This is why, when the dominance of a place is established under a fascist government imposing its will, a counterforce will naturally arise to challenge the oppression—just as boisterous heat rises to confront the stillness of cold. That’s when war is born, when sides are drawn, and allies and enemies are defined.
For centuries, the Markabian Imperial Army ruled the small eastern continent of Pannotia, dominating nearly all of it—except for that one peninsula the Military preferred not to talk about. Though unrest among its inhabitants had always existed, it wasn’t until fifty years ago that the first movement arose, marking more than just a minor disturbance for the Empire. Discontented civilians took up arms against their rulers, igniting a small revolution.
Initially, their opposition took the form of public protests or street art: posters depicting the crimson crest of the Army—a crimson, rhomboid shield with a white Pegasus rearing up over a laurel wreath—crossed out with what looked like blood; or the same Pegasus with its wings ripped off, trampling the body of a man meant to symbolize the people. Graffiti also appeared on walls and monuments, with less poetic but very clear messages such as ‘Imperialists eat shit!’ or ‘To hell with those bastards!’
These disturbances earned the rebels the derogatory nickname ‘The Troublemakers.’ Up to that point, nothing unusual in the grand scheme of history.
But this movement planted the seeds of revolution in many Markabian citizens. Within months, clashes between rebels and the Military tripled. After initial reprisals—leaving behind injured, dead, missing, and imprisoned rebels—the Troublemakers gained more supporters, even convincing some soldiers to desert and join their cause.
By then, traditional methods of protest had been abandoned. While occasional offensive messages still appeared on buildings, the rebels had turned to more organized and violent tactics. The leading group, made up mostly of former soldiers and armed civilians, had set up operations throughout Pannotia, raiding small Military outposts, ambushing convoys, and seizing weapons to bolster their firepower.
The opposing forces had entered the dance of war, adhering to that intrinsic law that balance governs the universe.
Although there’s no rule guaranteeing the sides will ever be evenly matched.
The Troublemakers were a growing force, yes, but still a small one. They survived because their leaders remained hidden, weaving strategies like a spider spins its web. The Markabian Imperial Army, on the other hand, was monstrously powerful, and their networks were less like spiderwebs and more like the nets of a whaler.
Of course, even a whaler’s nets sometimes have tears.
Night had fallen, and the drizzle thickened into steady rain. The multicolored glow of neon signs lining the narrow street—crowded with small shops stacked one on top of another—was blurred by mist and raindrops.
Wrapped in a dark raincoat with a hood so large it barely let him see where he was going, Pablo Rigel made his way through the motorcyclists, street vendors, and pedestrians who were rushing to find shelter before the rain turned into a full-blown storm. Most people were covering their heads with bags or hoods; looking ahead was like seeing a sea of hats and plastic covers constantly shifting and swaying.
Walking hunched over so his nearly six-and-a-half-foot frame wouldn’t stand out too much in the crowd, Rigel slipped into a narrow alley behind a fried cake stand. There, where the air reeked of reheated frying oil and damp earth, a man dressed in a raincoat just as dark as his own was waiting for him, his face also hidden in the shadows.
Neither of them bothered to pull back their hoods; it seemed they weren’t very interested in seeing each other’s faces.
“I’ve been waiting for over an hour,” the man said, clearly annoyed though trying to keep his voice low. “What’s this about?”
Rigel pulled a thin book from his pocket and handed it to him. A Philosophical Study of Imperial Fascism, read the title on the cover.
“This was printed in your workshop,” he said. “You’re the only one in this quadrant who does custom jobs like this. A word of advice? Next time you take the savings of some idealistic students for something like this, use different ink—this stuff’s way too easy to trace.”
The man opened the book—which was indeed one of his—and found a note inside that read:
Tomorrow. 2000 hours. Heavy cargo. Villa Samuel.
He tucked the book away and tore the note into pieces, tossing them into the gutter for the water to carry off.
