The next day, the final screech of the factory whistle signified the end of a long work week. The weary laborers in the Sloan Munitions Plant trudged out into the darkness of a cold winter night, but rather than head home to the barracks camp like usual, the sea of people, their voices and bodies flowing through the patchwork of narrow streets like a slow river, coalesced into the many beer halls in the area. The Zhanghai embargo sent the price of alcohol soaring as well, and during the frigid months, refugee or otherwise, there’s nothing more warming or comforting than a mug or two or three of ale. Enterprising Arcadians with connections to the conglomerates sold alcohol for ration cards; hustling Arcadians then traded those ration cards for food; that food could then be sold for a tidy profit on the vibrant black markets. Tommy Typewriter’s triads were among the men who raked in wealth that way.
That’s what the factory workers discussed while playing cards around a table, at least. Dark-haired Lysandros had a pair of nines. Pavlos, with bandages around his face, immediately drooped in his seat upon receiving his hand - he had no poker face to speak of. Angry, pug-faced Spiridon, with shoulders broad as an ox, had to be reminded to continue dealing when he stopped to flirt with a passing barmaid. That made Lysandros think of Keti and her blonde hair - she was employed by the Reeds at the barracks, serving as a laborer within the camp itself. She often had to haul the bodies of those who were too weak to survive the winter away; men said the stench of death followed her, but Lysandros thought she smelled like roses.
The other man at their table was Harold, the Arcadian farmer who had lost his livelihood in the conflict with Zhanghai. When he got his hand, he remained stoic as ever, giving away nothing beneath the tumbling mass of his dark red hair. But he had a tell, and when he upped the ante with a stack of Arcadian dollars (which wasn’t actually a whole lot), Lysandros knew he had him beat.
Lysandros matched him, Spiridon gradually revealed the five community cards, and the pair of nines beat the crummy cards held by Harold. How did Lysandros know Harold was bluffing? That’s what Harold seemed to ask with his eyes while Lysandros hauled in the big stack of cash on the table, but the night’s victor would never tell.
“Looks like everyone’s here,” Harold grunted, surveying the boisterous crowd in the hall. They were packed in tight around wooden tables, the hall being the former basement of a church with the top blasted away. Concrete stones formed the walls and until somebody hired an electrician, mounted torches and candles provided light and made shadows dance.
Lysandros nodded in agreement and rose from his seat.
“You’re gonna knock them out,” Pavlos encouraged, tossing a spoon up to Lysandros. He caught the utensil and, after a deep breath, tapped it against his empty mug. The dinging sound percolated around the room, calling everyone’s attention. Men in scally caps, women in rags, even children - because with their small fingers, they were perfect for operating some of the more delicate machinery within the munitions plant - ended their conversations and looked up at the man responsible for the well-being of their refugee community. It wasn’t an elected position, nor did Lysandros campaign for it; he had been a triad in Four Eagles, which gave him some standing with the people there. Would they still stand by him as the winter rumbled on? It would depend on the choices he made starting tonight.
“My friends,” Lysandros began, conscious of the sweat stains on his white undershirt. “We have seen a steady escalation of violence against us ever since Four Eagles was destroyed. Many of us are now indebted to loan sharks like Tommy Typewriter. Our wages don’t keep up with inflation, so we must give away our ration cards to keep them at bay.” He eyed Pavlos’s injuries. “They break our bodies when we can’t pay. They force us to go hungry and force us to go cold. Something must be done if we’re to survive the coming winter.”
A chorus of murmurs and nods went through the crowd. Spiridon rose next to Lysandros and placed a fist across his heart. Lysandros caught the look of dismay on Pavlos’s face - this wasn’t part of the plan. But Spiridon always acted on instinct.
“I know what we ought to do,” the big man proclaimed. “I say we kill ‘em all.”
The basement walls were thick, otherwise the others would’ve quieted him for saying something like that. But alcohol and desperation can make a man bold. Spiridon raised his arms to urge on the crowd. “We have the connections. We already have some military hardware and leftover Zhanghai weapons. I say we put a hole through Tommy Typewriter and Major Sloan.”
“We must be careful,” Lysandros urged as some in the crowd nodded in support for Spiridon. “I’m not a pacifist. But aggressive violence isn’t the answer.”
Spiridon crossed his arms. “Then what do you propose?”
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Lysandros cleared his voice. “I’m not opposed to arming ourselves. We must be able to defend our community. But first and foremost…” Lysandros noticed the way some of Spiridon’s supporters eyed his own. “We must stay united. If we turn against one another, we’ll get nowhere. As a united front, we must form an alliance with one of the military branches-”
A chorus of boos rang out from the warmonger faction. Spiridon just laughed. “Not only do you want us to work with Arcadians, you want us to work with the junta?!”
