"Flor de Abril"

"Flor de Abril"

(Partially based from the song "Depois do Adeus")

I

Lisbon, early April 1974 

Pablo had asked himself a hundred times who he was. A soldier, yes. But more than that? He wasn’t sure anymore. 

The uniform he wore had begun to feel like a shackle, not just on his body, but on his very soul. He had been trained to obey, to follow orders without hesitation. Yet lately, the weight of his actions felt unbearable. In the stillness of the barracks, when the others talked of loyalty and duty, he found himself questioning everything — not just his place in the military, but his place in the world. 

That was when he met Astrid. 

Astrid was unlike anyone he had ever known. A woman who lived between the lines of poetry, philosophy, and revolution. She worked at a small bookshop near the Convento do Carmo, an intimate space that felt more like a refuge than a place of commerce. The smell of old paper and ink, mingling with the fragrance of freshly brewed coffee from the shop’s corner, seemed to pull him in whenever he walked by. 

It was a rainy afternoon when they first spoke. She was standing at a tram stop, holding a pile of books as though they were more precious than gold, while the rain soaked her clothes. Pablo had been walking by, lost in thought, when he noticed her — drenched, but smiling softly as though the rain didn’t bother her. 

Without thinking, he offered her his coat. She glanced at it, then at him, before shaking her head gently. 

“You’re kind,” she said, her voice soft but strong, “but I’ve weathered worse storms.” 

It was an innocent remark, but one that stayed with him long after the rain had stopped. She didn’t just survive; she thrived in the storm. 

They began meeting regularly at Café A Brasileira, a popular spot where the city’s intellectuals gathered, their conversations spilling out into the streets. At first, their meetings felt accidental, as though fate had a hand in them. But soon, it became routine, and Pablo found himself longing for the sound of her voice, the sharpness of her wit, the way she could speak about freedom and injustice as if they were one and the same. 

Astrid spoke of change often, knowing after the long years of dictatorship, of the people’s silent suffering. She spoke of Portugal’s future, of what they could be if only they dared to break free from the chains that had bound them for so long. But Pablo spoke little of his own role. He had been part of the MFA, the Military Revolutionary Movement that had quietly been planning the coup for months. 

Though they grew closer, he never told her the truth — that the revolution, the change she longed for, was in part his doing. He feared her disappointment. But there was something in the way she looked at him, as though she already knew. 

One evening, as they walked along the Tejo, the river quietly reflecting the dimming sky, she turned to him and asked, “Do you believe this country can be free?” 

Pablo hesitated. His heart felt heavy. “I don’t know,” he said honestly, “but I hope so.” 

“But you’re doing something,” she replied, her gaze unwavering. “I can feel it.” 

He kissed her then, not as an answer to her question, but as a way to quiet the turmoil inside him. But even in her kiss, he felt the weight of the truth pressing against him. 

II 

April 23, 1974 

The night was quiet, the air still. Lisbon’s streets, often filled with the hum of trams and the bustle of late-night conversations, now seemed to hold their breath. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a silver light across the city, bathing it in a soft, ethereal glow. Inside the small apartment that Pablo had come to call home for the past few months, the only sound was the gentle rhythm of their breathing. 

Astrid lay beside him, her head resting against his chest. He could feel the steady rise and fall of her breath, warm and steady, matching his own. The scent of her hair, like wildflowers after a spring rain, lingered in the air. Her skin was soft beneath his fingers, her body curled into his in the familiar comfort of their shared intimacy. The weight of the world seemed to vanish in this moment, as if time itself had momentarily frozen. 

But even in this silence, Pablo could feel the weight of the coming storm pressing down on him. He had been waiting for this night — the night when everything would change. His heart pounded not just from the closeness of her body, but from the knowledge of the choice that lay ahead. The revolution was coming. The mission was clear. And yet, as he held her, he wondered how much he could truly leave behind. 

“I had a dream,” Astrid whispered, breaking the quiet. Her voice was soft, but there was an edge of sadness in it, as though the words were pulled from a place of deep vulnerability. “That you left, and I stayed. And when you came back, we had become strangers.” 

Pablo’s chest tightened at the thought. He had never heard her speak like this before. Her words felt like a weight pressing down on him, like a secret truth that had been buried deep in his heart, one he hadn’t wanted to confront. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her closer, as if trying to hold onto this fleeting moment of peace before the chaos of the next few days. 

“I’ll never leave you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, though even as the words left his mouth, he knew they weren’t entirely true. Not in the way she meant. The revolution was already in motion. He was part of something much larger than himself now. And when it was over, he feared it would change everything. It would change them. It had to. 

The night before, Pablo had received the final orders: the coup would begin at midnight. The signal would be the first notes of the song “E Depois do Adeus” playing on the radio — a symbol of resistance, of hope, of the freedom they had all been waiting for. At the first sound of those notes, he and his comrades would move quickly, seizing key positions in the city — the airport, the radio stations, the military barracks. They would carry their gun- only to see people beside them carrying flowers. Carnations, the symbol of peace and revolution. It would be a bloodless coup, a revolution not born of hatred, but of the quiet, determined will to break free from the chains that had bound the country for so long. 

But as he held Astrid in his arms, he felt a deep sorrow creeping into his heart. He was not just fighting for a better future for Portugal. He was fighting for her, for the life they had begun to build together, a life that had been born in the shadow of a repressive regime. He was fighting to give her the freedom to live without fear, to speak her mind without looking over her shoulder. But he knew this fight would come at a cost. The revolution, for all its promise, would leave scars. And one of those scars might very well be the one that came between them. 

“Partir é morrer,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, almost a whisper. “Leaving is dying a little.” 

Her words echoed in the silence of the room, like the soft tolling of a distant bell. Pablo’s heart clenched at the truth of them. He had heard it before — in books, in the speeches of revolutionaries, in the quiet conversations of the people who had suffered under the dictatorship for so long. But hearing it from her, hearing it in this moment, made it feel all the more real. 

Astrid was right. Leaving would mean leaving behind not just a part of himself, but a part of her, too. It would mean stepping into a world where they would be changed forever, where the love they had built — tentative, fragile, but real — would be torn apart and rebuilt in ways neither of them could predict. She had already seen it. She had already felt it. She knew, in the depths of her soul, what the revolution would cost. 

Pablo brushed a strand of her hair away from her face, his fingers trembling slightly. He didn’t want to believe it. He didn’t want to believe that leaving her, even for a noble cause, would change everything. But the truth was undeniable. The revolution would demand sacrifices. It would demand more from him than he had ever been willing to give. 

“I’ll come back,” he promised, though his words felt hollow even as he said them. He wanted to believe them. He wanted to believe that he would return to her, that they would pick up where they left off, that the world would return to its rightful balance and they could be together again. But deep down, he knew better. He had already made the decision. He had already crossed the line. 

This night would be the last time they were truly together, the last time they could hold each other without fear, without the weight of history pressing down on them. 

“Promise me something,” Astrid said, her voice breaking through his thoughts. 

“Anything,” Pablo replied, his voice thick with emotion. 

“Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again. No matter what happens, no matter where we are, we will find our way back to each other.” 

Pablo hesitated, his mind swirling with the uncertainty of the future. He wanted to promise her that, to give her the comfort of those words, but the truth was that he wasn’t sure he would survive the coming days. He wasn’t sure if they would ever have the chance to find each other again. 

But in that moment, he made a decision. He pulled her closer, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I promise,” he whispered, though even as he spoke, he knew that promises were fragile things. The world had a way of shattering even the strongest ones. 

They lay together in silence after that, their bodies entwined, as the clock ticked toward midnight. The weight of the coming revolution pressed heavily on them both, but for a few fleeting moments, it was just the two of them — two souls caught in the web of history, bound by love and the fragile hope of a future that had yet to be written. 

And as the first notes of “E Depois do Adeus” began to play on the radio, they both knew that the moment had come. The world outside was about to change. And so were they. 

III 

April 25, 1974 

The dawn broke cold, the first light of morning creeping slowly over the city of Lisbon. The streets, usually filled with the hum of life, lay eerily still. The usual sounds — the cries of street vendors, the clattering of trams, the chatter of workers and families preparing for their day — were absent. Instead, the air seemed to hold its breath, as if the city itself were waiting for something to happen. The sun’s pale fingers stretched across the rooftops, casting long shadows along the cobbled streets. It was as if time had slowed, holding on to that fragile moment between the night and the day — a moment that would mark the end of an era. 

Pablo and his fellow officers moved swiftly, their steps purposeful, their faces set with the quiet determination of men who knew that history was about to unfold in ways that would change everything. The plan had been set for months, each movement, each action meticulously timed. The signal was simple — a song, played on the radio, the familiar and defiant notes of “E Depois do Adeus” and "Grandola Vila Morena", songs that had become a symbol of the resistance. The message was clear: freedom had arrived. 

Pablo felt the weight of it all, pressing on him like a physical force. He had never imagined that it would feel this heavy. There was no turning back now. His hands, usually steady, now trembled slightly as he held the radio to his ear, waiting for the first sounds to echo out into the morning air. He could hear the low hum of the transmission, the static that preceded the moment of change. And then, the first notes of the song began to play, cutting through the stillness of the early hour. 

