrap around Niege’s shoulders. Alfred croaked through cracked lips, voice hoarse: “We tried. God help us, we tried. They wanted clues, thought our clothes- our pockets- hid codes, maps. They kept shouting Zircon.”

 

Thomas cut the cords with his knife, jaw clenched. He didn’t ask who they were. In Marian now, they could mean anyone- anarchists, militias, zealots, scavengers chasing rumors.

 

His eyes swept the walls again. The graffiti was no longer just threat; it was prophecy written in paint.

 

“We leave tonight,” Thomas said. His voice was flat, final. “I don’t care what the government says- it’s not safe here in Marian anymore.”

 

Niege clutched the coat tighter, shaking but upright. Alfred managed to nod through the pain.

 

Stately McCrain Manor had survived wars, recessions, betrayals. This was different. It had survived its last night.

 

March 16, 2020,
22:11 local time,

Downtown Complex,
Copper Bay, Victoria Island, Republic of Sǫ̀mbak’è

 

Bruce McCrain was lacing his cleats in the locker room when his phone buzzed. A text from his father. He frowned- Thomas never texted unless it was logistics or business. The message was short.

I love you. Stay strong. Tell your mother the same.

 

Bruce read it twice, then a third time. “I love you.” The words looked wrong on the screen, like someone else had typed them on Thomas’s behalf. He showed the phone to a teammate, who shrugged. Bruce pocketed it and told himself it was nothing, though his chest stayed tight.

 

Across town, Martha McCrain sat at her campaign headquarters, the air thick with posters and stale coffee. Her phone chimed with the same message. She read it, tilted her head, and gave a little laugh.

 

“Your father,” she muttered. “Always knows when to make it about him.”

 

Still, she read the line again- I love you. Thomas McCrain was many things, but sentimental wasn’t one of them. The words lodged like grit in her mind. She shoved the phone away, turned back to her aides, and told herself she had a campaign to run.

 

For both mother and son, the message became background noise, filed away as curious, maybe even a little sweet. They didn’t know it for what it was- a man already halfway gone, saying the only thing he could risk saying.

 

March 16, 2020,
23:47 local time,
Presidential Residence,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The glow of the monitor lit Daniel Duke’s face a cold blue. His inbox ticked upward with every refresh: ten thousand, a hundred thousand, half a million. By midnight, the count had passed two million unread messages.

 

Messages from governors, mayors, hospital directors. From priests, teachers, grocers. From Rome, from UCSS, from allies and rivals both. All pleading the same thing in different words: Lock the Republic down. Call martial law. Close the streets. Stop the spread.

 

Duke scrolled, skimmed, and scoffed. “Fear,” he muttered, leaning back in his leather chair. “All of it, fear. They’d rather kneel than stand.” He deleted whole batches at once, lips curling in satisfaction at the emptying folders.

 

A faint sound cracked the night- glass shivering, somewhere down the hall. Duke froze, eyes darting toward the dark window behind him. The monitor reflected only his own silhouette, puffed chest and proud jaw.

 

He waited, ears straining. Nothing followed. No alarm, no shouts. He chuckled under his breath. “Paranoid old men hear things,” he said, shaking his head.

 

Another thousand e-mails arrived. He hit delete again.

 

March 17, 2020,
09:26 local time,
Parliament House,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The chamber buzzed like a hive without its queen. Ministers shuffled papers, whispered in corners, glanced at the great double doors that remained shut.

 

President Daniel Duke had not arrived.

 

On its own, this wasn’t unusual. Duke had a habit of sleeping late, of letting the chamber stew before striding in with that smug grin, ready to dismiss everyone’s panic as weakness. More than once he had kept them waiting until noon. Sometimes even later.

 

This morning, the air felt different.

 

Oswald Cobbledick stood at the central dais, sweat darkening his collar despite the cool air. He raised both hands as if to calm the tide. “Gentlemen, please. The President will arrive. He always does. Let us not overthink what is routine.”

 

Routine. The word echoed hollow.

 

A minister coughed, another muttered. Someone whispered, “He should have answered the dispatch by now.”

 

Cobbledick forced a smile that convinced no one. “The President has never failed us. He will not fail us today.”

 

Outside, through the high windows, the city stirred- chants swelling like a drumbeat, smoke rising in thin columns from distant streets. Inside, unease spread from bench to bench, carried on the scrape of chairs and the shuffle of feet.

 

Duke’s absence, once dismissed as vanity, now felt like vacancy- and no one, not even Cobbledick, could quite say why.

 

March 17, 2020,
10:14 local time,
Presidential Residence,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The aide’s shoes crunched on broken glass as he pushed into the residence. The front hall smelled of cordite and iron. His calls went unanswered.

 

The Presidential security detail lay where they had fallen- rifles dropped, eyes blank, blood pooled across the marble. Some still sat slumped against the walls, their earpieces torn, their sidearms half-drawn. A fight had happened here, swift and final.

 

He climbed the stairs with shaking legs. In the master suite, Pancratius Danilis “Daniel Duke” Ducatus sprawled across the bed as though asleep. Only the dark stain spreading across his chest betrayed the truth. The President was dead.

 

The aide raised his comm, fingers trembling. “Control- ” Static hissed back. He tried again. No line. No channel. Nothing. His voice died in his throat as the silence pressed in. He was alone with the bodies, and no one would hear him.

 

March 17, 2020,
10:37 local time,
Parliament House,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The chants outside had fused into a roar. Every window rattled. From the high balconies, ministers could see smoke columns rising where the streets converged. The rioters were no longer scattered groups; they were a tide, rushing toward Parliament like a river that had found its course.

 

Inside, panic set in. Cobbledick barked orders. “Lock the doors! Bar the windows! Contain the chamber!” Guards rushed to slam iron across the doors, but the sound outside only grew. Fists against wood. Rocks against glass. The Parliament’s great walls had kept out debate and compromise for decades- but they would not keep out a city on fire.

 

“Where is the President?” someone shouted. “Where is Duke?”

 

Cobbledick tried again to reassure, voice cracking. “He will arrive. He- he must.”

 

The roar drowned him out.

 

The first pane of glass shattered above the balcony. The Parliament of Marian braced itself, but futility hung over them like smoke.

 

The end had begun.

 

March 17, 2020,
11:42 local time,
Parliament House,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The barricades splintered first. Then the doors.

 

The mob flooded into Parliament like water through a burst dam. Faces painted, scarves tied, banners raised. Clubs, pipes, pistols, blades. They were not there for debate, not for negotiation, not for speeches. They were there to destroy.

 

Ministers screamed, scattered. Some tried to plead, raising hands, flashing credentials. It made no difference. The rioters spared no one. Chairs became weapons, desks overturned. Gunfire cracked beneath the dome. Marble that had echoed with speeches for generations now ran slick with blood.

 

Oswald Cobbledick vanished in the chaos. One moment he was shouting orders, the next he was gone- slipped through a side door, or dragged into the crowd, no one could say. By nightfall, rumors swirled: some swore he was dead, others whispered he had fled. For now, he was missing.

 

Outside, the Army tried to hold the line. Soldiers fired warning shots, then live rounds. The mob surged anyway, overwhelming barricades and forcing the troops back block by block. By mid-afternoon, whole regiments had broken.

 

General Rick Charles stood in the command post, headset askew, maps useless in front of him. Reports came in faster than he could process. Units routed. Supply lines severed. Commanders dead or out of contact.

 

“Who’s in charge?” Charles barked.

 

No answer came.

 

The General slammed his fist on the table. The Republic had no leader, no Parliament, no control. The situation could not wait.

 

Charles lifted the secure line, voice gravel as he forced the words out.

 

“This is General Charles of the Marian Army. We cannot hold. I am requesting immediate intervention. Call in Peace.”

 

The silence after those words was heavier than the roar of the mob outside. Marian’s sovereignty, whatever it had been, was gone.

 

March 17, 2020,
13:09 local time,
Boulevard near Parliament,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

Smoke drifted in curtains over the boulevard. Sirens bled into the chanting roar of the mob. Norah Anam crouched behind an overturned transport with Zeke and Park Avenue, her radio spitting fragments of orders that contradicted each other by the minute.