Lysandros raised his hands and tried to regain control of the crowd. “Let me finish…I said let me finish!”
The growing confrontation between the members of the two factions threatened to derail the entire meeting.
“Let the man finish!” Harold roared, planting both of his palms on the table. His sudden outburst managed to break the storm, the crowd looking at him in surprise. “I usually stay quiet in moments like these because I’m an Arcadian. But look at us. We’re all brothers and sisters in suffering. Dread and despair attacks all equally. There’s no need for this petty squabbling that’ll destroy us from the inside. Let each man speak his mind, and let each of us respect his opinion.”
The crowd grumbled then returned to their seats. Lysandros stared at Harold in surprise; the Arcadian slowly nodded and sat back down. A moment later, Lysandros coughed into a fist and collected himself.
“Our friend is right. We must stay calm and think clearly. Hear me out on this one. I’ve repeatedly mentioned my contact in the Navy-”
“This mysterious contact,” Spiridon mocked. “The agent you met in the rain after he beat the tar out of you and your friends. You were certainly bruised up that day, but this contact, is he even real? Do you have any proof? I’ve certainly never met him.”
“In this political atmosphere, he can’t come out and openly meet us,” Lysandros reminded him. “But I’ve been in touch with him, and he’s close to the inner circle of the Navy. He and his allies will help us. I can’t reveal the details of the plan for obvious reasons. But the plan is coming, and it’s coming soon. We must remain vigilant, we must remain patient.”
Lysandros cursed within his head as his faction spoke in hushed tones. It wasn’t the most convincing argument, but he had the utmost trust in this Naval agent. They had only met in person twice, and the first time the agent truly did beat the tar out of him. But the second time, they looked at the rising dawn together and shared a promise to make things right. Lysandros stayed in touch with him through methods like dead drops and handoffs since then.
There certainly was a plan. But, like all plans in an Arcadia on the brink, it needed to stay secret, lest it be revealed too early.
“Brothers and sisters, think about it,” Lysandros continued. “The Army currently oppresses us. The State Police destroyed our home and killed many of our friends. The Navy…what has the Navy ever done to us?”
“One of their own was responsible for the Restorationist armada!” someone called out from the crowd to a chorus of nods and boos.
“That’s State Police propaganda,” Lysandros countered. The rumors of a Navy traitor being responsible for the aerial attack over Narragansett no doubt sprung from the lips of propagandists working inside military headquarters.
“They allowed the Restorationists to smuggle in and enslave Atalantans!” another laborer called out.
Lysandros had a quick answer. “We did that.”
The crowd fell into silence.
“We all know it," Lysandros said. "While our brethren were worked to the bone below ground, we kept quiet. Did we ever storm the Zhanghai facility? Did we ever turn against Zhanghai or Restorationists who employed us above ground?”
An exhausted laborer shook his head. “They would’ve killed us.”
“And the junta will surely kill us as well!” Lysandros let his words sink in. “As citizens of Four Eagles, we allied ourselves with Zhanghai and the Restorationists. Whether it was by choice or through coercion, it was done, at the expense of the Atalantans below ground. When the State Police attacked Four Eagles, we fought alongside the samurai and the rebels. Whether it was by choice or through coercion, it was done. And now it’s our turn to suffer as our brothers have. But even though we must suffer, there’s no reason for us to die. We won’t give in. But when we ally with a stronger power this time, it must be with the right one. We must ally with good people.”
“And you think the Navy is good?” Spiridon asked.
“No, I don’t. But I think the Navy has good people, and that’s who I wish to ally ourselves to.”
Lysandros’ remark had great timing - not only did it get both factions talking with each other across the aisle, it was also the final remark of the evening. Harold, looking at a watch with a chipped face, nodded at Lysandros, who announced it to the crowd.
Curfew was almost here. Time to finish the last mug, time to head home in the darkness, time to return to the barracks. But at least they could sleep in tomorrow. Atalantans didn’t worship the Arcadian god known as the Skyfather; their patron deity was the warrior woman known as the Diadochi. Her statue once stood over Four Eagles; it now lay crushed into the ground by Armed State Police tank treads. But curiously enough, both the Skyfather and the Diadochi instructed their followers to rest on the seventh day on the week.
Lysandros and his barracks of refugees would need it. Things were moving fast, from the highest echelons in military headquarters down to a band of migrants in a dirty camp - but at least Keti had cleaned some of it before they returned that night.