It was as if the music itself was a call to arms, not with violence, but with hope. The soldiers who had gathered in their positions — once instruments of the regime — began to move. Some took their places at the strategic points, ready to follow through with the plan. But others, eyes wide and faces taut with the weight of a country’s pain, hesitated. And then, something incredible happened. The people — the ordinary citizens, the ones who had lived their lives in quiet suffering under the regime — were already moving, too. They had heard the song. They knew what it meant. It wasn’t just a signal to the soldiers; it was a signal to them as well. 

And so, the revolution began — not with the clash of weapons, not with the roar of gunfire, but with flowers. 

Carnations — simple, humble flowers — were thrust into the barrels of rifles. Soldiers who had once feared defying the regime looked at the flowers, then at the people, and in a moment of clarity, they stepped aside. Some soldiers, their faces weathered with years of obedience and regret, joined the crowds, their arms raised in solidarity, their rifles now discarded. The streets of Lisbon filled with the sound of people singing, shouting, weeping, laughing — emotions unburdened for the first time in so long. The air was thick with the scent of carnations, the scent of something new, something alive, something full of promise. 

The revolution was unfolding before him, and yet, despite the swelling tide of joy and triumph, Pablo’s heart felt tight with unease. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Amidst the crowd, amidst the cries of victory and the weight of history shifting in the air, he couldn’t find her. 

Astrid. 

Her absence was like a dark cloud hanging over him, threatening to overshadow the brightness of the moment. He had promised her he would return, that he would find her again. But now, as he moved through the streets, the crowds swelling around him, he began to fear that promise was already broken. 

The revolution had come, but it had also taken something from him. 

The night before, as they lay together, Astrid had been so sure, so resolute. Her voice had echoed in his mind, still haunting him — “Promise me that when the revolution is over, when everything is finished, we will find each other again.” He had promised her. He had made the promise, but now it felt like a cruel joke. 

His feet carried him through the streets, a part of him driven by the same desire for freedom that fueled the masses, but another part of him, the part that had truly loved her, was pulling him in a different direction. The revolution was happening, but she wasn’t there to see it. She wasn’t there to experience the joy of the city finally breathing free. 

By mid-afternoon, the city had transformed. Those who defend the past regime had surrendered, the last pockets of resistance crushed under the weight of the people’s demand for change. The government that had reigned for decades had crumbled. It was a bloodless coup. It was beautiful. 

But it was also incomplete. 

Pablo knew he had to find her. He had to know where she was, if she was safe, if she had been caught up in the chaos of it all. He ran toward the bookshop where they had spent so many hours talking, planning, dreaming of a future that no longer seemed so far away. 

But when he arrived, the door was locked. He knocked, but there was no answer. His breath caught in his chest. The windows, once filled with the warm light of late afternoons, were dark. Inside, everything was still. He peered through the cracks in the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of her — the familiar sight of her behind the counter, the books stacked high, the warm smile that had made him feel like there was still beauty in a broken world. 

But the shelves were empty. The bookshop that had once felt like a safe haven, a place of hope in a time of despair, was now hollow, a shell of its former self. It was as if she had disappeared along with the regime, vanishing into the ether like a memory too precious to hold onto. 

His heart sank, and for the first time that day, he felt the weight of the revolution not as triumph, but as loss. 

Where was she? 

The revolution had come, and the world had changed. But what of the promises they had made? What of the love they had shared? 

The streets of Lisbon were filled with people celebrating, with laughter and music, with the promise of a new beginning. But for Pablo, that promise was incomplete without her. 

He searched the city for days. He spoke to friends, to revolutionaries, to anyone who might have seen her. He walked the alleys, sat in the cafés where they had once shared whispered conversations. But she was gone. No one had seen her. No one knew where she had gone. It was as if the revolution had taken her as well. 

And so, Pablo was left standing in the midst of the city that had risen up against its oppressors, surrounded by the jubilant crowds, but with an emptiness in his chest that no amount of victory could fill. 

IV 

Weeks Later 

The city had settled into its new rhythm, the weight of its past finally beginning to lift, though the scars still remained, etched into the minds of those who had lived through the years of darkness. But for Pablo, the world around him felt heavier than ever. The revolution had come, and the world had changed. Yet, there was a void within him — a wound that no amount of political freedom or social transformation could heal. 

Through a friend in the underground, Pablo learned the truth. The truth about Astrid. 

She had been a part of the resistance. Not the way he had imagined — not as someone who had simply stood by, who had passively supported from the sidelines. No, she had been deeply involved. Her bookshop, the very place where he had first met her, where they had shared dreams and whispered promises, had been a cover. A façade. Beneath the shelves of carefully curated literature and the soft, warm light of the lamps, there had been something more. 

She had been carrying messages. Documents. Plans. Names of those who had risked their lives to challenge the regime. She had been a vital part of the network, her role more critical than he could ever have known. Every day, as she had smiled at customers, recommended books, and laughed softly with him, she had been carrying the weight of a nation’s rebellion in her bags, in her heart. 

Pablo had never suspected. He had never known. She had kept it hidden — even from him. The betrayal, or perhaps the love, had been in the silence. Perhaps she hadn’t trusted him, or perhaps she had loved him so deeply that she had kept him out of the danger she lived with every day. A danger that had been both her greatest strength and the deepest burden she had carried. 

And now, in the wake of the revolution, Pablo felt the sharp sting of that silence. He had never truly known her. He had only known the parts of her that she had allowed him to see. But there were layers, hidden behind her laughter, her books, her eyes. Layers that had been a part of the resistance, of a fight she had chosen to face alone. 

For days, Pablo walked the city. He asked anyone who might have known her, anyone who might have seen her after the dust of revolution had settled. He visited the old cafés where they had shared countless moments, the riverside benches where they had sat, their hands intertwined, talking of a future they both thought was assured. He searched the streets, the corners of the city where they had once found solace. He wandered through the parks, beneath the flowering trees, the scent of blossoms heavy in the air, but there was no trace of her. No sign that the woman he had loved — the woman who had carried the weight of revolution in her heart — had ever existed. 

Lisbon had changed. The dictatorship was a distant memory, fading into the past like a bad dream. The sound of music filled the air, the kind that once had been forbidden, now echoing freely from the radios and in the hearts of the people. The streets were no longer filled with whispers and fear, but with song and laughter. The revolution had succeeded, and the world had opened up, but it felt like a world she was no longer a part of. 

The bookshop near Convento do Carmo — the one that had been their meeting place, their sanctuary — was still there. But now, it was run by a young woman, someone who didn’t know the history of the place, or the stories that had been told within its walls. The shelves were still lined with the same books, the same dusty pages, but everything had changed. Everything except the memory of Astrid. 

Behind the counter, a faded photograph caught Pablo’s eye. It was a picture of Astrid, smiling brightly, her arms filled with books, her face framed by the soft light of the shop. She was so alive in that photo, so full of promise and hope. But now, that hope felt distant, like a dream fading in the early morning mist. 

Pablo never told the young woman who he was. He didn’t need to. He didn’t want to disturb the illusion that the place still held for him. He simply sat in the corner, ordering coffee, letting the bittersweet aroma fill the air around him. He read Neruda, though the words no longer carried the same meaning they once had. They felt like ghosts now, echoes of things he had lost. 

In the quiet of the café, as the sun filtered through the windows and the sound of the city flowed in around him, he could feel her presence. It wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t something he could hold. But it was there, in the corners of the room, in the soft turn of a page, in the stillness of the air. She was still with him, even though she wasn’t. 

The revolution had given him freedom. It had given the people of Lisbon something they had longed for. A future without fear. A future without oppression. It had given them life. 

But it had also taken something from him — something irreplaceable. Something that no amount of political change could ever return. 

He thought about the way she had come into his life, like a sudden bloom in the middle of winter, vibrant and full of life. She had come in bloom, a bright light in a dark world, and he had picked her too soon. He had loved her without fully understanding the depth of that love, without seeing the full weight of what she carried. 

He had given her nothing — nothing compared to what she had given him. She had risked everything. She had fought for freedom, for a future that he could only dream of, and yet, in the end, he had been a passive participant. He had stood by, unaware of the danger, unaware of the sacrifice she had made. 

Love, Pablo realized, was a paradox. It was both winning and losing. It was the sweetest joy and the deepest sorrow. And in the end, he had lost her. Not because she had left him, but because he had never truly known her. He had never understood the weight of her love, the depths of her sacrifice. 

But in that loss, something had changed within him. He had been reborn. The revolution, as much as it had taken from him, had also given him something else — a new understanding of what it meant to love, to fight, to sacrifice. It had shown him the importance of living with integrity, of choosing something greater than oneself, even when the cost was unbearable. 

And so, he continued to walk the city, a city that was no longer the same, and neither was he. He would never forget her, never forget the way she had made him feel alive. But he would also never forget the lessons she had taught him. That love was not just about possession, not about clinging to something or someone. It was about freedom, about choice, about sacrifice. 

In the quiet of the café, in the smell of old pages, in the soft bloom of April flowers, he felt her presence again. Though she was gone, she had left behind a legacy in him. The revolution had come, and he had lost her. But through that loss, he had gained something even more precious: the understanding that love, real love, was the force that moved the world. 

*** 

Reunion: A Love Reborn 

Lisbon, Spring 1978 

The city had changed, but Pablo hadn’t. 

