[b][center]Hailstorm[/center][/b] In a room with one door and no windows, eight men and women argued endlessly across a dark oak table. They discussed the movements of their enemies, the behavior and opinions of the people, the resources they possessed, and the actions they should be taking. The chatter echoed throughout the enclosed room, growing louder and louder until the chatter turned to debate, then devolved into angry squabble. "We should move now! The people are on our side. Mercenaries be damned; we have the advantage now!" "Don't be a fool. Numbers are everything and we are not ready. If we go on the offensive and take too many losses, we'll look like suicidal fanatics. People want stability, not war!" "You can't have stability without removing the cause of unrest! DERB is going to let loose their dogs unless we strike first. Any difference in numbers can be made up with morale and volunteers!" "We can't be wasting resources on violence now. The mutants are organizing faster than we predicted, and our intelligence indicates they've been snooping around Legus and Andal more frequently. That Albatross freak must be up to something!" "And what of the so-called Commonwealth? Our spies to the west haven't returned, and the rumors keep spreading. If they have the strength to come our way and match the DERB, everything we've done will be pointless!" And so it dragged on for several more minutes, while a ninth person listened intently at the end of the table. Her elbows rested firmly on the lacquered surface and her hands folded over each other, occasionally moving to brush a few strands of her raven hair out of her eyes. Despite the obvious displeasure painted on her pale countenance, she spoke not a word to her advisers as they bickered like children over the rules of a made up game. The thought crossed her mind to simply shout "Shut up!" to everyone in the room, but it felt a bit cliched and over-the-top. She could have slammed her fist on the table and proclaimed "You are all right!" like some kind of executive in an old television drama. It was the truth after all: She largely agreed with all of the people at the table, but found it bothersome that each one seemed to find a single priority that transcended all other valid issues. DERB was indeed still a threat and the main reason for the existence of her organization. The Unburdened were certainly acting strangely, and had bolstered their use of propaganda. The rumored movement west of the Kuro River was emerging as an unsettling variable, and none of the Vanguard scouts had come back from investigation. Voyagers were either annexing or eliminating other mercenary and freelancer competition, and both the Vanguards and DERB had become dependent on them. The Vanguard was little more than dozens of scattered guerrillas at the time, so set bases, territories, and resources were a constant problem as well. There seemed to be problems everywhere. With an exasperated sigh, Liliana, the raven-haired woman at the end of the table stood to her feet. This gesture alone seemed to be enough to quiet her advisers, so she was pleased not to have to raise her voice. "We will not go on the offensive," she began, speaking clearly and concisely. "Regardless of our cause, we cannot forget that, at our base, we fight for the people and the future. We can't afford to waste the momentum we're gaining prematurely." Leaning toward the center with her hands placed firmly on the varnished table, she continued, "We will not send anymore scouts or fighters to the west. We'll instead focus on controlling the Legus area while keeping an eye over our shoulder. If any of our scouts ever return we'll know the situation, and if they don't we at least know what to deal with after DERB. Until we have sufficient manpower and firepower, we'll keep dealing with the Voyagers. Albatross is still an unknown quantity, so we'll continue to keep subtle tabs on suspected Unburdened, and accept as many into our ranks as possible to obtain information. That is all." As quickly as she began, Liliana Wilson closed her brief statement and promptly made her way to the room's exit. She purposefully prevented any of them from presenting an argument as to not begin yet another squabble. She was very aware that she had basically just told them "Continue what we've been doing already for the past few weeks" but there was little else she could do. Making the first move was far too risky in any endeavor at this point. Ironically enough, her so-called Vanguards couldn't afford to be the first ones into the fray. The waiting game would continue. --------- In an empty room with a lit fireplace, an older man with a graying, balding head of hair sat alone in contemplation with a slowly-burning cigarette between his thin fingers. His gaze led outside the room's window over the only thing he felt he could still call a city. Below, people traversed from building-to-building, chatting among one-another casually, trading goods and services, and staying clear of the few dozen vehicles rolling across the streets. The view was serene, like something out of a dream or a fairy tale, but perhaps more like a long-lost memory. This was how everything once was: People felt safe, unworried by the terrors of the world or of their fellow man. Their government and it's military kept them safe from such things, allowing them all to grow and prosper; to live. The world was one full of hope, and of hopeful people working toward a beautiful future. The man lifted the cigarette to his lips and inhaled, pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, then exhaled with a deep sigh. This place was not that world. Slowly, he stood up out of his chair and approached the window to get a closer look at the city his army had deemed a "safe zone". As the citizens bustled about, a single transport carrying several crates of various kinds of rations drove steadily through the pedestrian-riddled streets until reaching a complete stop. A group of a few dozen people crowded in front of the truck, eventually circling behind it to prevent escape. Upon closer inspection, each of them seemed to carry some kind of improvised weapon, be it a baseball bat or a pipe. It was a textbook ambush: an attack by disgruntled citizens wanting their "fair share" of rations. The old man lifted the cigarette back to his mouth and took another puff. [i]Typical,[/i] he thought to himself. [i]The more that's given, the more that's expected.[/i] However, despite the dangerous situation placed in his view, the old man did nothing but watch and wait. The first vandal struck. A middle-aged man swung at the truck's windshield with a golf club, shattering the glass, and the driver reacted by accelerating forward and knocking the man onto the ground. Within a second, several other assailants leapt at the transport, ready to beat anyone in their way to a bloody pulp. However, the old man's troops were not defenseless. Before the attackers could break more glass, gunshots rang out from the vehicle and a volley of bullets struck anybody that took a step toward the transport. Ten bodies fell to the ground, and the remaining assailants slowly began to back away. [i]Underestimating the effectiveness of firearms,[/i] General Melioda scoffed, [i]Such a grave mistake for those who have the advantage of numbers and desperation.[/i] "What a terrible waste of life." Taking another puff from his cigarette, the general moved back to his chair and made himself comfortable once more. [i]This world is far from perfect. But perhaps one day...[/i] ------- And in the distance, the wings spread and take flight: The shadow looms closer as the light grows dimmer. The fringe boils with abberation. The ambition, the desperation, and the absolution teetered on the scales. The Unknown the Unknowing each wait for their chance to tip them in favor of one or the other. Where will they fall? The iron rusts. The muscle atrophies. The knowledge fades. The trade collapses. The isolation crumbles. The gun misfires. The corpse blooms. ------- [b]Chapter One: Titan Arum[/b]