 

That was when Capitol Commissioner Jim Gordon appeared- face streaked with grime, coat torn, sidearm drawn but steady. He dropped beside her, eyes sharp despite the chaos.

 

“Anam,” he said over the din. “Parliament’s lost. Rioters are inside…but listen- we’ve got a bigger problem. The President’s unaccounted for.”

Norah’s jaw clenched. “Duke?”

 

Gordon nodded, grim. “No one’s seen him since last night. His motorcade never reached Parliament. His residence isn’t answering. For all we know, he’s sitting on his couch with the curtains drawn. Or worse.”

 

Norah glanced at Zeke and Avenue, then back, “and you want me to walk into this chaos and drag him out?”

 

“I want you to find him,” Gordon snapped. “If he’s alive, we need him. If he’s dead, we need to know. Either way, this city doesn’t survive in the dark.”

 

Behind them, the roar of engines cut through the mob’s chant. Blue-and-gold armored vehicles rolled into the avenue, their insignia stark even through the haze. Peace had arrived.

 

One of their officers dismounted, visor gleaming, rifle slung. Without waiting for introductions, Gordon nodded toward him. “You’ll have Peace support. Patrol detail’s yours. Use it.”

 

Norah studied the officer, then looked back at Gordon. “You really think Duke matters now?”

 

“He matters enough,” Gordon said, voice flat. “Find him.”

 

Norah rose, tightening the strap on her vest. The mob still howled, the city still burned, but the mission was clear. Somewhere in the ruins, Daniel Duke was either salvation or another corpse- and it was her job to learn which.

 

March 17, 2020,
13:21 local time,
Boulevard near Parliament,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The smoke parted with a laugh. Endgame strolled out of it like a man on holiday, blades clinking at his back, mask grinning wider than the firelight behind him.

 

“Well, if it isn’t Captain Anam,” he said, clapping his hands. “You look stressed. Want a hug? No? Okay, we’ll circle back.”

 

Zeke raised his rifle. Park muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.”

 

Endgame spread his arms. “Relax, I’m here to help! Your little scavenger hunt for Duke? Sounds like fun. Count me in.”

 

Norah’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

 

“No?” Endgame tilted his head. “You’ve got two cops cosplaying as soldiers”- he jerked a thumb at Zeke and Avenue- “and a Peace patrol that’s only here for the paycheck. Do you really think you’re going to beat this mob without me?”

 

Norah scoffed, her mouth curving into a grin she didn’t entirely feel. “What makes me think you didn’t have something to do with this chaos and now you’re just leading me into a trap?”

 

Endgame tapped his chin theatrically, then chuckled low. “Because, Captain…I really have nothing to do with this.”

 

Norah’s eyes flicked, waiting for the punchline.

 

“…and I can prove it,” Endgame said. He tossed a bloodied bandana onto the pavement. Spray-painted across it in dripping black letters were the words that had haunted every wall for weeks: ZIRCON-III. THE END IS THE BEGINNING.

 

“Not my style,” he said, shrugging. “I like my art with more pizzazz.”

 

Norah kicked the bandana aside. She didn’t believe him- not fully- but the mob was closing in, and time was a luxury Marian no longer had.

 

“Fine,” she said, adjusting her vest, “but you stay in front. If this is a trap, I’d like the pleasure of shooting you first.”

 

Endgame laughed, delighted. “Now that’s teamwork.”

 

Norah signaled to Zeke, Avenue, and the Peace officer. The group formed up, weapons ready, faces grim. Whatever waited at the Presidential Residence, they would face it together- or not at all.

 

“Let’s move,” Norah said.

 

The mob roared somewhere behind them, but their path lay ahead, into smoke and silence and the ruins of power.

 

March 17, 2020,
14:32 local time,
Presidential Residence,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The gates hung half-open, spray-painted in dripping letters: ZIRCON-III. THE END IS THE BEGINNING. Inside, the courtyard of the Presidential Residence looked more like a carnival than a seat of power. Protesters danced atop toppled statues, guzzling looted champagne. Someone strummed a guitar on the steps where dignitaries once climbed.

 

Blissfully unaware- or willfully blind- to the carnage they had left behind.

 

“Looks like the afterparty,” Endgame muttered.

 

The mob spotted the group. Bottles and bricks flew. Then the charge came.

 

Zeke Coleman moved like he’d been born in a foxhole. His rifle barked in tight bursts, each shot deliberate. Park Avenue, less precise but no less dangerous, spun his baton like a blade, cracking knees and jaws with a dancer’s rhythm. Endgame, grinning behind his mask, nodded appreciatively. “Not bad for cosplayers.”

 

The Peace Patrol, by contrast, fell apart instantly. One stumbled, another froze, two fired wild into the air. The mob pressed harder, emboldened by their weakness.

 

Norah Anam shoved through the chaos, grabbed the nearest patrolman by the vest, and snarled, “On me!” Her voice cut through the panic like steel. “Form a line, left flank- now! Cover fire in bursts, not sprays. Breathe. Aim. Fire.”

 

Something in her tone- command, not request- snapped them into motion. The Peace Patrol steadied, rifles finding targets, shots finally landing true. The mob broke, scattered back into the courtyard, some still laughing, others screaming.

 

When the last bottle shattered against the cobblestone, silence reclaimed the residence.

 

Norah adjusted her vest, breathing hard. The courtyard reeked of sweat, smoke, and spilled champagne. She looked at her team: Zeke steady, Park grinning blood from a split lip, Endgame twirling his blade like he’d just left the stage. The Peace Patrol, wide-eyed but intact, stared at her as though realizing for the first time who was actually in charge.

 

“Inside,” Norah ordered.

 

They pushed through the heavy doors, stepping into the echoing halls of power. Bloodstains marked the marble. Spent casings littered the floor. Security men lay where they had fallen, rifles dropped mid-draw.

 

In the master suite, sprawled across the bed as though still asleep, lay Pancratius Danilis “Daniel Duke” Ducatus. The stain across his chest left no doubt.

 

Norah stood in the doorway, fists tight at her sides. For weeks the Republic had burned with his name, demanded his presence, cursed his absence…and here he was- not absent, not hidden, but gone.

 

The President of Marian was dead.

 

March 17, 2020,
14:58 local time,
Presidential Residence,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The bedroom was a tomb. Curtains drawn, air stale, bodies cooling. Duke lay still on the bed, chest dark with blood, eyes glassy in death.

 

Norah stepped closer, scanning the floor for signs of the attackers. That was when she saw it — half-hidden under the bedframe, smeared in red on a scrap of parchment.

 

The mark of McCrain.

 

Her stomach turned. Of all the symbols to leave behind, it had to be this. The McCrain crest, drawn hastily, almost crudely, but unmistakable.

She held it up for the others. Zeke frowned, Park squinted, Pascal went pale. Endgame tilted his head, mask reflecting the smear.

 

“Well, well,” he said. “Your favorite trillionaire’s family crest, just lying around next to a corpse. How subtle.”

 

Norah’s jaw clenched. “If Duke was killed and they wanted us to know who did it, this is the message. We have to pay Thomas McCrain a visit.”

 

Endgame chuckled, low and sharp. “Or maybe it’s too neat. Too easy. You think Thomas leaves his autograph at the scene of the crime? That smells like a misdirect.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” Norah snapped. She shoved the parchment into a plastic sleeve. “Whether it’s bait or truth, we can’t ignore it. We find Thomas. Now.”

 

Endgame spread his arms, mock bowing. “Lead on, Captain. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when the trail circles back and bites.”

 

Norah ignored the quip. She looked once more at Duke’s body, then at the crimson crest. The Republic had lost its President- and now, one way or another, the path pointed north.

 

March 17, 2020,
15:34 local time,
Capitol Command Post,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The command post was chaos: radios squawking, maps marked and re-marked, Peace convoys rolling in under Gordon’s clipped orders. Norah pushed through the din, flanked by Zeke, Park, Pascal, and Endgame trailing like a shadow.