The streets that once seemed so alive with the pulse of revolution, the air now filled with the vibrant sounds of freedom and possibility, were no longer the same. The world around him was unrecognizable in some ways. The revolution had come and gone, leaving behind a Lisbon that was no longer weighed down by the shadows of dictatorship. People laughed, sang, and moved through the city without fear, but for Pablo, there was still a quiet yearning deep in his chest — a longing he couldn’t shake. 

He had spent years searching for her, but it had been a search that grew quieter with each passing day. His heart had once been set on finding her — Astrid. The woman who had been both his everything and his lost dream. She had vanished into the fog of history, and with her disappearance, a piece of him had gone, too. 

Pablo had searched tirelessly. He had visited the old bookshop near Convento do Carmo, retracing the steps of their first meeting, the places they had laughed and talked about their hopes for a future that now seemed so distant. He had walked the familiar streets, asking anyone who might know her, but no one had. The years wore on, and the answers grew fewer, the questions more painful. But in the silence, in the absence of her, he had learned to carry on. He had built a new life, one that fit the new Lisbon — one that was free, vibrant, and full of life. But still, there was that ache, that emptiness that no revolution, no victory, could fill. 

He had given up on ever seeing her again. Yet, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the feeling that somehow, in some way, she might be out there. That one day, their paths would cross again. But as time passed, even that hope began to fade. 

Then, one quiet afternoon, everything changed. 

Pablo entered Café A Brasileira, a place he often visited to sit, to think, to remember. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, and the low murmur of conversation filled the space. The café was bustling, as usual, with people coming and going, laughing and sharing stories. He found a seat by the window, a familiar spot where he could watch the world go by, where he could let the city’s rhythm lull him into a rare peace. 

He wasn’t expecting anything, not really. He had long since accepted that the world had moved on, and so had he. But then, as if the world had shifted its course, he saw her. 

She stood across the room, her figure framed by the soft light filtering through the window. At first, it was like a mirage, a trick of the light. But no — it was her. Astrid. She hadn’t changed. At least, not in the ways that mattered. Her blue dress was the same one she had worn all those years ago. Her hair, though longer now, still cascaded in soft waves around her shoulders, the same deep brown. She was older, her face marked by time, but she was still the woman he had loved, the woman who had haunted his every thought. 

When their eyes met, everything else in the café seemed to fade away. The noise, the movement, the chatter — it all dissolved. For a moment, time stopped, and it was just the two of them, standing in that quiet space, both uncertain, both searching for something that had been lost. 

She didn’t smile immediately. She just stood there, staring at him, her eyes searching for something, perhaps for confirmation that he was real. That this moment was real. And then, slowly, as though the weight of years had pressed down on her, she began to walk toward him. 

Pablo stood up, his heart pounding in his chest. He had imagined this moment a thousand times, but now that it was here, words seemed inadequate. What could he say? What could ever be enough after everything that had passed? 

“Você ainda espera por mim?” she asked, her voice a melody that carried with it the weight of all the unspoken things between them. “Do you still wait for me?” 

Pablo’s throat tightened. He nodded, his voice failing him. How could he explain the years of searching, of longing? How could he convey the ache that had lived in him all this time? All he could do was nod, the words trapped somewhere deep inside him. 

She sat down across from him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. They just looked at each other, silently measuring the distance between them — the time that had passed, the things that had changed, the things that hadn’t. 

“You disappeared,” Pablo finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “I searched for you everywhere. I couldn’t find you.” 

Astrid’s eyes softened, a shadow of sadness crossing her face. “I had to go,” she said quietly. “There were things I couldn’t share. Not then. Not with you.” 

Pablo shook his head, the frustration of all those years of unanswered questions coming to the surface. “But why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you trust me enough to let me in?” 

“I couldn’t risk it,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t risk losing you, not when I knew what was coming. The revolution. The danger. The fight. I had my part to play, and you had yours. I couldn’t pull you into that world.” 

“But I would have understood,” he said, his heart breaking with the unspoken truth that had hovered between them for so long. “I would’ve been with you. Always.” 

Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I didn’t know if I could ever come back, Pablo. I didn’t know if I could face you again, knowing everything I had seen, everything I had done. But when the city began to change, when I felt the pulse of a new Lisbon, I knew I had to find you. I had to see you again.” 

“Why now?” Pablo asked, his heart racing, each beat pulling him deeper into the moment. 

She smiled, a small, bittersweet smile, and for a moment, she seemed to let go of the weight of the past. “Because, after all the revolutions — after all the victories and the losses — I realized something. Love is not just about winning or losing. It’s about remembering. And I remember you, Pablo. I remember us.” 

Pablo reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly as he took hers in his. For a long moment, they simply held each other’s hand, the warmth of her touch anchoring him in a way that he hadn’t known he needed. “You came back to me in bloom,” he whispered, the words coming back to him like a forgotten song. 

Astrid squeezed his hand gently, her eyes filled with a quiet hope. “And I hope I can stay. In the bloom of this new world, in this new Lisbon, I hope we can start again.” 

Pablo didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He just held her hand, feeling the weight of everything that had passed, the years of waiting, the pain, the love — and now, the chance to begin again. In that moment, he understood. Love wasn’t about perfect timing. It wasn’t about waiting for everything to fall into place. It was about finding someone who could carry your heart, even when it seemed lost, even when the world seemed to be falling apart. And then, when you were lucky enough, you could let the world come together again, piece by piece. 

“Astrid,” he said, finally finding the words he had needed all this time. “I’ll wait for you again. Always.” 

Her smile, though small, was full of all the things that had been lost and found between them. And for the first time in years, Pablo felt at peace. The revolution had come and gone. The city had transformed, but so had they. And in the quiet of that reunion, they both knew that the revolution wasn’t just in the streets. It was in them. It was in the love they had lost and found again. 

And that was the greatest victory of all. 

 

Rolling Up Sleeves for the Nation's sake: Treating Trump's MAGA as a Challenge to the Philippines Amid Tariff Changes and Geopolitical Tensions

Rolling Up Sleeves for the Nation's sake: 

Treating Trump's MAGA as a Challenge to the Philippines

 Amid Tariff Changes and Geopolitical Tensions

In an era marked by shifting global power dynamics, U.S. President Donald Trump’s announcement of a 17 percent tariff on Philippine goods starting April 9 presents both a challenge and an opportunity for the Philippines. The move, part of Trump’s “Liberation Day” tariff policy, is designed to strengthen the U.S. economy and protect American workers. While this policy may initially hurt Filipino exporters, it also serves as a wake-up call—a challenge for the Philippines to chart its own course and reassess its place in the world, especially amid rising Sino-American tensions over the Pacific. 

At a time when the U.S. and China engage in saber-rattling, and the Philippines finds itself caught in the crossfire, the country can no longer afford to be passive. It must take ownership of its future—economically and geopolitically—and consider Trump’s “Make America Great Again” (MAGA) principles not as a doctrine to follow but as a challenge to adapt and apply. Trump’s policies offer a unique opportunity for the Philippines to reassess its reliance on foreign powers and consider how it might carve out a path of self-sufficiency, independence, and resilience in the face of global uncertainties. 

Trump’s MAGA: A Challenge, Not a Blueprint 

Trump’s MAGA agenda has focused on economic self-sufficiency, seeking to rebuild America’s manufacturing sector and reduce its dependence on foreign imports. This vision, while understandable for the U.S., is not a one-size-fits-all solution for every nation. His approach to tariffs—designed to protect American industries at the expense of foreign trade partners—echoes the protectionist rhetoric of President Warren Harding in the 1920s and the nationalist sentiments of President Ronald Reagan, who championed American strength during the Cold War. However, Trump’s policies diverge from both Harding’s and Reagan’s approaches, especially in terms of their underlying motivations. 

Harding’s “Return to Normalcy” aimed to bring stability after the First World War, while Reagan focused on global leadership and spreading American values. Trump’s policies, in contrast, are more transactional and focused on securing short-term victories. His “America First” agenda often sacrifices long-term diplomatic relationships for immediate economic gains, particularly in terms of trade imbalances. As such, while MAGA may provide some useful lessons for the Philippines, it is not a model to follow blindly. Instead, the Philippines must view it as a challenge—an opportunity to reassess its own economic policies and forge a path that is suited to its unique circumstances. 

The Philippines’ Path to Economic Independence 

If Trump’s policies push the U.S. toward economic self-sufficiency, the Philippines should consider how it might adopt similar principles to fortify its own economy. While the tariffs may hurt Filipino exporters in the short term, they also expose the fragility of an economy heavily reliant on external markets, especially the U.S. The Philippines cannot afford to remain dependent on a volatile global marketplace or a single trading partner. Now is the time for the country to focus on building a more resilient, self-sustaining economy. 

Dindo Manhit, president of the Manila-based think tank Stratbase ADR Institute, highlighted that the relatively low tariff of 17% imposed on the Philippines “presents both risks and opportunities for the country.” While this move could make Philippine products less competitive in the U.S. market, it also opens doors for new trade and investment prospects. “The Philippines, with a comparatively lower tariff rate, could position itself as an attractive alternative for businesses looking to diversify their supply chains,” Manhit said.

