Eve
The command screens lit up in front of me, the live feeds flickering into a collage of quadrants. At the top, Obsidian's central district—streets cleared, Gamma banners unfurled, the civilians ushered back behind locked gates.
The Royal Gammas moved first, their vehicles loaded with provisions and crates of food, each convoy guarded by disciplined ranks. Behind them, the Military Gammas marched in unison—black armor, silver insignias glinting under floodlights. Their formation was heavier, more deliberate, and the sound of their boots rolled through the speakers like distant thunder.
Every quadrant mirrored the same rhythm: distribution followed by deployment. Where the Royal Gammas gave supplies, the Military Gammas gave presence. A balance of provision and power. Shield and sword.
My gaze shifted down to the second panel of the feed—tabloids, live broadcasts, social media banners running like wildfire across the pack's communication grid.