“Perfect,” he whispered. “I’ll pass it on to the group. I just hope they’ll listen. After what happened last time… I’m sorry, but some of them are questioning your loyalty to the cause.”
The rough features of Rigel’s face—the few that were visible beneath the hood—grew even more severe, swallowed by shadow.
“What happened last time wasn’t my mistake,” he said, his angular jaw tightening. “If your group had any sense of discipline, they would’ve known how to coordinate a raid. You should be thankful my men erased the footage before anyone saw it; otherwise, none of you would still be breathing.”
“I know, I know.” The man in the raincoat tried to placate the Detective. “It’s just that you’re still wearing that badge, and you know how distrustful the guys can be.”
“I wear this because I believe in discipline,” Rigel cut him off, “not because I like the Imperial Council. I thought that was clear. When you Troublemakers are Troublemakers in name only and can prove you can run more than a band of exiles—while keeping an entire continent stable—then maybe I’ll consider switching sides. Until then, take the intel I give you or leave it.”
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The man raised his hands in a gesture of truce.
“Hey, friend, I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, apologetic. “Just try to understand my guys. You know what they say, even the disadvantages…”
“Even the disadvantages of the Empire come with their advantages,” Rigel recited, and, against all odds, allowed himself a smile. “My ex-fiancée… She used to say the same thing.”
“Well, your ex sounds like a wise woman.”
Rigel nodded with a sigh. “Marie? Yeah, she was.”
A sound came from behind them, and the man in the dark raincoat turned to look, moving with the speed of someone who lives on the wrong side of the law, his nerves on edge. Rats rummaging through the trash piled up in the alley had knocked over an empty can, which now rolled downhill across the wet ground.
Catching his breath, the man turned back—only to find Rigel gone.
The Detective was already walking down the street, blending into the crowd rushing to find shelter from the rain.
The downpour grew heavier, and Rigel quickened his pace. The sound of rain striking his hood mingled with the hum of the crowd and the roar of motorcycles splashing through puddles on the narrow street.
“Even the disadvantages of the Empire come with their advantages,” he repeated to himself, and once again, that bittersweet smile of memory crossed his face.
But the warmth of the thought faded as quickly as the neon signs of the storefronts dissolved into multicolored blurs in the rain—just as blurry as the line between happy and painful memories.
“You like it, don’t you?” Marie had said to him one afternoon on the porch of her summer house, years ago. “When are you going to admit that being a spy suits you better than being an army officer?”
He’d tried to brush it off, but she’d known him too well.
“Oh, come on, Pablo, you love smuggling information more than spending hours at a crime scene. Deny it.”
“You’ll never understand, Marie,” he’d said, trying to deflect. “If you only knew the injustices I see…”
“I do know. Or have you forgotten I was there, too? But Pablo, what really gets to you isn’t the injustices—it’s your addiction to digging into them, finding out what’s behind everything.”
“Knowledge is power, or so they say,” he’d tried to defend himself.
She’d laughed—a laugh laced more with sarcasm than genuine humor. “Such a cliché line. True though,” she’d said. “But here’s another one for you: power corrupts. Look, maybe you’re good enough at keeping a poker face to hide a thousand secrets, but the truth is, you can’t control your real urges. You might not see it now, but your passion for uncovering every secret is really your obsession with controlling everything. I just hope you figure that out and slow down before someone else slams the brakes for you.”
Marie’s voice faded from his memory, replaced by the steady patter of rain.
And as if the people passing by didn’t exist, Rigel slowed his steps until he stopped in the middle of the narrow sidewalk. He heard grumbles, and someone, rushing to find cover, bumped into his shoulder.
He lifted his head, and the hood of his raincoat shifted slightly, letting the rain reach his rugged cheeks—right where a faint beard was starting to cast shadows. Was it possible that his recent exchange in the alley had struck a nerve, awakening memories he’d tried to leave behind?