This presents an exciting opportunity for the Philippines. The country could leverage the 17 percent tariff as a way to entice businesses seeking alternatives to China or other regions that may be facing escalating geopolitical risks. By positioning itself as a viable and cost-effective trade partner, the Philippines could draw new investments and diversify its export markets beyond the U.S. and China. This not only mitigates the risk of relying too heavily on any single trading partner but also allows the country to solidify its position in the broader global economy.

The Philippines’ economic structure has long been shaped by trade, with a significant emphasis on raw materials and basic manufacturing exports. However, this dependence makes it vulnerable to global market fluctuations and shifts in foreign policy. To foster true economic independence, the Philippines must invest in advanced industries such as renewable energy, high-value electronics, and defense manufacturing. By focusing on sectors that are not only resilient to external shocks but also competitive in the global marketplace, the Philippines can build an economy that stands strong on its own—much as Trump aims for the U.S. to do. 

The Case for a Shift Toward Domestic Industrialization 

and Agricultural Development

However, the right response to these tariffs must go beyond simply chasing new trade deals or relying on foreign investment. Sonny Africa, of the IBON Foundation, stressed the need for the Philippines to focus on domestic-based development, particularly in agriculture and manufacturing, instead of further deepening its dependence on foreign imports. “The right response to Trump’s tariffs isn’t to yearn for a bygone world of lower tariffs nor to fall over ourselves to please foreign investment,” Africa argued. “Doing this for the last 45 years just made PH manufacturing and agriculture fall to historic low shares of the economy, worsened our import-dependence, and made cheap labor our biggest export.”

Africa’s comments underscore a critical truth: the Philippines’ past approach of relying on foreign markets has led to systemic weaknesses in its domestic industries. The country must pivot away from a model that has placed cheap labor and import dependency at the forefront. Instead, Africa calls for a return to “real agricultural development and national industrialization.” Filipino farms and industrial firms need protection and support—not the fairy tale of free markets that has, in effect, undermined local industries and deepened dependency.

“The right response is to deal with the looming inflationary pressures, but also to look far beyond to real agricultural development and national industrialization,” Africa said. The Philippines cannot afford to let its industries wither while competing in a global market that favors efficiency over local resilience. Supporting domestic industries—especially agriculture and manufacturing—will be key to securing long-term economic stability and reducing vulnerability to global market fluctuations.

The Need for a Stronger, Independent Foreign Policy 

Geopolitically, the Philippines finds itself caught between two superpowers—the U.S. and China—as tensions over the South China Sea and the broader Pacific region continue to escalate. In this environment, the Philippines cannot afford to remain passive or overly reliant on any single ally. As the situation unfolds, it is clear that the country must adopt a foreign policy that is grounded in its own national interests, one that asserts its sovereignty and independence rather than depending on an external ally to dictate its actions. 

To do so, the Philippines must look beyond the traditional East-West divide and explore diplomatic and economic partnerships that align with its own interests. While the relationship with the U.S. remains vital, the Philippines should consider diversifying its alliances with countries such as India, Japan, Russia, and other ASEAN members. In doing so, the Philippines can better protect its territorial claims and assert its independence in a region where competition for influence is intensifying. 

By fostering stronger ties with emerging global powers, the Philippines can avoid the risks of being caught in the middle of a U.S.-China rivalry. This strategic diversification will allow the country to play a more active and influential role in shaping regional security, ensuring that it is not beholden to any one nation for its defense or economic wellbeing. 

Military Self-Reliance and Sovereignty 

In the face of growing regional tensions, it is increasingly clear that the Philippines must prioritize military self-reliance. While the U.S. remains a critical defense partner, the country can no longer afford to solely depend on external powers for its security. The Philippines must take steps to modernize its military, particularly its maritime capabilities, to protect its territorial integrity in the South China Sea. 

Building a more self-sufficient military force does not mean severing ties with traditional allies, but rather enhancing the Philippines’ ability to defend itself. By investing in defense technology, infrastructure, and personnel, the Philippines can ensure that it is prepared to protect its national interests without waiting for external assistance. This approach is in line with Trump’s MAGA principles, which emphasize self-reliance and reducing dependence on foreign powers—lessons the Philippines can adapt for its own defense needs. 

A Call for Action: Embrace the Challenge 

Trump’s MAGA policies may have driven the U.S. toward economic self-sufficiency, but the Philippines should view these changes not as a threat, but as a challenge to rise to. The country cannot afford to remain passive or wait for its “ally” to intervene when the stakes are high. Instead, it must take proactive steps to build a more resilient economy, assert its independence in foreign policy, and strengthen its defense capabilities. 

The Philippines stands at a crossroads. The path forward will require both bold action and strategic foresight—rolling up sleeves to create an economy and defense system that is not dependent on external forces. By embracing the challenge of self-reliance and sovereignty, the Philippines can emerge as a stronger, more independent player on the world stage, capable of navigating the complexities of a rapidly changing geopolitical landscape. 

Duterte’s Lawyer’s ‘Kidnapping’ Claim: A Distraction from the Real Issue?

Duterte’s Lawyer’s ‘Kidnapping’ Claim: 

A Distraction from the Real Issue?

Nicholas Kaufman, the lawyer for former Philippine President Rodrigo Duterte, recently claimed that his client’s arrest by the International Criminal Court (ICC) was nothing more than “kidnapping.” This absurd assertion, framed as an “extrajudicial rendition,” distracts from the real issue: Duterte’s role in a brutal war on drugs that left thousands dead. Kaufman’s argument isn’t just legally weak, it’s an attempt to sideline the serious charges against Duterte, ones that demand accountability on the global stage. 

What’s even more telling is the broader question this legal maneuver raises: If Duterte’s supporters truly believe in his innocence, why are they not helping him face justice in a legitimate international forum to clear his name? Why is their concept of justice so narrowly confined to a broken local system, riddled with corruption, impunity, and “hoodlums in robes,” as critics of the government would put it? Why does it take an international body like the ICC to investigate, prosecute, and possibly put Duterte on trial, while local courts—where this battle should have been fought from the start—have been complicit in turning a blind eye to the thousands killed in Duterte’s drug war? 

Instead of supporting Duterte’s defense in a proper legal setting, his defenders are playing this distraction game, seeking to undermine the international process that could provide the impartial examination of the evidence that the local system failed to do. This is not about procedural technicalities; it’s about accountability for the systematic, state-sponsored killings under Duterte’s orders. Whether the death toll is 6,000 or 30,000, the ICC’s case hinges on proving that Duterte endorsed and encouraged extrajudicial killings, that his government turned a blind eye to atrocities, and that these actions amounted to crimes against humanity. It’s about powerful figures being held accountable when local systems have failed to do so. 

Kaufman’s claim of “kidnapping” has already been dismissed by legal experts, including Atty. Joel Butuyan, an ICC-accredited lawyer, who called it a “rehashed” argument with no merit. Butuyan pointed out that Duterte’s arrest was in full compliance with the law, following valid legal procedures, with a warrant issued, and with Duterte’s rights respected. The ICC maintains jurisdiction over the case, as the crimes allegedly took place while the Philippines was still a member state. Kaufman’s attempt to discredit the ICC’s authority has already been debunked and will likely fail to prevent the trial from moving forward. 

So why does this matter? It’s not just about the technicalities of international law. It’s about the fundamental question of justice: if Duterte’s supporters truly care about his innocence, why are they not pushing for him to face justice head-on, instead of playing this charade of resistance? Why are they trying to deflect from the clear evidence of wrongdoing that has led to Duterte’s arrest and international scrutiny? If they want to show they’re serious about justice, why not embrace the legal process that could clear his name rather than undermining it? 

It’s striking how those who now rally to Duterte’s defense were the same voices that dismissed calls for justice during his reign—when victims of the drug war had nowhere to turn and the government refused to even acknowledge the deaths. These defenders now question the legitimacy of the ICC’s jurisdiction, despite it being backed by both the Philippines Supreme Court and international law. Where was their outrage when local calls for accountability were dismissed as “jest” or “nonsense”? They now speak of “dura lex sed lex”—the law is harsh, but it is the law—yet fail to apply it when the law might actually bring justice against Duterte. Does their understanding of justice stop at the local level, where powerful figures like Duterte could escape accountability? Or is justice only serious when it’s being handled by international bodies, and not the very same local systems they once disregarded? 

This is a moment for the Philippines to truly examine its commitment to justice. Duterte’s defenders may be quick to claim he’s a victim of international politics, but they’re the ones avoiding the real question: Why, when it comes to serious allegations of extrajudicial killings and crimes against humanity, does it take the ICC to get to the truth when local courts have failed? If they really believe in Duterte’s innocence, they should help him face justice, not continue with this narrative of evasion. Because in the end, justice is not about protecting powerful individuals—it’s about ensuring accountability, no matter how high up the chain it goes. 

The Second Trump Administration: a possible MAGA Divide?

The Second Trump Administration: a possible MAGA Divide?

An analysis by Kat Ulrike

Introduction: The Post-2024 Ideological Crisis of MAGA

The re-election of Donald Trump in 2024 marked a critical juncture in the evolution of the MAGA movement. While his first term (2017–2021) blended populist rhetoric with traditional Republican policymaking, his second term (2025–2029) exposed deep ideological rifts within his political coalition.

