At first, it was but a slight misunderstanding — an altercation between workmen and Navylan states-guards perhaps. They were factory welders transporting machinery and other such parts, and as per usual, those with badges saw it fit to extort the innocent. Fingers were pointed, shouts and curses exchanged; within moments, the town square had rallied behind the workmen, following closely in their footsteps.

​

The states-guards took one step back, then, another. A squad responded to their call for help, and just moments later, a platoon. They came bearing gifts of the government, riot shields and shock batons and, only in the most extreme of cases, Heimer Republic tear gas.

9:35 early morning — the Navylan came to a stand still, watching what would then be known as the start to something truly miraculous — perhaps even revolutionary.

​

Slowly yet surely, more departed from the confines of their homes and came to be part of the protest. They hurled all sorts of unpleasantries — rotten tomatoes and bits of rock and other such likes — towards the soldiers standing by.

​

Even then, the states-guards remained indifferent, preferring rather to stand by and simply watch. The same, however, could not be said of their attire: navy coats — once a paragon of perfect tailoring — saw themselves scratched and torn; dark berets — bearing insignias of the Navylan army — were stained a hideous tint of red; and everything from then on below — black brogues and cobalt trousers — had long since lost their appeal.

And still, they did not act.

They simply watched and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

For the orders.

​

12:00 high noon — a minister exited his government office. He trudged through the many labyrinthine hallways making up a considerable portion of Parliament, ordered a cup of bitter-sweet coffee from a nearby kiosk, descended the flight of spotless stairs outside, and made his way onto the city streets. Behind him, eight of his ten personal security followed suit, eyeing the exposed rooftops and ajar windows and dark alleyways with utmost care.

​

He stepped off the concrete sidewalk and set both eyes upon the brewing protest just ahead. Four lines of battle-ready states-guards stood back to back to back, riot shields in one hand, shock batons in the other. The final line however, bore no such weaponry, and instead, settled upon bolt-action rifles. They were what the minister referred to as "a contingency plan."

They were the last resort.

​

"Upset, are they?" he said in between sips of steaming coffee. "What now? Another pay-rise riot?"

​

The air bubbled, contorted, and twisted itself into a faint silhouette; spiraling clouds of black erupted from the ground up. Yellow eyes, ghastly and frantic, peered from within the raging column, darting to and fro. "An altercation between factory workmen and your states-guards, sire. Naturally, petty squabbles such as these tend to. . . Dramatically escalate. Shall I summon my legion and ready them?"

​

The man considered, all the whilst adjusting both cuffs of his uniform. "No, I'd very much rather you do not."

​

"It is a sizable mob, Myre."

​

"And one that I surely am able to manage. Thank you, Morvus. You may leave."

​

"As you wish, sire."

​

The jinn vanished as abruptly as it had once came to, leaving but a pungent smell to remind the minister of its short-lived arrival. The man, however, was not quite as ready to leave; a matter of national security was to first be addressed.

​

And addressed it shall be.

He let the winds pick his coattail and flaunt it about.

​

"Mr. Kasströ?"

​

One of the eight bodyguards stepped forth. "Yes, sir?"

​

"Prepare the battalion."

"Pardon?"

​

"The. Battalion."

​

"Right away."

​

"And — one more thing, Mr. Kasströ?"

​

"Yes, sir."

​

"It seems, varmints are in need of exterminating."

​

"Varmints?"

​

There came a pause.

​

"Large varmints, indeed."

***

By a little over noon, the crowd had grown considerably; it seemed as if the entire district had partaken in the protest. Working commoners and unions banded under one flag, and together, amassed the largest riot the Navylan had seen in decades. Years of mistreatment and civil unrest had certainly taken its toll, and by now, was just about ready to boil over into something far more violent.

​

The minister scrubbed himself clean of dust and debris, and without so much as a blade by his side, strode forth. He made his way swiftly through the ranks of states-guards, each and every one parting their riot shields to allow for his passage.

​

And when he reached the front lines, there came a moment of absolute silence from both sides. The man stood before his soldiers, hands behind his back and head held high.

​

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen," he said, authority lacing every word to ever slip his lips. "I assume we are gathered here this very day — this exceptionally warm day — to air grievances and frustrations, no?"

​

The mob cheered in agreement.

​

"Excuse the states-guards, they are but. . . Formalities. I'm sure you all can understand."

​

"Quite the contrary, minister — they are the problem."

​

A woman stepped forth, her attire no different than that of her rebel companion's: disheveled, unclean, and an utmost eye-sore to stare at. The black jet hair did well to obscure parts of her gaze from the man.

​

"But you are well aware, are you not, Myre?"

​

"You."

​

She smirked.

​

"We meet again."

​

He did too.

​

"Fate is often cruel."

​

"Oh, yes."

​

The minister cleared his throat and offered a handshake. This issue required no use of excessive force; diplomacy itself would suffice. Why resort to blood, when a piece of paper and a couple signatures would do? Pen over the sword, any day of the week. That was his motto.

"May we resolve this diplomatically, perhaps?"

​

The woman reached, hesitantly. She too was a sensible one; rational yet understandably skeptical. "Always, minister."

He strode forth.

She did too.

​

A pull of the trigger, a flash, a plink — Bang!

Someone dropped.

***

“ASSESSING TARGET. . .”

“TARGET ELIMINATED. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS — NOT FOUND.”

​

The figure lowered its rifle, breathing a sigh of relief. One death was all it took — all it took to throw the Navylan into a state of utter turmoil and total disarray. What a sight it was, to witness the common populace rise up and rebel against their tyrannical overlords. History in the making, some would say; an unfortunate accident, others would suggest.

​

The states-guards held fast, shoving waves of agitated protestors back time after time again. The mob however, was far more persistent than anyone could have predicted. They tanked shock batons to the gut, riot shields to the face, uppercuts to the chin and boots to the knee, and still, they pressed onward. How simple factory workmen and other such commoners alike can hope to topple dictatorship truly remains a mystery.

​

An entire nation under attack by none other than itself. Why, isn't that poetic? To think the great Navylan empire withstood a millennium of gruesome warfare, an all-out Imperium invasion, and a decade-long siege, only to fall by the hands of a few rebels — hilarious.

​

The figure smirked.

If it could, that was.

It opened one palm, revealing two more bullets, and upon each shell, a name—

Justice.

Myre.

​

“ASSIGNMENT COMPLETE. ATLAS-A4 RETURNING.”

​

With that, it climbed over the handrails of an abandoned bell tower and took one last look at the city.

A shame, really, to see such gorgeous sights become nothing more than fiery infernos and unrecognizable ruins.

​

All in due time, of course.

The mission was done.

​

The figure leapt, dropped, fell.

​

Never to be seen from again.