Flood lights ignite the entire palace complex, dead gods above paling against the near-solar levels of illumination provided by a battery of support vehicles.
Into the hours of the earliest dredges of morning, a hostage situation unfolds from within windowless buildings. The lack of gunfire assures the status of the individuals, yet the world outside is still consumed by an assault prepared by the most lacking of individuals.
An army of law enforcement answering the call, inadequacy obvious in the barely uniformed bodies of unfit, starving individuals in service to the law. Boney limbs and slack faces, guns of shoddy craftsmanship and miniscule caliber on their forms defining a world of rage and hunger.
Single shot muzzle loading weapons, revolver handguns; the most lethal of their grouping found in rusting, barely operational semi-automatic rifles. Armor forged from simple plates of salvaged steel, perhaps enough protection to hold back shrapnel and low power, homemade black powder cartridges.
All in fear of the frontline itself.
The arrival of the Federal Military brings forth immense terror within the population of March.
Dark blue uniforms scattering the lighting from police vehicles, nearly half the garrison of March was mustered here at the central palace complex. Squads of shock troopers wielding lethal assault rifles, heavy sniper platforms, and high capacity light machine guns await incoming orders; their forms garnished with thick plate carriers and souls protected by ballistic helmets.
A vehicle pool outfitted with armored bastions; the squat forms of wheeled personnel carriers alongside the monolithic pair of battle tanks. Huge smoothbore cannons silent beneath dead gods, mounted on overturned frying pan-like turrets and pointed outward towards the implication of conflict to come.
Two mechanisms of war lovingly named by crew, the Steel of Liberty and Saint Mathias’ Badlands Rumble hold the anchoring of power within their armored spirits.
A world reflective of the reality of the southlands; the frontier of the Federation defined by near constant intrusions by minor nations, self declared bandit lords, and attempted revolutions by ancient cults.
Brought to order by the overwhelming volume of gunfire, and the crushing industry of humanity.
Judge Murphy simply watches it all; tired eyes staring into nothing as he sits beneath a chair outside the hastily pitched headquarters tent at the crossroads of closed streets.
He hears the sound of squad leaders musing over architectural plans, a policing operation handed over to military forces in desperation of an entire government held hostage. Young officers at the unit level attempting to discern points of entry alongside more experienced foot soldiers, a conversation seemingly casual between the single middle aged woman in their midst.
Field General Ashe Phillips’ calm and even voice breaks apart the monotony of her staff, a reputation enough to bend respect towards her stout, shadowed form at the very edge of the briefing table. Southlandic accent clear in her seemingly motherly words, a tone betrayed by its contents. “So, I still believe a frontal assault is still in order. With a partial breach off to the relative east and western flanks of the complex we’ll be able to end this business once in for all.”
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A specification welcomed, one of her staff relaying his own tactical expertise from within the command post. “Then should we deploy the tanks to the far flanks? Have them soften up the positions, maybe get a few of these terrorists dead before we send our people in?”
Destructive power reeled in, another officer raises an objection in response to the plan. “W-we’ll risk a lot of collateral damage i-i-if we really do it like this. I calculate at l-least four million d-dollars worth, and at l-least t-two years of repair.”
“Two years and four million’s worth it.” Field General Phillips assures calmly.
“A-and the h-hostages?”
Silence at the mention of a governmental authority, an unspoken hand signal censoring monitored auditory communications. The rustle of boots upon cobblestone, one of the officers peeking out from the tent. Spotting Judge Murphy, the young man gives a short bow of acknowledgement and respect before returning.
Behind closed doors, away from the world, the understanding is reached between the power structures of March.
Five taps on the plastic table, a return to functionality led by the Field General. “Let’s go over the floor plan for the second to fourth stories of the auxiliary palace complex. I want to make sure our deployed squads know that place inside out.”
From the corner of his eye he spots the fast approaching form of Judge Hoppe, the young soul jogging over from the secured perimeter a hundred meters away. Speaking up, a slightly out-of-breath voice begins her report. “No news from Judge Greyson on the inside sir. Some of the soldiers are getting restless, it’s not normal for religious terrorists to do things such as this.”
Judge Murphy hides his tiredness, standing up straight from his seated position. “Such as?”
“They either issue demands, or kill everyone.” Hoppe blankly states. “It’s not in their doctrine to just… sit there and wait.”
Judge Murphy glances over to the palace complex, an observation left held as the young Judge continues to deliver her report. “And there’s something else you should know. It’s… it’s with the tower.”
They both stare up.
A black monolith standing amongst the city, a half-mile spire of abyssal material connecting March to the ley lines themselves. Crafted from ancient hands, a product of the divine left amongst the dirt and dust of their imperfect creations.
The sense of vertigo pushing the limits of humanity as they both gaze upon the form, the subtle hue of blue energy crackling across its surface distorting the shape from human eyes.
Judge Murphy asks carefully. “What’s happening?”
“I don’t know sir.” Judge Hoppe honestly answers her counterpart. “But there’s been reports across the channels that the tower’s beginning to fail.”
The old soul barely reveals emotion, merely listening as the woman continues. “It's just initial reports though, but the water processing facilities have reported a massive drop in production just an hour ago. And the power grid’s starting to flicker in the outer quarters.”
Silence at the notion, an unbelievable prospect brought to the foot of the senior Judge.
“Could this be related to this terrorist attack?” Judge Murphy asks calmly.
“It could just be a coincidence, and I’m privy to believe that sir.” Hoppe answers with a mental battery of arcane knowledge. “Nobody’s been able to destroy a tower… ever… But something’s drawing power from the lines of March, and if that tower fails…”
“If the tower fails now, there’s nothing we can do.” Judge Murphy sets aside. “Focus on the task at hand.”
“Yes sir.”
A long silence coming from the world as both souls stare at the divine construct, Judge Hoppe asking the question upon the minds of the world. “Do we have a timeline for the rescue sir?”
A motion of his hand, the old soul becking Hoppe to follow him as he turns back to the command tent. “Let’s ask.”