Hypothetically, there are two competing tendencies emerged within the MAGA movement:

1. Neo-Hardingism – A brand of economic nationalism that emphasized industrial revival, protectionist trade policies, and isolationism, yet often favored corporate interests over working-class concerns.

2. Neo-Reaganism – A fusion of MAGA’s cultural populism with corporate conservatism, maintaining Reagan-era economic principles such as tax cuts, deregulation, and a strong interventionist foreign policy.

However, rather than resolving these tensions, Trump’s second administration saw a decisive shift away from economic reform and toward cultural battles. This transition transformed MAGA into a movement more concerned with combating “wokeness” than with restructuring the economy, effectively turning it into a form of right-wing identity politics. The result was a reactionary force rather than a coherent governing ideology.

The Rise of Neo-Hardingism in Trump’s Second Term

During the 2024 campaign, Trump’s promise to “Rebuild American Greatness” centered on economic nationalism. This stance was a direct response to the economic instability of the early 2020s, including inflation, supply chain disruptions, and persistent deindustrialization.

Consider, for instance, these remarks of Harding in 1918 and the obvious parallels with Trump’s message today- that situates him resolutely in the tradition of American nationalist protectionism: “The theory of banished barriers is beautiful, the practice is destroying. American labor will never consent. We must have protection to hold us to what we are, and send us to greater eminence.”

A. Policies and Approach

Neo-Hardingism reflected the influence of the early 20th-century policies of President Warren G. Harding, who advocated for high tariffs, economic protectionism, and an America-first approach to industrial growth. In Trump’s second term, this ideology took form through several key policies:

• Increased Tariffs & Trade Wars – The administration expanded tariffs on Chinese goods, targeting industries such as technology, automobiles, and pharmaceuticals. While intended to bolster domestic industry, these measures led to retaliatory tariffs that increased consumer prices.

• Revival of the American Industrial Sector – Trump’s government introduced new tax incentives and subsidies to encourage domestic manufacturing. However, many of these policies disproportionately benefited large corporations rather than small businesses or workers.

• Reduced Immigration for Labor Protection – The administration implemented restrictive immigration policies under the pretext of protecting American jobs. While these measures appealed to the working-class base, they also led to labor shortages in key industries, particularly in agriculture and service sectors.

Through a Neo-Hardingite lens, Trump’s rise is also routinely viewed as a backlash against the globalisation of the current economic order. He will oversee a regime committed to an active policy of de facto de-globalisation, even including a renegotiating of the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA) on ‘America First’ terms. 

B. Key Figures in the Neo-Hardingite Faction

Several prominent figures within Trump’s inner circle championed this economic nationalist agenda:

• Peter Navarro (Economic Advisor) – Navarro remained one of the most vocal advocates for protectionist policies and a more aggressive stance against China.

• J.D. Vance (Senator and Political Ally) – Vance supported economic nationalism while simultaneously critiquing Wall Street’s role in economic inequality.

• Josh Hawley (Senator and Conservative Firebrand) – Although an advocate for trade protectionism, Hawley also increasingly aligned with cultural conservatism, diluting his economic focus.

Despite these efforts, Neo-Hardingism ultimately failed to challenge corporate monopolies. Instead, it functioned more as a pro-corporate industrial policy rather than a worker-centered economic revival.

The Resurgence of Neo-Reaganism: Corporate Power Under a Populist Mask

While the Neo-Hardingites pushed for economic nationalism, another faction within Trump’s administration sought to maintain the economic orthodoxy of free-market fundamentalism. This faction, labeled Neo-Reaganism, blended Trump’s populist rhetoric with corporate-friendly policies that aligned with the traditional Republican establishment.

           A. The Economic and Foreign Policy Approach

The Neo-Reaganite approach prioritized policies that benefited corporate interests while using cultural populism to maintain support from the MAGA base:

• Tax Cuts for Businesses – The administration’s second-term tax policies mirrored Reagan-era supply-side economics, disproportionately benefiting corporations and high-income earners over workers.

• Global Military Engagements Under Economic Justifications – While Trump’s first term included isolationist tendencies, his second term saw a shift toward military interventions framed as protecting American economic interests.

• Deregulation for Big Business – Environmental, labor, and financial regulations were rolled back under the banner of “freeing the economy,” further solidifying corporate power.

B. Key Figures in the Neo-Reaganite Faction 

This faction included established conservative figures who sought to maintain a pro-business agenda:

• Larry Kudlow (Economic Advisor) – A champion of corporate tax cuts and Wall Street-friendly policies.

• Nikki Haley (Secretary of State) – Advocated for strong U.S. global involvement under the guise of economic security.

• Mike Pence (Traditional Conservative Figurehead) – Maintained a corporate-friendly economic stance while aligning with MAGA’s cultural populism.

By co-opting MAGA’s populist energy, the Neo-Reaganites effectively preserved the same corporate economic structures that Trump initially campaigned against.

The Turn Toward Cultural Politics: MAGA Becomes Right-Wing Woke

By the midpoint of Trump’s second term, economic issues had been eclipsed by cultural battles. This shift marked the transformation of MAGA into a movement more focused on symbolic victories against “wokeness” rather than substantive economic change.

A. The Prioritization of Cultural Wars

Instead of addressing structural economic challenges, the MAGA movement became fixated on cultural grievances, including:

• Eliminating DEI (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion) programs – State and federal efforts sought to remove DEI initiatives from corporations and universities.

• Battles against “woke” corporations – High-profile boycotts and legal challenges targeted companies perceived as too progressive.

• State-level education reforms – Laws restricting progressive education policies emphasized nationalism and patriotism in school curricula.

            B. The Rise of Right-Wing Wokeism

MAGA’s cultural turn mirrored the left’s identity politics, prioritizing symbolic victories over material change:

• Social media culture wars – MAGA figures spent increasing amounts of time engaging in online battles with progressive activists.

• Legislation targeting cultural issues rather than economic concerns – Many new laws focused on banning progressive policies rather than addressing systemic economic problems.

• Outrage politics as a mobilization tool – MAGA leaders used perpetual grievance narratives to maintain political momentum.

C. Key Figures in the Cultural Pivot

• Tucker Carlson (Media Firebrand) – Repositioned MAGA as a cultural, anti-elitist movement rather than an economic one.

• Ron DeSantis (Governor & Conservative Hardliner) – Led efforts to push back against “woke” corporations and progressive education policies.

• Elon Musk (Tech Billionaire & MAGA Ally) – Used his platform to challenge left-wing progressivism while benefiting from MAGA’s deregulation policies.

Conclusion: MAGA at a Crossroads?

By the end of Trump’s second term, the MAGA movement had fractured into competing factions with distinct priorities:

• Neo-Hardingism failed to produce meaningful worker-focused reforms, despite its economic nationalist rhetoric.

• Neo-Reaganism successfully co-opted MAGA’s populist energy to sustain corporate economic power.

• Cultural politics overtook economic grievances, transforming MAGA into a reactionary movement centered on identity politics.

Without a coherent economic direction, MAGA risks becoming a purely symbolic movement—one that is loud in rhetoric but ineffective in governance. The key question for the future of the American right remains:

Will MAGA return to its economic nationalist roots, or will it remain a cultural reactionary force, fighting symbolic battles while leaving economic power structures untouched? 

"COUNT ON US"

"COUNT ON US"

English version of “Računajte na nas” by Đorđe Balašević
By Kat Ulrike

We’re not born in the 60s, 70s, nor 80s,

But their voices still echo and teach us what’s right.

They told us of battles, of loss and of glory,

A torch we must carry through the night.

For life lies ahead with its trials and its fears,

And shadows still fall like the waves of the sea.

But through every struggle, through doubt and through tears,

Their strength lives in you and in me.

- So you can count on us

Chorus

For the world thinks we’ve forgotten or we’ve lost our way,

Dancing through the darkness, and chasing the lights.

But deep in our hearts hopes are burning like flames,

A passion that guides us to the fight.

- And you can count on us.

Our voices will rise in the face of despair,

United by dreams that the future can bring.

No chains can contain us, no fear can divide,

Together, we’ll stand and we’ll fighting.

Through rivers of doubt and the mountains of pain,

We’ll carry the hope that they passed in their name.

The blood of the fighters still runs in our veins,

And we’ll keep the promise the same:

- That you can count on us.

Chorus 

From News Providing to Content Marketing - an Erosion of Journalism as a Craft?

From News Providing to Content Marketing
- an Erosion of Journalism as a Craft?

The digital age has fundamentally reshaped how information is consumed and valued, and in the process, it has brought with it a troubling decline in the trustworthiness and integrity of journalism. Once revered as the cornerstone of democracy and accountability, journalism now finds itself competing in a chaotic information ecosystem where truth often takes a backseat to engagement metrics and emotional resonance. The proliferation of fake news and half-truths has transformed many supposed news providers into mere content creators, pandering to an audience that increasingly prioritizes confirmation over truth.

The Decline of Credible Journalism in the Digital Age

The transition from traditional print media to digital and, more recently, to social media platforms has ushered in a new era of information dissemination. On one hand, the ability to access news instantly from anywhere in the world is a triumph of technology. On the other hand, the speed and accessibility of digital platforms have made it alarmingly easy for falsehoods to gain traction. In this race for immediacy, the traditional journalistic values of accuracy, verification, and depth have been cast aside in favor of producing content that grabs attention.