 

Capitol Commissioner Jim Gordon looked up from a radio unit as she entered. His face told her he already knew the news would be bad.

 

“Duke’s gone,” Norah said, no preamble. “Shot. Security detail dead. No survivors.”

 

The room fell a beat quieter. Gordon closed his eyes, exhaled once, then nodded. “So it’s true.”

 

Norah held up the plastic sleeve, the McCrain crest smeared in red. “We found this near the body. If it’s bait, it’s a good one. I can follow the lead. Or-” she paused, gauging him, “-do you want me to pivot to Cobbledick? If he’s alive, he’s Acting President. If he’s dead, the Republic needs to know.”

 

“I’ve got a team on Oswald,” Gordon said, voice firm. “You won’t find him any faster than they will. Chase the McCrain lead. If someone wants us looking north, we’ll look north. At least until I say otherwise.”

 

Norah nodded once. “Understood.”

 

An hour later, the convoy pulled into the McCrain estate. Stately McCrain Manor loomed against the grey sky, windows dark, gates ajar. No servants, no guards, no sign of life.

 

Norah led the way up the drive, boots crunching gravel. The grand front door creaked open under her hand, revealing only silence. The house that had stood as a monument to wealth and permanence now felt abandoned, hollow.

 

“Empty,” Park muttered, his voice echoing in the vast hall.

 

Endgame spun slowly in place, blades clinking, mask grinning. “Well, Captain, looks like your little treasure hunt hit its first snag.”

 

Norah’s gaze swept the cold marble floors, the rifled desks, the graffiti smeared across the walls. ZIRCON-III. THE END IS THE BEGINNING.

 

She tightened her jaw. If Thomas McCrain was the lead, then he had already slipped the noose.

 

Which meant finding him would be even harder.

 

March 17, 2020,
23:56 local time,
Pickle Lake Research Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The helicopter’s blades slowed to silence, settling into the underground port. Thomas McCrain climbed out stiffly, still wearing the old steadiness of a soldier. He had treated Alfred and Niege as best he could during the flight- binding wounds, checking pulses, whispering promises he wasn’t sure he could keep. Alfred, groggy but alive. Niege, pale but breathing steady. Both had fought, both had bled, both had survived.

 

Inside the compound, his physician was waiting. White coat, gloves already stained from a long day. The doctor barked orders, nurses wheeling Alfred and Niege away as Thomas followed, shadowed by the hum of fluorescent lights.

 

“They’ll make it,” the doctor said at last, voice brisk but kind. “Bruises, fractures, dehydration. A few broken ribs, cracked knuckles. Nothing we can’t mend. Weeks for Alfred, maybe months. The girl will need time, but she’s resilient. She’ll heal.”

 

Thomas stood at the edge of the room, fists in his pockets, jaw set hard. Relief hurt almost as much as the fear had. He ached for Alfred- his friend, his comrade, the man who had stood by him since their Army days- and for Niege, caught in a war she never asked to fight.

 

He was still standing there when the alarm went off.

 

A sharp chime echoed through the hall, followed by the clipped voice of security: “Vehicle inbound. North approach.”

 

Thomas blinked, startled. A vehicle? Here? He had taken every precaution, flown low, dodged patrols, ensured no one could follow.

 

“How?” he whispered, more to himself than to the guards.

 

The monitor flashed, grainy feed from the outer cameras. Headlights cut through the trees, creeping closer.

 

Someone had found Pickle Lake.

 

March 18, 2020,
04:27 local time,
Pickle Lake Research Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The drive north had been long, rough, and silent. By the time Norah’s convoy pulled up to the gate of the Pickle Lake facility, frost clung to the trees and the sky was bleeding pale gray. Her eyes stung with exhaustion, but her jaw was set.

 

The gate’s lone porter emerged from his booth, coat buttoned, clipboard in hand. He looked at the badges, at the Peace patrol, at the Strike Force. Then he shook his head.

 

“Facility’s closed,” he said, tone clipped. “You’ll have to turn around. No visitors, no exceptions.”

 

Norah stepped forward. “I’m not here for a tour.”

 

The porter tried to stand taller. “Doesn’t matter. No one gets through without clearance.”

 

“I’m not here for clearance.” Her voice cut through the dawn like glass. “I’m here for Thomas McCrain. Bring him to me.”

 

The porter’s jaw tightened. “Mr. McCrain doesn’t meet unannounced guests.”

 

Norah’s laugh was short, sharp, humorless. “Unannounced? The Republic is burning, Parliament is ash, Duke is dead in his bed. If Thomas McCrain thinks he can hide behind a gate while Marian falls apart, he’s mistaken.”

 

The porter shifted, clipboard slipping in his grip. “That’s above my-”

 

Norah stepped closer until the frost of her breath met his. “This isn’t about you. Open the gate. Now.”

 

Behind her, Zeke and Park waited, tense but silent. Endgame leaned against the truck, humming tunelessly, mask grinning. The Peace patrol muttered among themselves, glancing between their captain and the guard.

 

The porter looked at her, then at the armed men at her back. He swallowed hard. “I’ll… notify the interior.”

 

“You do that,” Norah said, eyes locked on him, “but the gate opens. Or I’ll open it myself.”

 

The man hesitated, then nodded, fumbling for the controls. Metal ground as the gates creaked open, letting the convoy roll into the compound.

 

Norah’s grip tightened on her radio. “We’re here for Thomas,” she muttered to herself. “Nothing else.”

 

Deep down, though, she already knew Pickle Lake would give her more than she asked for.

 

March 18, 2020,
04:51 local time,
Visitors’ Lobby, Pickle Lake Research Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The lobby smelled of sterilized air and stone dust. Norah stood in the center, Zeke and Park flanking her, Endgame sprawled across a chair like it was a stage prop. The Peace patrol lingered uneasily near the doors, weapons in hand but eyes uncertain.

 

Across the room, two members of McCrain security held their ground, earpieces crackling faintly. One spoke, voice even but firm.

 

“Mr. McCrain is aware of your presence. He reminds you that this is private property. The Ontario Outback may be Marian territory on paper, but it isn’t under Capitol enforcement in practice. Without a warrant, Captain, you have no authority here.”

 

Norah’s gaze was steady. “You’re right. I don’t have a warrant.” She reached into her vest pocket and pulled out a plastic sleeve, holding it up so the smear of red inside caught the fluorescent light. “What I do have is probable cause. This was found beside President Duke’s body. The McCrain crest. That’s more than enough.”

 

The guards exchanged glances. The taller one pressed a finger to his earpiece, listening, then nodded once.

 

“Mr. McCrain will receive you,” he said at last. “In the visitors’ lobby. No further.”

 

Norah slipped the sleeve back into her vest. “That’s all I need.”

 

Endgame clapped softly, slow and theatrical. “Ah, the power of paperwork. Probable cause- the magic words. I should try that sometime.”

 

“Shut up,” Zeke muttered.

 

The inner doors hissed open. A figure approached, tall, composed, his footsteps echoing across the marble. Thomas McCrain entered the lobby like a man walking into his own boardroom, expression unreadable, shoulders square.

 

Norah didn’t move. Neither did he. For a moment, the Republic of Marian felt reduced to that room- one captain, one trillionaire, one truth waiting to surface.

 

March 18, 2020,
05:07 local time,
Visitors’ Lobby, Pickle Lake Research Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

Thomas McCrain stood with his hands folded behind his back, posture sharp as the marble under his shoes. His security team flanked the walls, silent as statues.

 

“Captain Anam,” Thomas said evenly, “if you’re here because of the President’s murder, I can assure you — neither I nor anyone under my employ had anything to do with it. The security footage will prove that.”

 

Norah narrowed her eyes. “Footage can be edited.”

 

“Then take the raw files,” Thomas replied without hesitation. “Logs, backups, documents- whatever you need. I’ll have them sent to your office by morning.”

 

That stopped her. She had expected stonewalling, lawyers, delay tactics. Not open compliance. Her instincts tightened. Too accommodating. Too willing.

 

“You’re unusually generous for a man with everything to lose,” she said carefully.

