Embers of Discontent

Marcellus’s POV

The union hall smelled of oil‑stained overalls and stale tobacco, a comforting odor to Marcellus’s seasoned lungs. He sat behind a long table littered with chalk, flyer stencils, and half‑assembled lanterns, tapping his pen on blueprints of the city’s labor grid. Every strike, every rally—from the dockworkers to the café staff—pulsed through these plans like rivulets feeding a river of dissent.

His second‑in‑command, Delia, knelt at his side, tracing a new graffiti route on the brick wall outside. She paused, looking up at him with eyes that always reminded him of spring rain—bright, unpredictable, and sometimes devastating.

“We’ll hit five sectors tonight,” she said in that clipped tone he’d come to admire. “But the Council’s stepped up patrols. Drone sweeps doubled in the east blocks.”

Marcellus nodded, swirling his coffee. “We’re stirring the pot—they’re burning the edges to drive us out.” He tapped a grubby finger on a map pin. “We’ll need diversions. Liora’s broadcast gave us momentum, but we need to keep them guessing.”

Delia glanced at the paper lanterns hanging from the rafters—hand‑painted with slogans like “Blood for Wall Street?” and “Our Jokes Won’t Be Taxed.” She smirked. “I still can’t believe you let the junior stunt squad rig those flash‑bang confetti bombs.”

He grinned. “Nothing like a shower of metallic glitter to distract riot police.”

She rolled her eyes, then shoved a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You know, Marcellus, one of these days your humor’s going to get us killed.”

He leaned back, meeting her gaze. “Only if we stop laughing.”

Their banter was an oasis amid tension—a spark of warmth before the storm. But he could see it in her eyes: the same unspoken question that flickered through every comrade’s heart lately. Is this worth the cost?

He set his coffee down, gaze hardening. “Tonight we secure the supply routes. We free the maintenance tunnels so the civilians can move supplies and messages. After that, we strike a blow at the power grid in Sector C—if we darken those corporate towers, they’ll have to pull resources to fix it. That gives Liora and Torian time to reach Sector H.”

Delia frowned at the map. “A coordinated blackout—then an information cascade. It’s brilliant.” She hesitated. “What about Seraphine’s diner? I heard it was sealed off this morning.”

His heart clenched. Seraphine had been one of their quietest supporters—served free meals to union volunteers back when protests were still scribbles on flyers. “She’ll be fine,” he lied too quickly. “She’s tough—she’ll slip out the back.”

Delia reached over, placing her hand on his. “She’s ten years older than me in that diner, boss. You think she can outrun a drone?”

Marcellus swallowed. “We’ll get her before the sweep. Trust me.”

Delia’s lips pressed into a thin line. She pulled back, nodding. “Okay. But after the supply runs, I want to head to the diner myself. Just in case.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but she gave him that look—equal parts challenge and care. He couldn’t refuse.

Across the hall, two rookies fumbled with a radio, voices crackling. Marcellus stood, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders. “All right, team,” he called, voice steady. “Let’s move.”

They filed out, lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the dusk. Marcellus stayed by the door, watching Delia take point. He brushed his jacket sleeve against his wrist—a nervous tick. He wasn’t surprised when she reached back, linking her arm through his.

They walked side by side into the hallway’s muted glow, the rest of the union squad following. Marcellus inhaled, tasting oil and hope. He took a steadying breath, squeezing Delia’s arm.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She offered him a crooked smile. “Just don’t get us killed before the confetti bombs go off.”

He chuckled, a low sound that echoed through the silent hall. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As they stepped into the night, lantern light flickering against the brick, Marcellus felt the weight of every choice they’d made. Guerrilla tactics, midnight raids, coded broadcasts—it all led here: the heartbeat of the union, the pulse of a people ready to stand.

Above them, the neon grid of the city flickered, some lines dark, others pulsing green. And somewhere out there, Liora and Torian drove toward a ghost’s lair, Echo’s recorder humming secrets to the night.

Marcellus glanced at Delia. “Ready for a little chaos?”

She squeezed his arm. “After you, boss.”

And as the first of the blackout generators roared to life in the distance, they marched into the uprising’s next cadence—hope, fury, humor, and a spark of something like love guiding each step.