This decline is compounded by the rise of algorithms that reward sensational, emotionally charged, or divisive content over thoughtful, investigative journalism. The economics of modern media prioritize clicks and shares, leading outlets to pursue stories that cater to trends, outrage, and entertainment rather than serving the public interest.

The Role of Backers and Agendas

A darker side of this evolution is the growing influence of hidden backers and vested interests in shaping narratives. Many seemingly independent news outlets are supported by political entities, corporate sponsors, or ideological movements that use them as vehicles for propaganda. These backers often promote fake news or biased narratives, not to inform or educate, but to sway public opinion, reinforce political agendas, or drive specific outcomes.

This transformation turns journalism into a tool of manipulation rather than enlightenment. In many cases, the public is unaware of these hidden influences, leaving them vulnerable to misinformation and disinformation campaigns. The end result is a widespread erosion of trust in media institutions, with genuine journalists and credible outlets often swept up in the backlash against those who have compromised the integrity of the craft.

The Justification of Falsehoods as Copium

Interestingly, the proliferation of fake news and half-truths has become justifiable to some audiences—not because it is right, but because it serves as a form of copium. For many, consuming narratives that align with their beliefs, no matter how false, provides comfort in a world where the truth often feels inconvenient or even threatening.

In this sense, fake news becomes more than just misinformation—it becomes a coping mechanism. A narrative closer to one’s worldview, even if it is demonstrably false, can feel far more palatable than facing a reality that challenges deeply held beliefs. This phenomenon is especially evident in polarized political climates, where opposing sides cling to their preferred version of events, facts be damned.

For instance, a person who feels disenfranchised or marginalized by the truth might gravitate toward a false narrative that paints them as the victim or positions their side as the hero. The narrative, no matter how contrived, offers validation and emotional solace. Over time, this creates echo chambers where individuals reinforce one another’s biases, further deepening divisions and mistrust.

The Role of Social Media Platforms

Social media platforms play a critical role in this cycle. These platforms are designed to maximize user engagement, often by feeding users content that aligns with their preferences and beliefs. In doing so, they create an environment where misinformation thrives, as users are continually exposed to content that reinforces their biases. 

This feedback loop is not accidental—it is a direct result of algorithms designed to prioritize engagement over accuracy. The more a piece of content resonates emotionally, the more likely it is to be shared, regardless of its factual validity. In this way, social media platforms become enablers of fake news, amplifying its reach and impact.

Consequences for Society and Journalism

The consequences of this shift are far-reaching. Journalism, once tasked with holding power to account and informing the public, has been relegated to the status of "content-making." This not only diminishes the value of credible reporting but also undermines society’s ability to make informed decisions.

When truth becomes secondary to narrative, the very fabric of democratic society is at risk. Public trust in institutions erodes, polarization deepens, and misinformation becomes a tool for division rather than enlightenment. The proliferation of fake news as copium exacerbates these challenges by encouraging individuals to retreat into their own realities, where the truth is whatever feels most comforting.

Toward a Solution

Despite these challenges, there is hope for the restoration of journalism’s integrity and purpose. Achieving this will require collective action from journalists, media organizations, social media platforms, and consumers:

1. For Journalists and Media Organizations:

    - Recommit to the core principles of journalism: accuracy, accountability, and investigative depth.

    - Diversify revenue streams to reduce reliance on click-driven advertising models.

    - Resist the temptation to chase sensationalism and prioritize stories that matter, even if they are less       "marketable."

2. For Social Media Platforms:

    - Take greater responsibility for curbing the spread of misinformation.

    - Adjust algorithms to reward credible, well-sourced reporting rather than engagement at all costs.

    - Promote media literacy initiatives to help users discern credible sources from unreliable ones.

3. For Consumers:

    - Support independent and credible outlets through subscriptions, donations, or advocacy.

    - Practice critical thinking and verify sources before sharing content.

    - Challenge misinformation in personal networks and encourage open, fact-based discussions.

4. For Educators and Institutions:

    - Prioritize media literacy as part of educational curriculums to equip future generations with the              skills to navigate the complex information landscape.

Conclusion

The proliferation of fake news and the transformation of journalism into mere content-making have profound implications for society. While the decline of print media and the rise of social media have made information faster and more accessible, they have also made it less trustworthy. For many, consuming fake news offers a comforting narrative that aligns with their worldview, even if it contradicts reality—a phenomenon that, while understandable, is deeply dangerous.

 Reversing this trend will require a recommitment to the principles of journalism, as well as a concerted effort to rebuild trust in credible reporting. Journalism’s ultimate mission is not just to deliver information, but to deliver the truth—even when it is inconvenient or uncomfortable. The future of informed society depends on our ability to distinguish between the two.   

"Through the Crosswinds"

"Through the Crosswinds"

Composer: from the song "Rruga e Marshallit"
by Tomor Berisha, Vinçenc Gjini
Lyrics by: Paul Smirnoff

Through the crosswinds, through the dark,

I was guided by your spark,

Shining bright, you lit my way.

Clear the skies, oh, let me stay,

In the warmth of your embrace,

Where my heart has found its place.

Every dream of you takes flight,

Like a starburst in the night.

Chorus:

𝄆 What we’ve built will never falter,

Though the storms may rage and roar.

Every moment draws me closer,

Forever yours, forever more. 𝄇

Through the winds, I hear your song,

Pulling me where I belong,

Every step brings you to me.

Like the waves that meet the sea,

Every whisper, every sigh,

Draws me closer, by and by.

In your light, my heart’s alive,

With your love, I will survive.

Chorus:

𝄆 What we’ve built will never falter,

Though the storms may rage and roar.

Every moment draws me closer,

Forever yours, forever more. 𝄇 

Modern Tools, Ancient Rage: Voices from the furnace in the Age of Numbness

Modern Tools, Ancient Rage:

Voices from the furnace in the Age of Numbness

In an era saturated with digital noise, brand campaigns, and performative outrage, the words of old revolutionaries strike with unexpected clarity. Andrés Bonifacio, José Rizal, Mao Zedong, and Eduard Limonov—figures separated by geography and ideology—speak across time with a shared urgency. Their voices challenge a generation conditioned to consume, to conform, and to call silence “peace.” 

Today’s society encourages complacency, cloaking passivity in the language of wellness and productivity. Youth are lauded as the “hope of the nation,” yet taught to fear discomfort more than injustice. In this environment, the writings of these men feel more than radical—they feel almost forbidden. Their refusal to sugarcoat, their unflinching clarity, threatens the fragile illusions of modern life. 

Bonifacio, the katipunero, warned against a passive trust in systems designed to oppress. “Reason teaches us not to waste time hoping for the promised prosperity that will never come,” he wrote. His call was not for optimism but for action—for the uniting of will, thought, and purpose. Bonifacio did not merely critique Spanish colonial rule; he demanded it be overthrown. For him, hope lay not in institutions but in the organized will of the people. 

Rizal, less fiery but no less incisive, understood the deep sickness of indifference. “The people do not complain because they have no voice,” he observed. He warned that society often fears the honest more than the criminal, for the honest reveal truths that institutions seek to bury. Rizal’s critique cut through hypocrisy; his was a rebellion of intellect and moral clarity. 

Mao, in another context, defined the revolutionary with ruthless precision. “If [a youth] is willing to integrate with the masses of workers and peasants… he is a revolutionary,” he said. His words leave no space for abstraction. Revolution is not a fashion statement or a viral campaign—it is immersion, labor, and loyalty to the oppressed. If one turns from the people, Mao believed, they become part of the machinery of oppression. 

Limonov, the provocateur of post-Soviet disillusionment, gave that rebellion an existential weight. “I have remained a radical. I have not become an adult. I have not betrayed my soul,” he said. Limonov’s suffering was not a symptom of defeat but proof of resistance. In a world that equates maturity with selling out, he saw staying radical as a moral choice—one that demands pain, alienation, and exile. 

These voices, though distant in time, carry a dangerous resonance in today’s hyper-connected yet spiritually fractured world. One hears them and is reminded that contentment, when enforced, is simply sedation. And those who resist this sedation are quickly branded: too much, too angry, too radical, subversive, terroristic. 

But beneath the accusations lies something harder to erase: truth. These words are not empty slogans. They are not aesthetic rebellion. They are warnings. Lamentations. Challenges. 

Detractors will say: “You benefit from this system. You use the tools of modernity—phones, Wi-Fi, luxury.” But this misses the point. These tools were made for man, not man for the tools. One can participate in modern life without submitting to its ideological straitjacket. To live within this world does not mean endorsing how it works. 

The problem is not modernity itself—it is the idolization of it. It is when consumption becomes identity. When spectacle becomes reality. When silence becomes virtue. In such a climate, to speak of revolution, of suffering, of moral clarity—becomes an act of resistance. 

What these thinkers share is not a single ideology but a shared conviction: that society must not numb itself into oblivion. That the people have a right—perhaps even a duty—to demand more. Not more luxury, but more dignity. Not more convenience, but more truth. 

Bonifacio, Rizal, Mao, and Limonov did not offer comfort. They offered confrontation. Their words are a mirror held up to a society that fears discomfort, yet is rotting from within. They suggest that the answer to decadence is not decoration, but purification—the burning away of all that is false, until only steel remains. 