 

Thomas glanced at Endgame, who lounged against the wall twirling a knife between his fingers. “I’ve never had the chance to clear the air about this facility,” Thomas said. His voice softened- not warm, but weary. “I’m tired of the rumors. The whispers about what goes on here. Tonight seems as good a time as any.”

 

He gestured toward the inner corridor, a motion both invitation and command. “Come. I’ll show you what Pickle Lake really is.”

 

Endgame chuckled, springing off the wall. “A trillionaire offering a midnight tour of his top-secret lab? Oh, Captain, this is going to be fun.”

 

Norah exchanged a look with Zeke and Park. They were tense, hands near their weapons. She nodded once. “Fine. Show us.”

 

Thomas turned, his stride deliberate as the heavy doors opened onto the facility’s depths. Lights flickered on in sequence, casting sterile shadows across polished steel and reinforced glass.

 

For years, Pickle Lake had been rumor. Tonight, it would reveal its truth.

 

March 18, 2020,
05:22 local time,
Interior Corridor, Pickle Lake Research Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The corridor stretched long and sterile, lights flickering awake in sequence as Thomas led them deeper. The sound of their boots echoed too loudly against the steel and tile, a hollow rhythm that made Zeke twitch and Park glance over his shoulder more than once.

 

Norah felt it too- the quiet wrongness of a place too clean, too controlled, buried under stone. Endgame whistled tunelessly, twirling his knife with exaggerated nonchalance.

 

Thomas slowed his stride just enough to glance back at them. “I know how this looks. Cold halls. Armed guards. Doors you can’t see through. Pickle Lake has a way of putting people on edge.”

 

Norah said nothing, her hand brushing the grip of her sidearm.

 

Thomas’s jaw tightened. “But I’m tired of the rumors. People whisper evil when they don’t understand what they’re looking at. I won’t pretend this place isn’t powerful. I will say- and show you- it is not monstrous.”

 

They reached a reinforced door. A guard keyed it open, revealing a chamber beyond. The sterile white gave way to a different scene: a wide observation room, glass walls looking into an enclosure. Inside, creatures moved- not grotesque, not mistreated, but alive, alert, watchful. Animoids.

 

One lifted its head, eyes catching the fluorescent light. Not chained. Not starved. Studied.

 

Thomas spread his hands. “This is Pickle Lake. Not a prison. Not a slaughterhouse. A research facility. Animoids treated with dignity, studied for what they can teach us- about healing, resilience, survival itself.”

 

Zeke muttered under his breath. Park stayed silent, eyes fixed on the creatures. Norah’s gaze didn’t waver from Thomas.

 

“You want us to believe this isn’t exploitation,” she said flatly.

 

“I want you to believe the truth,” Thomas countered. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried. “That this isn’t evil. That it’s a chance for all of humanity to benefit…and I want you to see it before someone else twists it into something it isn’t.”

 

Endgame leaned against the glass, mask grinning at the creatures beyond. “Well,” he said, “either this is the best petting zoo in the world… or the worst kept secret.”

 

Thomas didn’t laugh. He only waited, the hum of the facility filling the silence.

 

March 18, 2020,
05:41 local time,
Research Wing, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The deeper they went, the colder the air grew. Glass-lined corridors revealed more enclosures: habitats mimicking forests, wetlands, even tundra. Animoids moved within them- some pacing, others resting, one group gathered around a constructed pond. Cameras tracked their movements, while scientists in white coats logged data on glowing tablets.

 

Zeke kept scanning the rooms like he expected bars or chains. Park whispered, “This isn’t what I thought.” Norah said nothing, but her jaw was tight.

 

Thomas walked at an even pace, his hands clasped behind his back like a lecturer in his own hall. “These creatures are older than any human civilization. Their biology is a library we’ve barely opened. Their healing alone- cellular resilience, adaptive immunity- could transform medicine. Imagine treatments for cancers, for degenerative disease, drawn from their DNA.”

 

They passed a lab where blood samples were being centrifuged. Another where holograms mapped nervous systems in luminous detail. No one raised their voice. No one looked mistreated. Still, unease clung to every wall.

 

“I hid this facility,” Thomas continued, “because I knew the truth would be twisted. The Republic would call it profiteering. The mobs would call it slavery. The paranoid would call it… whatever they already fear most. Here, in truth? We learn. We protect. We respect.”

 

He stopped at another glass wall, behind which a young Animoid crouched, chewing on a block of frozen meat. Its gaze flicked to the group, then away, as disinterested as any wild animal.

 

Norah finally spoke, low and hard. “Respect doesn’t usually need reinforced doors and security teams.”

 

Thomas looked at her, weariness in his eyes but his voice steady. “Respect also doesn’t survive riots. Or looters. Or governments who see weapons instead of knowledge.”

 

Endgame clapped, slow and mocking. “Beautiful speech. Ten out of ten. I’d have cried if I weren’t dead inside.” He tilted his head toward the enclosures. “So, you’ve got your secret zoo. Great…but how do we know you’re not running something else down here? Something less friendly?”

 

Thomas didn’t rise to the bait. He simply gestured toward the hall’s end. “Then come further. I’ll show you all of it. Maybe then you’ll stop seeing Pickle Lake as a shadow.”

 

Norah’s instincts screamed that the deeper they went, the harder it would be to walk back. Still, she nodded once. “Lead on.”

 

So Thomas did.

 

March 18, 2020,
06:02 local time,
Medical Wing, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The hum of machines filled the medical wing. Rows of monitors displayed cellular scans, while robotic arms performed procedures far too delicate for human hands. Behind glass, an Animoid lay sedated on a padded table, electrodes tracing its brain activity.

 

Thomas gestured broadly. “Here, we don’t test weapons. We test healing. These creatures regenerate from injuries that would kill a man. Their immune systems adapt faster than ours can dream. Already we’ve isolated proteins that neutralize infections in hours. Imagine the implications for global pandemics, for soldiers wounded in the field, for children born with broken genes.”

 

A doctor in scrubs approached, rattling off jargon about protein synthesis and accelerated bone growth. Thomas let the scientist speak, then waved him off, voice steady: “The point is simple: they can help us. All of us.”

 

Norah’s eyes narrowed. “And all it takes is a secret lab in the Outback? No oversight? No consent?”

 

Thomas didn’t flinch. “Consent is meaningless if the world only ever hears rumors. I kept this place hidden because I knew what people would say before they saw. Now you’re seeing.”

 

Endgame yawned theatrically, muttering, “Very noble. Very inspiring. Cue the strings.”

 

Thomas ignored him. “There’s one more thing you should see.”

 

March 18, 2020,
06:19 local time,
Archive Room, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The archive smelled of old paper and ozone. Stacks of bound ledgers shared space with sleek holo-terminals, a hybrid of centuries old and cutting-edge new. At the center of it all was the archivist- a man with a wide grin, round glasses slipping down his nose, and the unmistakable head of a hound.

 

“Visitors!” he barked- literally. His tail wagged behind his lab coat as he bounded forward with a stack of papers balanced precariously in one paw. “Oh, Mr. McCrain, you didn’t tell me we’d have guests!”

 

Norah froze, taken aback. Zeke instinctively raised his weapon; Park lowered it with a muttered, “What the hell…” Endgame burst out laughing, doubled over.

 

The archivist adjusted his glasses, oblivious to the tension. “Don’t mind me! I’m just the keeper of records. Every test, every observation, every shred of research we’ve collected- it’s all here. Transparent! Accessible!” He slapped the stack of papers with enthusiasm, sending a puff of dust into the air. “We document everything. No secrets!”

 

Thomas allowed himself the faintest smile. “As you can see, Captain, Pickle Lake isn’t a den of horrors. It’s a library. A beacon. Yes, it’s hidden- but not because we’re ashamed. Because we’re protecting it from a world too eager to twist knowledge into weapons.”

 

Norah’s eyes swept the shelves, the wagging archivist, the sterile glass of the labs behind them. Something about the sheer earnestness of it all made her distrust it even more.

 

“You expect me to believe this is all there is?” she asked.

 

Thomas met her gaze. “I expect you to believe what you’ve seen with your own eyes. The rest… is up to you.”