But then, as if fate itself were calling, something vibrated against his thigh. Not his official phone, the one he kept in his right pants pocket—but the other one, hidden in his holster, perpetually set to silent mode. Someone from his network had uncovered something important or needed to meet him through unofficial channels.
The jolt of adrenaline brought him back to life, a surge of energy propelling him to find a secluded spot where he could retrieve the phone and check the message away from prying eyes.
And then, he imagined what Marie’s reaction would have been if she had been there. ‘Told you so,’ she would have teased, shaking her head slowly, a wide grin on her face.
Maybe it was time to admit she’d always been right.
The midnight patrol had wrapped up just over an hour ago, and although squads of soldiers still cruised the streets with their Daedalus thrusters, their rounds were less frequent than before. The drizzle had made the night unusually quiet.
After parking far from any public lights, Rigel stepped out of his vehicle, crossed the narrow street briskly, and slipped into the park where the glow of the lamps barely reached the shrubs.
He was still in the same dark green jumpsuit he’d worn all day: a dark green jumpsuit with suspenders, damp with sweat and smelling as bad as his cap. Personal hygiene was the last thing on his mind right now though.
From between the trees, announced by the crunch of his footsteps on the grass, emerged a thin man in uniform. With the visor of his cap pulled low over his eyes, Officer Snow hid his identity quite well; only a hint of his white beard peeked out from beneath the shadows on his face.
“Chris…” Rigel greeted in a low voice.
“Colonel,” the officer replied. “The students’ remains have been returned to their families, and the Geology Department has declared a day of mourning. Now comes the interesting part of the case.” Reaching under a bush, he retrieved a rectangular box from a board game and handed it to Rigel.
‘Help Little Detective Timmy Solve the Best Riddles!’ the box proclaimed next to an image of a smiling boy holding an oversized magnifying glass and dressed in a uniform strikingly similar to the one they were wearing now—though the Markabian Army emblem on the box was so exaggerated it looked cartoonish. The perfect description of propaganda, Rigel thought.
“At this rate, you’re going to run out of your kids’ game boxes,” he remarked.
“Don’t worry, I’ve still got my nephews’,” Snow replied with a chuckle. “I have to say, Colonel, when you brought me in for this investigation, I didn’t think you’d raise the stakes like this.”
“Yeah, well, you know what they say, Chris: you start with a crime and end up with supplies seized from a secret bunker.”
Snow smirked again, patting the box.
“Here’s what you requested, sir. Uh… mind if I ask you something?”
Rigel neither confirmed nor denied, which Snow took as permission. He felt comfortable enough with the Detective to occasionally pry.
“Out of everything we found in the bunker, why these documents in particular? There were more valuable files there; you know that.”
With a slight nod, Rigel responded, “Thanks for the box.”
Snow caught the hint and didn’t press further. “You’ve got until tomorrow to check for anything problematic before we turn it in as evidence,” he said then.
“Good,” Rigel said. “And that monstrosity—what’s the story there?”
“You mean beauty, Colonel. A masterpiece of computer engineering, a perfect assembly of various machines—many of them stolen. As we suspected, every last circuit is fried. But we hit a hidden jackpot. One of the machines in the setup is concealed beneath the central panel, equipped with a Four-Frequency transmitter. That’s what saved its transistors during the overload that fried the rest. Know what that means?”
“That whoever built that computer assembly ensured that part wouldn’t be damaged,” Rigel said. “What’s Froia’s take?”
“He’s working on that segment as we speak,” Snow replied. “Says he won’t sleep until he figures out how to crack it.”
“Good. Keep me updated.”
Rigel thanked his officer for the work, and the two parted ways, heading in opposite directions into the park’s darkness.
When the detective climbed into his vehicle, he set the box on the seat beside him—Help Little Detective Timmy Solve the Best Riddles!—and thought about its contents. Hoping he was making the right call, he pulled his secret phone from its holster and arranged a meeting with his contact.