This is not nostalgia for a lost past. It is an appeal to the present. A call to remember that a nation cannot be saved by hashtags, nor healed by contentment campaigns. It must be reshaped, reawakened, tempered. That process will be difficult. It may even be violent—spiritually or otherwise. But it is necessary. 

The choice is not between left and right, or tradition and progress. It is between numbness and awakening. Between complicity and clarity. 

So call it what others will. Call it rebellion. Call it extremism. Call it naïveity. 

But do not call it fake. Because in a world that sells illusions for profit, truth is the final subversion. 

"Schey of the storm"

 Black Magnolia: Schey of the storm

I

Many years after her escape to Spain, Schey Dominique Sebastian finally returned to the country. 

Again, using the name “Magnolia San Miguel” and supported by some contacts, she returned to the country from Barcelona to Manila, where she found a city “appearing to be clean and orderly” reminiscent that of Singapore. 

“Everything seems changed after the last time I left the country.” Schey said to the taxi driver as the vehicle passed by going to "Manila Garden Hotel" in Makati. However, a coded message was received telling her to move instead to "Mandarin Oriental", where a "friend" awaited her.

While entering the hotel, a “friend” saw her carrying a Gucci bag and her suitcase. He approached and asked:

“Miss, are you Magnolia San Miguel?”
“Yes.” Schey said.
“By the way, I am Igor Noroña, a friend of your mother.” Along with an offer of handshake.
“I see,” Schey said. “Is there anything I can do?”
“I am assigned by my boss to fetch you out.” Igor said.
"Who?" Schey asked.

Igor didn't explain but instead told her to join in. 

II

From Mandarin Oriental she followed Igor to Anscor building that’s several blocks from the hotel. And in room 298 an old man opened the door after Igor knocked three times. From there he saw Schey and asked:

“Oh! How is my niece? It’s nice to see you again!”

“Uncle Nick!” Said Schey.

"Apologies if I sent my assistant instead of going there to fetch you in Mandarin Oriental." Said Uncle Nick.

"It's okay." Schey replied. "If that is for security reasons, no problem. I received a coded message earlier in my phone while in taxi."

“So how is Barcelona with your mom?” Said Uncle Nick.

“Just fine.” Schey said. “But despite security threats I have to return home even for a month.”

“Are you sure?” Said Uncle Nick. “Remember the intelligence people are still searching for the former presidential spouse and the daughter.”

“So still connected to Axeltech?” Said Schey.

“I am no longer connected with Axeltech.” Replied Uncle Nick. “Instead I set up a new startup, Quintrix”.

“What kind of startup is that?” Schey asked.

“We focused on creating UAVs, C4I and artificial intelligence." Uncle Nick said. "Here's a document regarding the company, this may help you understand."

Then Schey browsed for a moment about her uncle's company profile. "This reminds me of a Turkish company if not mistaken." Schey said.

"My plan is to support the efforts in industrialising the country just like your father." Uncle Nick said. "I know Axeltek is good but the idea of promoting further innovation seemingly made me chose to retire and create a startup such as this."

"But," Schey asked. "I heard news about DDS with its secret projects, are you also part of it?"

"Shhh..." said her uncle, then he whispered: "I do, especially that of the armedroid project."

III

At that time, the Philippines brought from Brazil the license to manufacture Bernardini X1A light tanks for the military. Known as the modernised version of the WW2-era Stuart tank, weighing 19 tons, and armed with a 90 mm (3.54 in) cannon and 300 hp Saab-Scania diesel engine. The Arsenal also produced a tankette, partially based from the Bren Gun Carrier but instead armed with a Browning M2 machine gun. People described the attempt to "update and recreate obsolete armor" as a folly in promoting a self-reliant armed forces. But to others, it became a source of "pride" thinking that these armored vehicles signifies a "break-away" from depending on foreign-made arms and armor systems, especially with the junta, trying to take seriously what they call "self-reliant defence posture". 

Contrary to the promise of restoring the congress, a consultative assembly and legislative advisory council known as the "Batasang Bayan" was created by the Junta. The purpose was to formulate decrees promulgated by the ruling council. In its inaugural address, Gadon compared himself to a doctor and the country as a 'patient' in his speech: 

 "We are in front of a patient lying on a surgical bed, complete with straps enough to restrain its body without danger. I'm sorry if I have to put straps in it, despite putting anaesthesia during the time of the surgery, for there is a chance instead of granting her the restoration of health, to lead to death. The patient has to endure the trials in order to survive-as much as possible it has to remove every blockage, abscess, tumor, everything that hinders its way to healing if not cost her life. If it that includes eastern medicine, then I have to include acupuncture as well just to ease the pain while doing this surgical procedure." 

People laughed as Gadon made a side note about eastern medicine for a jest. He then drank a glass of water and resumed his speech:

“Apologies if I compare this nation to a patient and I and the rest of the council and here this assembly as doctors. It takes a surgical action to end the problems like poverty, corruption, insurgency, economic crisis, everything this nation faced and we ought to counter. In this opening of this legislative council, we hope that in our laws and programs to pass even if unpopular in case of such reform these all to serve the national interest enough to recover a country from this social illness. Let us pray that this patient will never face the pain again, But again, I promise all of you, that this country will heal and gain its strength to face the future that is to be expected." 

People clapped as “the boss” finished his message. 

Despite numerous technological breakthroughs, these rather benefited the order than those of the people. Still "semifeudal" and "semicolonial", The Philippines remained predominantly agricultural with big landlords this time acting as "representatives" of multinationals just to circumvent the agrarian reform program. Cash crops like Sugar, pineapple, bananas, coffee, remained exports to both United States and China; and companies like Del Monte, Dole, Sumifru, and United Fruit remained prominent for these ventures with big landlords. Export processing zones also became sources of corrupt activities especially when government officials either use to collect "rent" to those of smuggling operations, especially those intended for export abroad only to be sold at the black market via Divisoria.

By those times billions of pesos were invested in the design and development of armedroids for the DDS. Using the State of Siege  as its basis, the defence budget been allocated for such ventures Gadon seriously taken interest- be it a tank, a plane, a drone, or the armedroid. And companies like Axeltek, Quintrix, Steelcraft, and even PADC seriously engaged in its development. 

"To be honest", Gadon said to the economic council. "Right was the late Göring: Butter makes us fat, while guns will make us powerful. We need more outputs in necessary needs, innovation in various spheres, all in pursuit of a strong order."

Everyone agreed, however, one member of the council asked:

"So does it mean less emphasis on consumer goods unlike before?"

Gadon laughed at first, and said:

"Not really, I just want an economy that's geared towards industry and defence. Remember, most countries wished to be themselves even in this time economies should be open with governments less intervening. In the case of the Philippines most countries can't accept the reality how orderism and not democracy will prevail in this country, and only few would dare to take the challenge of investing us thinking we have the 'peace' they are requiring for development."

He then looked at the map, pointed at Turkey, and said:

"This country for example, according to reports Turkey did endure brain drain, currency crisis, dependency on foreign suppliers, and even domestic problems. But, this doesn't matter to them, instead that country continued working, as much as possible has to improve its industrial peace, enough to entice again foreign investment and promote local institutions having tieups with foreign counterparts."

"But," Gadon added. "In the case of the Philippines, having the view that our programs is part of the overall development, we had to step further as guide, while accommodating that of foreign investment with promises of full investment on their side. That sounds like Turkey isn't it? But to be honest, it's much better to deal using our trading partners like Indonesia, Singapore, and Turkey and through our organisations like Merlion holdings when it comes to dealing with the United States and those from the European Union despite the embargo. Furthermore, our state-owned companies like PADC, National Steel, and others been given sufficient support as I have promised them, provided that they are doing faithfully in their task in the projects as ordered by the government."

"How about the private sector?" Said the questioner. "For sure Axeltek, Quintrix, Steelcraft are willing to be supported by the state in this venture."

"They can." Gadon replied. "I am allowing them, the proof is that they're here listening to my message."

Then facing the owners of different companies he said: "Right? For sure all of you agreed that you are being offered by the government to engage in rapid industrialisation. I know some would either willing to tie-up with foreign companies for technological support or let foreign companies invest in your institutions. But again, provided that they'll observe the laws of the state then yes, they can invest here even up to a hundred percent."

IV

However, things turned different especially for the companies "other than PADC." For as Nicanor "Nick" Bersa wanted Quintrix to be one of the biggest technological and industrial solutions companies in the country. That along with  Drs. Ludwig Beiersdorf from Germany, and Carl Manlapas, Quintrix was able to engage further in the creation of "sophisticated future technologies" that includes the creation of Armedroids. By those times the government's science program has include the active participation from the private sector rather than solely depending on state-owned institutions like Merlion Holdings and even the Directorate of Domestic Security, provided that the latter at times can intervene regarding government-sponsored programs related to security.

The state-owned PADC, however, continues to be the sole manufacturer of "Cyeton" armedroids, even to the point of rejecting offers from other assemblers. This policy of partnership has forced companies to either focus on civilian needs or produce trucks for the Marine Corps and the Army, or, like Quintrix, to partner with a small-time armor manufacturer Steelcraft to develop a mobile weapon called "Omicron." Eventually the once-known yet small-time manufacturer of armored cars was taken over by Quintrix and became known as "Quintrix Steelcraft" and producing Omicrons for the armed forces. Furthermore, Bersa also helped the Guevara family's Radiowealth to return to manufacturing, serving as an investor in an attempt to re-engage Guevara to return to producing electronics and telecommunications systems, even producing engines by reverse-engineering Japanese and American made engines brought from the black market. 