 

March 18, 2020,
06:28 local time,
Archive Room, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

Norah’s arms were folded, her stance unyielding. “You’ve got pristine records, walls of data, scientists on call…and yet nothing ever left this place. No reports to Parliament. No disclosures to regulators. Just whispers and paranoia. Why the secrecy, McCrain?”

 

Before Thomas could answer, the archivist bounded forward, glasses askew, ears twitching with excitement. “Oh! That one’s easy!”

 

Ralph- as the stitched patch on his lab coat read- wagged his tail as if pleased to finally be part of the conversation. “Because if we released raw data, people would twist it. Imagine one set of numbers about regeneration cycles. Someone calls it proof of immortality, someone else calls it proof of monstrosity. None of it true, all of it noise. So- no public releases!” He clapped his paws together with a satisfied grin.

 

Norah blinked, more unsettled by his enthusiasm than his canine features. “So you just… hide everything?”

 

“Not hide,” Ralph said brightly, tail swishing. “Preserve! We keep meticulous records. Every procedure, every finding, every mistake. If someone ever wanted to see them-” he tapped a ledger stacked high beside him “-we’d open the doors…but until now, no one’s ever asked.”

 

Zeke muttered under his breath, “Convenient.” Park said nothing, his gaze fixed uneasily on the wagging tail brushing the floor.

 

Norah’s eyes returned to Thomas. “So the only reason the world doesn’t know is because no one thought to ask?”

 

Thomas’s reply was steady, almost weary. “Yes…and because those who don’t understand would rather label something evil than take the time to see it for what it is. I chose to shield this place until it could speak for itself. If you want it to speak now- it will.”

 

Endgame leaned against a shelf, still grinning. “Oh, I love this. A secret zoo with a chatty dog-man librarian who’s just been waiting all these years for someone to say ‘pretty please.’ Captain, your Republic really knows how to pick its fairy tales.”

 

Ralph barked a laugh, not catching the sarcasm. “Finally! Someone who appreciates the system!”

 

Norah didn’t smile. Her gaze stayed locked on Thomas. “We’ll see what there is to appreciate.”

 

March 18, 2020,
06:41 local time,
Archive Room, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

For once, Endgame wasn’t smiling. He leaned forward, knives still but his voice sharp.

 

“Enough with the dog-and-pony show- literally. Let’s talk Zircon-III. You using it?”

 

Thomas didn’t flinch. “Yes. We use it. Zircon-III stabilizes our magnetic chambers, keeps the imaging equipment from tearing itself apart. Without it, half the labs here wouldn’t run. It’s a tool, nothing more.”

 

Norah’s gaze hardened. “And yet the city’s burning over it.”

 

Thomas’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Endgame. “That’s because they think Zircon-III is everything- miracle drug, weapon, love potion, apocalypse crystal. It’s none of those. At least, not here.”

 

He paused, the weight in his tone pulling the room quiet. “There is somewhere else. Somewhere different. You’ve heard the whispers.”

 

Norah straightened. “Whisper Hollow.”

 

Thomas nodded once. “The real problem. Governments funnel resources there- Marian, UCSS, the Golden Horde, even the Japanese. They call it research, but no one outside the inner circle knows what they’re doing. Only that it’s dangerous. Unethical.”

 

Ralph’s tail stopped wagging. Even he looked uneasy.

 

“I was offered a stake,” Thomas admitted. “A chance to invest, to profit. I declined. Not because I’m noble- because I know a poisoned chalice when I see one. Whatever’s down in Whisper Hollow, it’s not worth touching.”

 

Norah’s jaw tightened. “Who offered?”

 

Thomas exhaled, weary. “A company. A shell, dressed up to look legitimate. I make shells for a living- I know when one’s a ghost. Track it if you want, Captain, but you’ll end up chasing smoke.”

 

Endgame tilted his head, mask unreadable. “So Pickle Lake’s the ‘good’ secret lab. Whisper Hollow’s the bad one…and everyone in power’s already drunk the Kool-Aid.”

 

Thomas gave a thin smile. “That’s about the shape of it.”

 

Norah’s stomach knotted. Pickle Lake was a truth she could touch. Whisper Hollow remained a shadow.

 

…and shadows never stayed quiet for long.

 

March 18, 2020,
07:14 local time,
South Docks, Marian Marina,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

Fog clung to the water, thick as smoke. The marina creaked with the weight of boats left untied, their hulls knocking against one another like loose teeth.

 

Jim Gordon advanced down the pier, his revolver holstered, his voice carrying. “Oswald! Step away from the edge.”

 

At the far end, Oswald Cobbledick stood unsteady, pistol in hand, the black water yawning beneath him. Around him, a mob pressed close, faces painted, eyes fever-bright. They jeered, spat, waved clubs and pipes.

 

“Alive!” one shouted. “We take him alive!”

 

“He knows things!” another screamed. “We make him talk!”

 

Oswald raised his pistol toward the river. His hands shook, but his voice was iron. “Better I drown myself than let you animals drag me through the streets!”

 

Gordon spread his arms. “Oswald, listen to me. Shooting yourself won’t stop them…and you lot-” he snapped at the mob, “-beating a man to death won’t get you answers. It’ll only leave you with another corpse you don’t understand!”

 

The rioters howled, unmoved. A bottle flew, smashing against the dock near Gordon’s boots.

 

Behind him, his detail of officers tried to form a line. Two shots cracked; the mob surged. Steel pipes and rusted blades cut through the defense. Gordon turned in horror as his men fell, one by one, until the pier was slick with blood and silence.

 

Then, strangely, they spared him. Rough hands seized his arms, dragging him forward, but the killing blow never came.

 

“Bring him,” someone growled. “Let him watch.”

 

Gordon staggered, shoved onto the boards beside Oswald. The Acting President teetered over the water, gun still aimed at his own chest, mob still clawing to reach him. Gordon, bruised and bleeding, looked from the pistol to the jeering faces and felt the futility choke him.

 

Two men, two impossible choices, one dock hanging over a river that reflected only fire and fog.

 

March 18, 2020,
07:42 local time,
Archive Room, Pickle Lake Facility,
City of Pickle Lake, Ontario Outback, Republic of Marian

 

The silence in the archive was heavy. Ralph fussed with a ledger, tail twitching, while the others waited for Thomas to speak. Finally, he did, voice measured but tired.

 

“If you want information on Whisper Hollow,” Thomas said, “you won’t find it here. Not in Pickle Lake. Not in any private company, no matter how carefully you peel the shells back. Whisper Hollow isn’t funded by men like me. It’s funded by governments. The Republic. UCSS. RUWS. Japan. Prussia. Everyone with power has their hand in it.”

 

He gestured to the shelves around them. “Which means your best chance is this: preserving the Marian archives. If there’s a trail, it’ll be there. Paperwork. Transfers. Budget lines they thought no one would read. It’s the only place that still has the pieces — assuming the mob hasn’t burned them already.”

 

Norah’s arms were crossed, her eyes sharp. She hated that it made sense.

 

Endgame whistled low, spinning his knife. “So the big scary secret lab is hiding in plain sight- in filing cabinets and forgotten budgets. Now that’s anticlimax.”

 

“Or inevitability,” Thomas countered.

 

Norah turned away, pulling her radio. “This is Captain Anam,” she said, keying the line. “Commissioner Gordon, come in. Update on Oswald Cobbledick. Do you copy?”

 

Static crackled back. She pressed harder. “Jim, it’s Norah. Talk to me. What’s the situation with Oswald?”

 

No reply. Only static, broken faintly by the far-off hum of interference.

 

Norah’s stomach sank. She tried again. “Jim? Do you read?”

 

Still nothing.

 

March 18, 2020,
07:19 local time,
South Docks, Marian Marina,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The fog pressed heavy on the docks. Oswald Cobbledick swayed near the edge, pistol trembling in his grip, eyes fixed on the black water. The mob crowded close, jeering, hungry for blood.

 

One of them shoved Gordon forward, spitting words like a dare. “End him, old man. Kill him yourself. Prove you’re one of us. Do that, and we’ll give you a place. Power in the new Marian.”

