They are up at first light.
The sleeping forms of five suns slowly come to life as power flows through their forms; slaves of ancient programs once more in activation of their duties to the world beneath them.
March is broken.
Armored cars bearing the seven bars of the Federation idle on street corners, their mechanized squads standing alongside them wielding vicious pump action shotguns and high capacity, full automatic assault rifles.
Uniforms haphazardly sewn and repaired through months of warfare on the Southland Frontiers, cloth masks of light blue covering faces in preparation of a forecasted afternoon dust storm. Snippets of speech exchanged amongst the now returning bustle of bodies; confirmation of orders, desires for hot meals, and complaints of current duties. Always aware of rooftops, windowsills, and pedestrian backpacks, lives waiting for the glint of snipers and cult suicide bombers.
The Federated Cities hold their order in the chaos of humanity’s revelation only by superior firepower, a commanding force forcing martial law against the very consideration of awoken saviors.
It's still morning, the five suns still in the initial warmup phases providing a balanced measure between the oppressive heat of midday and the bone chilling gusts of night.
Madeline yawns, stretching her arms upward as she lets out a long, unintentional scream out to the old city quarter of March. Street sweeping elderly turn to the sound, quickly avoiding glances as they fixate on the obviously armed source.
“I don’t know about y’all, but I slept like a baby!” The young woman smiles at the rest of her trope, pausing as she takes in the current city block. “... you don’t think the owner of this place is dead right?”
“Don’t dwell on the motion.” Judge Murphy harshly orders, taking a deep breath of lightly dusty air. “We have multiple objectives to be completed today. I’ll need to send a report to Centralis, and a confirmation of a change of judiciary status. We’ll also need to retrieve a method of transportation and supplies for traveling.”
“I’ll also need to send a few letters…” Madeline sighs. “We really are doing this aren’t we?”
“We are.” The twins confirm at the exact same time.
“Gods damn it… well let’s take a stop at a post office then. Just a quick thing before we leave.”
He catches the bite of evidence, an instinct springing onto the words instantaneously. “Who's the recipient of the letter?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know, gramps.” The Bandit humorously snarls at him.
“It may be relevant to our task.”
“It’s not.” She assures with a bit more annoyance. “I just need to settle some accounts before I die a horrible death next month.”
There’s silence as they try to process her unfiltered words.
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“You are being sarcastic.” Samuel observes as he narrows his small eyes. “If such a task is to be completed, we will require collective cohesion. Remain focused on the primary objective.”
Alto interrupts the budding argument, providing guidance to a fast deteriorating situation. “The central districts of March should have everything needed. But we should hurry, by the looks of things there’s going to be a dust storm today and we don’t want to be caught in that.”
There are bigger things to worry about, larger and more dangerous forces at play; either human, natural, and divine. A mortally wounded city at its own crossroads, a decision between a hard recovery or an easy death.
“Let’s go.” The Judge confirms.
March’s Federal Garrison is bolstered only by chance, an entire army brought back from the Frontier War for rest and reprieve suddenly finding itself in the midst of an urban meatgrinder once more. A hostile city awaiting them with gunfire and blood instead of foodstuffs and precious water, no mercy against their very own kin.
There are so many bodies; armbands of light blue stained in dried blood alongside the drab clothing of simple bystanders caught in crossfire. Men, women, and children intermixed in a confusing array of exposed limbs and gaping, lifeless eyes. Piles dragged aside onto sidewalks and cordoned off by haphazardly salvaged roadblocks, condemnation and possible cremation to come as soon as available.
It's a cull, both the Bandit and Gunslinger conclude. A city put to gunfire in a final attempt at maintaining order to a people secluded by the promises of gods below.
Field General Philips’ own methodology of pacification unquestionably necessary against towns and satellite empires ruled by faceless warlords, but amongst the citizenry of the Federation an unacceptable compromise.
Judge Murphy takes notes in an ancient mind, a template report to be filled and sent back to the five towers.
“Hold this position.” Samuel suddenly interrupts the pace of travel, all of them stopping at the lip of the side street.
The sibling narrows her eyes impatiently at her brother. “What is the cause of this delay?”
Armored vehicles race through city streets at a near breakneck pace, a columned pair of six wheeled shapes cleaving past the group as they make haste towards another fast developing firefight in the distance. Soldiers riding atop the flat topped engine bay and turret structure, young and old faces dirtied from powder soot and nights spent resting in barely suitable barracks tents. Tired gazes resting onto pedestrians, barely a care left to the curious group of six muddled travelers who lock eyes with them.
“We should hurry.” Alto quickly gathers as the thin lines of pedestrian traffic resumes, eyes drawn skyward towards the now almost blinding light from five suns above them.
They’re fading against dust.
Prevailing winds from the great sea of sand beyond the Baitan Range carry with them the filtered particulates of both desert and wasteland. Once harmless pieces of eroded stone turned to a swarm of lethal contention, a blinding storm like a dune of sand collapsing onto unsuspecting nomads.
Wisdom from the travels brings the timeframe, a prediction inaccurate but enough to gauge a general estimate. “We only have maybe four hours left before the front hits. And its a big one too…”
“I estimate at least three and a half.” Judge Murphy grunts in agreement, narrowing the young man’s words from his own knowledge base. “Biased towards four hours.”
The Mage remains emotionless, surprised curiosity caught by his sister through his cold words. “By what methodology are you producing this prediction?”
The street clears, an opportunity to cross arriving as they all instinctively move onto the cobblestone road.
“It's the color.” Alto tries to explain. “The biggest ones begin with a lighter color than the rest, it means they’ve traveled the furthest so they’ve collected the most stuff. Also means they’ve gotten very, very big.”
“I understand.” Samuel takes the words as perfect fact, a database expanded by just a bit more of folk knowledge.
Madeline clears her throat. “And if we don’t want to be caught with our guns out when it hits we better hurry. Come on!”