 

Gordon stared at them, chest heaving. “That’s not power,” he said flatly. “That’s a noose you’re offering.”

 

The rioters laughed, mean and sharp. “You’re in no position to negotiate.”

 

He turned to Oswald. The Acting President’s eyes were hollow, his voice trembling. “Do it, Commissioner. End this. There’s no worth in ruling a broken Republic. Let someone else pick over the bones. Marian’s dead.”

 

The disgust burned in Gordon’s throat. This man, the one meant to hold the Republic together, begging for release like a coward. He drew his revolver anyway, pressed the barrel to Oswald’s temple. The mob leaned forward, ravenous.

 

Gordon leaned close, his whisper hot in Oswald’s ear. “Don’t come back to Marian.”

 

Then, in one swift motion, he shoved Oswald hard into the water- and fired. The shot cracked over the river, echoing against steel and fog. To the mob, it looked clean. Execution.

 

Oswald vanished into the current, swallowed by the dark.

 

Gordon lowered the revolver, forcing his face still, forcing his hands not to shake. He turned to the rioters, eyes steady.

 

For a heartbeat, silence. Then the mob roared.

 

“He missed!” one howled. “He let him go!”

 

A pipe swung. A fist crashed. The crowd surged. Gordon fell under the weight of blows, bones breaking, blood spilling. He did not cry out.

 

The last thing he saw was the river, rippling with fog, carrying Oswald into exile.

 

Then darkness.

 

March 19, 2020,
09:03 local time,
Downtown Core,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

Norah Anam stood in the shadow of a burned-out tram, headset crackling with static. Behind her, the convoy idled uneasily — Zeke and Park still sharp-eyed, the Peace patrol nervous, Endgame theatrically bored.

 

She keyed the line again. “Commissioner Gordon. Oswald Cobbledick. Do you read?”

 

Only static.

 

She lowered the radio slowly, jaw tight. Thomas McCrain was no angel, but she’d seen enough inside Pickle Lake to know he wasn’t the hand behind Duke’s murder. For now, she had to accept that. Which left her with the last order Gordon had given her: Oswald. Find Oswald.

 

Marian, however, was no longer a city. It was a maze of fire and fury. Every street blocked by wreckage, every block claimed by a different mob. One crowd screamed about Zircon-III being poison; another swore it was salvation. Gunfire echoed two streets over. Sirens blared, then died, cut short.

 

Pascal muttered, “Even if they’re alive, how do we find them in this?”

 

Norah scanned the skyline, smoke curling against the morning light. “We keep moving. Docks, stations, churches, anywhere someone could hole up.”

 

Endgame twirled a knife lazily. “Ah, the world’s biggest hide-and-seek. And the prize? A coward with a death wish and a cop with more guts than sense.”

 

Norah ignored him. She climbed onto the transport’s running board, raised her voice over the din. “We move in squads. Eyes open, safeties off. If Gordon and Oswald are out here, we’ll find them. If they’re not…” Her voice trailed off. She didn’t finish the thought.

 

The convoy rumbled forward into the chaos. Somewhere in the smoke, answers waited- or bodies.

 

March 20, 2020,
16:12 local time,
Mackinaw City,
Empire of Michigan

 

The Mackinac Bridge had always been a landmark- steel and cable stretching across the strait, linking the Crosslands to Michigan. Now it was something else entirely: a border, a lifeline, a choke point.

 

Traffic had long since stopped. The Empire had closed the crossing three days ago, declaring it unsafe, unmanageable. That didn’t stop the people. Thousands pressed up against the barricades on the Marian side, their belongings bundled in carts, their children clutched tight.

 

Mackinaw City itself had swelled beyond recognition. A town of a few thousand now held tens of thousands more, spilling into fields and parking lots. Tents sprouted like weeds along the shore, canvas and tarps strung over driftwood and fence posts. Smoke from a hundred cooking fires blurred the skyline. The smell of sweat, diesel, and desperation hung thick in the air.

 

Empire soldiers patrolled the barricades, rifles slung, eyes wary. They let a few across each day- the sick, the elderly, children without parents- but most were turned back, left to camp at the bridge’s edge and wait for mercy that might never come.

 

From the city’s main street, the sight was surreal: the great bridge, empty of cars, filled instead with humanity pressed shoulder to shoulder, a silent monument to Marian’s collapse.

 

One soldier muttered to another, “If this is just the beginning, what happens when the whole Republic decides to run?”

 

No one answered.

 

March 20, 2020,
17:38 local time,
Mackinac Bridge Encampment,
Mackinaw City, Empire of Michigan

 

The standoff at the bridge had turned brittle. Refugees pressed tighter against the barricades, their voices rising into shouts, demands, pleas. Soldiers shouted back, rifles raised but fingers twitching on the triggers. A single spark could turn the whole crossing into a massacre.

 

Children cried in the crush. Women screamed names, searching for family lost in the tide. A cart overturned, spilling pots and bread into the dirt, and a dozen hands clawed for it at once. Tensions snapped like wires under strain.

 

The Empire’s officers tried to restore order, but their voices were drowned by the roar of thousands. Mackinaw City groaned under the weight of its new population, a border town transforming by the hour into a refugee capital.

 

March 20, 2020,
18:02 local time,
Shoreline south of Mackinaw City,
Empire of Michigan

 

Oswald Cobbledick dragged himself from the water, coughing river salt and bile. His clothes were torn, his pistol long gone. Somehow, impossibly, he had lived. Gordon’s last shot still rang in his ears — a gunshot meant to trick the mob. A gunshot that had cost the Commissioner his life.

 

On shore, Oswald stumbled until he found a rusted payphone leaning against a closed bait shop. His hands shook as he fed coins into the slot, dialing a number from memory. The line clicked, static humming.

 

“It’s me,” he rasped. “I need extraction. Columbus. Tonight.”

 

The voice on the other end was curt, professional. Arrangements would be made.

 

Oswald leaned against the phone, staring out at the water. He had survived- but to what end? Marian lay in ruins. Its Parliament burned, its President dead, its borders collapsing. Did he want to return, to challenge for the leadership of a country already broken? Or let it fall, and wash his hands with it?

 

For now, he didn’t decide. He only knew Columbus would take him in. Columbus meant safety, and safety meant time.

 

The line went dead. Oswald dropped the receiver and staggered back into the fog, a man alive by chance, haunted by choice.

 

March 20, 2020,
19:14 local time,
Residential Quarter,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The neighborhood had once been quiet- tidy rows of brick houses, laundry lines strung across alleys, children playing ball in the streets. Now the windows were smashed, the doors pried open, the air thick with smoke and the stench of gasoline.

 

Norah Anam moved down the street with Zeke and Park close behind, the Peace patrol trailing nervously at her flanks. Endgame strolled in the rear, humming a tune that didn’t fit the devastation.

 

A cry cut through the din. Norah turned to see an old woman slumped against a toppled fence, her face bruised, her dress torn, her cane snapped in two. Two men had ransacked her home and left her to the mob.

 

Norah sprinted ahead, waving Zeke to cover her. She dropped to one knee beside the woman. “You’re all right now,” she said, steady as she could manage.

 

The woman’s eyes were wet, her voice shaking. “They took everything. The radio. My husband’s tools. They even tore the photos off the wall.” She coughed, clutching at Norah’s sleeve. “Why? Why would they do this?”

 

Norah gritted her teeth. She helped the woman to her feet, draping a coat over her shoulders, guiding her toward the convoy. Park whispered reassurance, Zeke scanned the street for stragglers.

 

For a fleeting moment, the captain felt something close to relief. Helping one person, at least, was still possible. One life saved, one piece of dignity restored.

 

…but as she looked at the ruined house, the broken cane, the smashed windows on every street, the doubt crashed in again.

 

What is this city becoming?

 

Once Marian had been a Republic, flawed but proud. Now it was a feeding frenzy, neighbor devouring neighbor, law drowned by mob.

 

Norah’s grip tightened on her radio. She led the woman back toward the convoy, but her eyes lingered on the wreckage until it blurred into the smoke.

 

March 21, 2020,
08:47 local time,
Riverside Warehouse District,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The dawn light cut through smoke, casting the riverbank in cold gray. Norah Anam walked ahead of the Strike Force, her boots crunching over broken glass and spent casings. The smell hit before the sight — iron and rot, death baked into wood and stone.

 

The bodies lay together in the shadow of a warehouse. Commissioner Jim Gordon, battered beyond recognition, his revolver empty by his side. Beside him, General Rick Charles, still in his torn uniform, his medals ripped from his chest. Both men had fought. Both had lost.

 

Norah knelt, pressing two fingers to Gordon’s throat though she already knew. The silence was final.

 

She rose slowly, eyes burning but dry. Around her, the Peace patrols shifted, waiting for someone to speak. The soldiers looked like boys- exhausted, frightened, their blue-and-gold armor smeared with soot. Their officers exchanged glances but no orders. The city was leaderless, and they knew it.

 

Norah inhaled sharply and stepped onto a collapsed crate, raising her voice over the distant roar of the riots.

 

“Listen to me!”

 

The patrols turned, rifles lowered, eyes on her. Zeke and Park flanked her, silent but steady. Endgame leaned against a wall, mask tilted in amusement.

 

“Gordon is gone. General Charles is gone. Parliament is gone. Duke is gone.” Her voice cracked once but steadied. “That leaves us. We are what’s left between this city and the abyss.”

 

Murmurs rippled through the soldiers, half despair, half resolve.

 

Norah pointed toward the skyline, where black smoke curled over the Capitol spires. “From this moment, our mission is twofold. First- restore order. Streets, neighborhoods, bridges. Whatever we can hold, we hold. Second- find Oswald Cobbledick. If he’s alive, he must answer for this Republic. If he’s dead, the people need to know.”

 

Silence hung for a beat, then rifles lifted in salute. Not neat, not in unison, but enough.

 

Norah stepped down, her voice low now, meant only for herself. “Looks like I’m in charge.”

 

Endgame chuckled. “Congratulations, Captain. You just won the worst prize in the world.”

 

Norah ignored him. She looked once more at Gordon’s body, then at the uncertain faces of the Peace patrol.

 

Marian was broken…and now it was hers to fix.

 

March 21, 2020,
15:02 local time,
Command Post,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The secure line buzzed, a rarity in the static-choked ruins of Marian. Norah pressed the receiver tight to her ear. A Peace Officer triangulated the signal and the screen lit up with the source- Borealis Bay, the capital of Sǫ̀mbak’è.

 

“Anam.” The voice was gravel, firm, unmistakable. Ranger Norm.

 

She straightened instinctively. “Ranger. You’re alive.”

 

“Alive and still in command,” Norm replied. “With Charles gone and Gordon dead, that leaves me. You’ve done well holding things together, Captain, but this is where you step back. Chain of command is clear.”

 

Norah’s jaw tightened. Around her, Zeke and Park kept silent watch. Endgame leaned against the wall, mask cocked in amusement.

 

“With respect, Ranger,” Norah said carefully, “you’re in Borealis Bay. Yellowknife. Thousands of kilometers from here. You’re not on the streets. You’re not facing the mobs. Whatever rank says, you can’t lead Marian from half a continent away.”

 

“That’s insubordination,” Norm snapped.

 

“No,” Norah shot back, voice rising. “That’s reality. Marian needs someone here. Soldiers need a voice they can see, not a voice on a phone. You’re too far to matter.”

 

For a moment, only static filled the line. When Norm spoke again, his tone had softened, though not with approval. “You think you can hold it?”

 

“I don’t have to think,” Norah said. “I just have to act…and I am.”

 

The line went quiet, then clicked dead.

 

Norah lowered the receiver slowly. Her stomach churned, but her voice was steady when she turned to her team. “It’s ours now. Like it or not.”

 

Endgame gave a low whistle. “Well, Captain, you just told Yellowknife to shove it. Congratulations. You’re officially the most insubordinate cop in Marian.”

 

Norah didn’t answer. She looked toward the Capitol skyline, smoke still rising. It wasn’t about rank anymore. It was survival.

 

March 22, 2020,
13:36 local time,
Downtown Columbus,
Columbus, Ohio, Universal Commonwealth of Sovereign States

 

The city was loud in ways Marian no longer remembered- traffic snarled at intersections, vendors hawked food on crowded corners, the hum of commerce rolling like a tide. For Esme Errons, it felt both alien and intoxicating. She hadn’t heard this much life in weeks.

 

She spotted him outside a stone-fronted hotel, flanked by two discreet men in suits. Oswald Cobbledick- thinner now, clothes ill-fitting, but unmistakable. He took a sip of his coffee with trembling hands, spilling it everywhere, with his eyes flicking to every passing car.

 

Esme adjusted her bandeau under her jacket, steadied her notepad, and crossed the street. “Mr. Cobbledick,” she called, voice carrying over the din. “Care to comment on abandoning a Republic in flames?”

 

Oswald froze, then scowled. “You people never quit, do you?”

 

“I’m not people. I’m Esme Errons with The Vicendum Chronicles…and right now, Marian needs answers.”

 

He exhaled smoke, eyes narrowing. “Marian needs miracles…and I’m fresh out.”

 

“Will you return?” she pressed. “Gordon’s dead, Duke’s dead, Parliament’s gone. The people need a leader. Are you it?”

 

Oswald’s laugh was brittle, joyless. “A leader? For what? A Republic that’s already broken? Streets run by mobs? Soldiers who don’t know who they serve? Why would I step back into that fire?”

 

“Because it’s your duty,” Esme shot back. “Because if you don’t, someone worse will.”

 

He looked away, staring at the traffic, the neon signs, the city alive around him. “Maybe that’s the way it has to be. Maybe Marian should collapse so something new can rise.”

 

Esme scribbled furiously, her pulse quickening. His words would stoke the fire, not calm it. His refusal to commit would echo back across the border, fanning more chaos.

 

Oswald tossed his empty coffee cup at the garbage, jaw tight and not caring if his cup went in. “Write what you want…but don’t expect me to play savior.”

 

He turned and vanished into the hotel, leaving Esme alone on the sidewalk, pen shaking in her hand.

 

June 2, 2020,
22:44 local time,
Peace Command Post,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The streets were quieter than they had been in months. Fires no longer burned unchecked, food convoys rumbled again through the boulevards, and shops were tentatively reopening their doors behind boarded windows. Order had returned to Marian- not perfect, not permanent, but enough to breathe.

 

Norah Anam leaned over the city map at the command table, exhaustion written into her face, eyes bloodshot but sharp. Around her, Peace officers moved with purpose, not panic. The worst was over. For the first time since March, Marian felt like it belonged to its people again.

 

The door opened. Ranger Norm stepped inside, his presence still enough to still the room. His uniform was crisp, his boots polished, as if distance had spared him the grime that stained everyone else.

 

Norah straightened, a flicker of relief touching her smile.

 

“Ranger,” she said. “You made it….we pulled the Capitol back from the edge.”

 

Norah paused, expecting Norm to relay praise or at least some gratitude.

 

“You did well,” said Norm, setting his cap on the table, voice even, “but effective immediately, Captain Anam, you’re relieved of duty.”

 

The words hit harder than any firefight. Norah blinked. “I’m sorry- what?”

 

“The Peace Mandate will be issued within the week,” Norm continued. “Once it’s formalized, Peace will assume civil authority in Marian. After that, I will resign my post.”

 

Norah let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You’re serious? After all this? This isn’t some late April Fool’s joke?”

 

“No joke.” Norm’s eyes stayed steady. “You’ve carried Marian through the storm, Captain. But it’s not yours to keep. Peace will stabilize the Republic. Then they’ll hand it back.”

 

Her fists curled at her sides. For weeks she had buried Gordon and Charles, defied chaos, kept soldiers moving when there was no chain of command left. And now, with the city breathing again, it was being stripped from her hands.

 

Norm picked up his cap, gave a nod. “Get some rest, Anam. You’ve earned it.”

 

Then he left her standing over the map- the city marked in red and blue lines, alive but fragile, hers but not hers. Saved, and slipping away.

 

June 5, 2020,
21:17 local time,
The Blue Lantern,
City of Marian, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

The Blue Lantern had survived the riots with its paint scorched and its windows cracked, but its neon still glowed defiantly over the street. Inside, the bar buzzed again- smaller crowds than before, rougher voices, but laughter still fought its way back.

 

Behind the counter, Esme Errons leaned on her elbows, mime-inspired makeup flawless, her blue bandeau glittering under the lights. Her briefs and lace stockings caught every wandering glance, her double ponytails bouncing as she poured drinks and teased regulars.

 

Norah Anam dropped into a stool, slumping forward with a sigh that seemed to empty weeks out of her lungs.

 

“Let me guess,” Esme said, sliding her a glass. “You’re here to mope about being fired.”

 

Norah took the drink, but her scowl lacked bite. “I thought I’d care more. Turns out I don’t.”

 

“No?” Esme arched a painted brow.

 

“No.” Norah swirled the glass, staring into it like it held answers. “What bothers me isn’t Norm. Or Peace. Or even Marian. It’s Whisper Hollow. Everything points back to it. Everything ugly, everything buried. That’s what keeps me awake.”

 

Esme leaned closer, her voice dropping under the chatter of the bar. “So let me lose sleep instead. You held the city. Let me dig the dirt.”

Norah’s lips twitched at that, halfway to a smile. “You really think you can?”

 

Esme grinned, wicked and eager. “Captain, I make my living separating truth from rumor while wearing less than most people’s pajamas. If anyone can make sense of Whisper Hollow, it’s me.”

 

Norah raised the glass, drained it in one swallow, and set it down hard. “Then it’s yours. I’ll back you however I can. Just… don’t get lost in the dark.”

 

Esme winked, her ponytails bobbing. “Dark’s where I do my best work.”

 

The bar roared around them, but the weight of the moment pressed quiet between them. Marian’s fires were cooling, but something colder waited on the horizon.

 

July 12, 2020,
20:47 local time,
The Ritz-Carlton, Los Angeles,
California Republic

 

The All-Star break always felt strange- a pause in the season, a festival of talent rather than struggle. Bruce McCrain had just come off a whirlwind of press calls, his All-Star jersey hung neatly in the closet. From his suite on the 22nd floor, the lights of L.A. stretched endlessly, a city alive in ways his home never was.

 

A knock broke the quiet.

 

Bruce frowned, opened the door- and froze.

 

Thomas McCrain stood in the hall in a tailored suit, a small wrapped box in his hands. His father.

 

“May I come in?” Thomas asked.

 

Bruce hesitated, then stepped aside.

 

Thomas set the box on the glass-topped table, his voice careful. “I didn’t come to intrude. Only to give you this- a token. Congratulations, All-Star.”

 

Bruce opened the box. Inside was a vintage Marian league ball, perfectly preserved, set in a case etched with the inscription: For Bruce McCrain- who forged his own way.

 

Before Bruce could answer, Thomas spoke again. “I’ve also started investing in Sǫ̀mbak’è…and I’ve put in a bid to buy the Borealis Bay Bacon.”

 

Bruce’s face hardened. “Why? You think buying my team will buy me? That you can just walk back into my life like nothing happened?”

 

Thomas raised a hand. “No. I won’t force myself on you. Not before you’re ready. If you’re ever ready.”

 

Bruce shook his head. “Then why? You know the world watches every move you make. If you put money into Sǫ̀mbak’è, investors will follow. Why here? Why now?”

 

Thomas’s gaze softened. “Because I believe Sǫ̀mbak’è has potential.”

 

Bruce snorted. “So do a hundred other places. Some more profitable than Sǫ̀mbak’è will ever be. You could make ten times your money elsewhere.”

 

For the first time in years, Thomas’s composure cracked. He sat heavily, leaning forward, the weight of his empire visible in the slump of his shoulders.

 

“You’re right,” he admitted. “There are easier places. Safer, more lucrative…but none of those places…”

 

His voice caught. He swallowed hard, forced the words out.

 

“…none of those places has my son.”

 

The silence was thick, the city’s glow spilling through the window but touching neither of them.

 

Thomas rose, straightened his suit, and headed for the door. “That’s all I came to say.”

 

He left before Bruce could respond.

 

Bruce sat with the ball in his hands, staring at the inscription, the echo of his father’s words lingering long after the door closed.

 

August 12, 2020,

22:19 local time,

The Echo Lounge,

Echo Bay, Marian Capitol Region, Republic of Marian

 

Esme Errons hugged her sister as Tulip stepped into the warm glow of the bar.

“Thanks for coming,” Esme said.

“You’re welcome,” Tulip smiled. “The benefit concert’s a big deal for both of us.”

 

It had only been a few weeks since the Peace Mandate had been declared, but while it brought a small sense of stability, there was a growing sense that it was merely fleeting, giving the night an apocalyptic feel for Esme and Tulip.

 

Still, they were determined to make the most of this night- a benefit concert for Ireland and those displaced by Marian’s chaos- no matter the difficulties. In addition to the ongoing tensions that engulfed Marian, the lounge was small and a hailstorm outside kept the crowd thin.

 

Even then, the place hummed with solidarity. Irish flags hung loosely from the rafters, the air rich with coffee and stout. Esme, running the night for The Vicendum Chronicles, greeted every guest as if they were family.

 

Tulip sat close to the stage, watching her sister emcee with effortless charm. Esme had a knack for drawing laughs and cheers, and though Tulip smiled, she couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy. Esme was fearless. Tulip only wished she had half of that charisma.

 

The night stumbled when a text came through: the headline act, a Gaelic folk group, couldn’t make it because of the weather. The crowd groaned when Esme broke the news.

 

“I know,” she said, forcing a smile, “but I do have a backup plan.”

 

She looked straight at Tulip.

 

“Some of you know my sister. Tulip, come up here.”

 

Tulip froze. Her face drained pale. She shook her head, mouthing no, but Esme didn’t waver. The crowd began chanting her name, coaxing her forward.

 

With Esme’s arm around her shoulder, Tulip finally stepped on stage, trembling.

 

“For years,” Esme said, “Tulip’s been writing songs about Ireland- not the Ireland the headlines show, but the Ireland of memory, of beauty, of hope. Tonight, I think it’s time we hear them.”

 

Esme left the stage before Tulip could argue. Knots formed in her stomach, her heart pounded in her chest and her brain told her to bail, but the crowd continued to urge her on, which made Tulip not want to let them down

 

The violinist Angus Belfrey and his wife Bonnie slid behind her on piano. “Don’t worry,” Angus whispered, smiling. “We’ve been at this for fifty years. We’ll follow your lead.”

 

The crowd’s chant softened into expectant silence. Tulip gripped the mic.

 

“Here goes,” she said, her voice small and still struggling to process everything. “This is a story I’ve never told out loud.”

 

She began with a speech- the night her village was raided, the soldier who chased her, the moment she received her name. Then she sang her song, “Child’s Play.” Her voice wavered on the first line, cracked on the second, but the room leaned in. By the chorus she found her strength, her words painting a child’s Ireland: games in the fields, laughter under wide skies, innocence cut short.

 

When she finished, the room erupted. Applause thundered, strangers rushed to hug her. Tulip, overwhelmed, wept with joy. Esme beamed from the side of the stage, mouthing “I told you so.”

 

The attention emboldened Tulip, who now wanted to stay on stage…but she had no more songs.

 

Bonnie then leaned toward her: “Do you know Óró, sé do bheatha abhaile?”

 

Tulip laughed through tears. “Esme and I sing it all the time.”

 

Moments later, both sisters stood together with the Belfreys, voices rising in the old rebel tune. Soon the entire bar was singing, stomping, clapping along, the storm outside drowned out by a tide of song.

 

By the time the last note faded, Tulip didn’t want to leave the stage. She hadn’t expected this, hadn’t even known she had this gift.

 

Now she knows she did…and she wasn’t going to let it go to waste.

 

“When you see the fork in the road, take it.”- Yogi Berra, sayings (1989)