But, despite the approval from the government in engaging in state-led initiative, Nick Bersa remained loyal to the late Sebastian that he himself admitting he's willing to support the resistance against Gadon. With the news about the capture of the armedroids by the National Peoples Army, Bersa clandestinely supported them by providing weapons and ammunition especially for the mobile weapons- if not clandestine repairs and upgrades for the cyetons in its “safe houses.”

V

But ever since she returned to the country what Schey wanted is to avenge her father’s death if not punishing President Lauro Gadon and to dismantle the system. From the time she joined her mother in an escape from the DDS and had understood the truth at a younger age, the late president’s daughter knows that there’s a need for justice both for her father and for the nation he fought and served with- all after he was poisoned by a traitorous friend and took over his seat. 

She would have moved on instead and enjoyed living abroad as any other member of the diaspora, settling down as “Maria Magnolia San Miguel” if necessary; but, Schey seriously understood the idea why people fight despite facing various risks, and at times require sacrifices just to fulfill duties. She even knows that the DDS were still searching for her for years and therefore trying her best to maintain her security even in abroad; but, the need for action becomes imminent, and Schey was not only a woman of few words, but a woman of action. Her inclination was to do something about a problem, not merely talk about it. 

And thus she had to train in the guerrilla camps in Palestine after she finished college, reading notes from Steve Psinakis and Ramon Olaguer and “how to make bombs”; even the works of Amado Guerrero taught her the need for revolution as she understood the nature of her country, and gaining contacts with those supporting her father made Schey able to enter the country and conduct her resistance. 

And by the time she took her action Schey read a passage from Octave Garnier, and it said: "It's for all these reasons that I rebelled, it's because I didn't want to live this life of present-day society, because I didn't want to wait and maybe die before I'd lived, that I defended myself against the oppressors with all the means at my disposal..." 

And from there she prepared the necessary precautions from disguise to that of the gun to be used, preferably a pistol, and she has a dossier containing profiles of those “whose blood debts” meant to be paid by their lives, especially those who supported the regime who killed her father and stole his legacy. “I am Schey, but for reasons of security I have to become Magnolia or Maggie, but if time comes they will know who I am and why I take this kind of fight.”

“Maggie”, disguised as a journalist, passed the guards at Tutuban Railway Station. At that time, Deputy Interior Secretary Tamayo had come back from New Clark City after an inspection. Known as a “Gadon Stooge”, Tamayo was also known as a former police general who ordered the arrest and disappearance of protesters demanding democracy after Gadon’s assumption as president. Unlike the other journalists waiting for the secretary from the train, Maggie was able to enter, seek the target alone, and shoot three times with a Colt pistol, instantly killing him, then throwing the gun away and hastily fleeing the scene before the guards noticed.

Few days after, her action was followed by the assassination of Police General Isidoro Gatmaitan, who’s known as the head of the Police Intelligence Service. At that time General Gatmaitan had himself chauffeured from his office at Camp Crame to his home in Commonwealth. While stopped at a traffic light, his car, a black Mercedes Benz was passed by a motorcycle Maggie was riding. The General, wanting a smoke while waiting for the green light, opened the window that made the helmeted assassin noticed him. She then quickly fired with a Luger pistol at close range, killing the hated police officer and his police chauffeur almost instantly then immediately fled away from the site. As the assassin suddenly fled after her action authorities have so far been unable to find out who was driving and firing the weapon at the officer.

Weeks after, Maggie was at the church compound near a police checkpoint as she prepared her gun from the van. She gently squeezed off two bullets while holding the gun up to her shoulder with her left elbow braced against the door in a fluid motion that was neither too quick nor too slow but accurate and methodical. 

The lady calmly placed the weapon down, started her engine again, and effortlessly raced toward the exit ramp as the deafening reports reverberated throughout the vast lot. She paused to cast a quick peek back toward the van as she turned at the end of the lane. The enemy was strewn out across the street, while the other appeared to have fallen behind the van but was hidden. Maggie was confident that both cops were dead because both shots had been to the head.

The string of shootings had been too late to make the morning paper, but the television news was full of them as Schey fixed breakfast. As she had guessed they would, the masters of the media finally had decided to lift the curtain of silence with which they heretofore had shrouded her nocturnal activities. The newscaster excitedly barked out the details: 

“A lone killer shot 12 policemen in an apparent revenge killing… the killer is known for wearing a helmet and riding a motorcycle…”  

As the police and the NBI failed to recognise the killer, the DDS under Director Coronel took the chance in investigating the crime scene, even mobilising its agents in pursuit of capturing that elusive assassin- but no one even the Directorate could ever knew that the killer was that of the former president’s daughter who wanted to punish the tyrant who killed her father as well as his supporters. Meanwhile propaganda outlets trying to dispel rumors that the killer’s actions as politically-motivated, but rather case of banditry as the regime downplays rebellions as armed robberies. 

However, for the people the deaths of policemen and corrupt officials were those who were implicated of “crimes against the people” not just an apparent revenge killing. Some of the killed happened to be notorious for protecting illegal rackets to that of “assholes” using the law to bully the people, worse, having blood debts to pay. But for Schey, she knows that her action against Gadon doesn’t limit to Gadon himself, for he represents the order that needs to be dismantled ‘by any means necessary’. She would have wished to “make peaceful means” but she dismissed the idea of “peaceful means” as a trend that fails to dismantle a rotten order other than making superficial “changes” and paraphrasing statements. Schey had to rely on the shootings for few reasons: 

First, the ones being targeted and killed were highly symbolic of the country’s sickness pretending to be strong- and this provides a blow against the System one would have had, and could easily be imitated by others who had enough of the system’s acts. 

Again, she would have killed Gadon first, but is it enough for Schey Dominique Sebastian, who as Magnolia San Miguel, to kill him while the system remains intact?

VI

Just like her days in Europe, Schey continued her social life, spending time in cafes listening to political gossip. As "Magnolia San Miguel" and presented as an executive she able to join parties that involve high-placed officials, businessmen, and others. 

At one of the parties 'Maggie' able to provide liquor and food, even hiring a space such as in 'Prime', or in 'Republiq' where rave and industrial music being played. From there she able to meet some bureaucrats and security officials, including that of the DDS.

Schey would pretend to be drunk as those she acquainted use the noisy situation to talk about things confidential. 

However, as Maggie went to the washroom she saw a familiar person, she then approached her and asked:

"Sorry to ask, may I know your name?"

"I am Franchesca Arce." The girl replied.

"Cheka?" Maggie said. "If I remember you used to study in San Sebastian if I'm not mistaken."

"Yes?" Cheka replied. "Why?"

"Do you know Schey Sebastian?" Maggie asked.

"Ya I know her." Cheka replied. But as she looked at her in the mirror she then said: 

"Is that you?"

"Nope." Maggie replied. "But I know her."

Cheka simply nod on what Maggie said. "And by the way, it looks like you able to fund these parties."

"Yup." Maggie replied. "Why? You seems that you doubt me organising these parties?"

"Just find it new to you." Cheka said. "Those well-funded parties, but I remember that Schey mixing cocktails and having beer pong and stuff in college."

"Okay," Maggie said. "And by the way, what brought you in this party?"

"My friend invited me here." Cheka replied. "He happens to be working at the government."

"I bet you also work at the government do you?" Maggie asked.

"Ya?" Cheka replied. "I worked at the government, at Merlion holdings, you?"

"I work at Robotron.” Maggie said. “I serve as country manager in a company based in Germany.”

“Ow,” Cheka said. “Quite far from your course you finished I guess.”

“Ya,” Maggie replied. “But I can also organise events. Seems that you look at me like your classmate before?”

“Nah,” Cheka replied. "Sorry if that's the case." 

Maggie smiled and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear as she straightened her posture. The conversation was getting more interesting, but she needed to remain calm and calculated. Cheka, though not a direct threat, could easily complicate things with her observant nature.

“Well, it’s good to see familiar faces, even if the setting is... different,” Maggie said, glancing at the mirror where both their reflections stood side by side. She casually turned on the faucet, letting the cold water rush over her hands. “What do you do at Merlion Holdings, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Cheka hesitated for a moment, as if considering how much to reveal. “Oh, just the usual... handling procurement and some logistical stuff for certain government contracts.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. "Government contracts, huh? I hear those can be... lucrative. Especially with the right connections."

Cheka shrugged but gave a slight smirk. "It helps to know people."

Maggie dried her hands with a towel and turned to face her fully. “It’s funny, isn't it? How people end up in circles they never expected to be in. I never thought I'd be rubbing elbows with the kind of people I meet at these events."

Cheka studied her for a moment. “Well, I didn’t expect to bump into someone like you here either. You’ve certainly... leveled up from the Schey I knew back in college.”

Maggie chuckled. "Well, time changes people, doesn’t it? We evolve, adapt." She paused, then leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “And speaking of evolving, some things never do change—like secrets. This crowd, for example, loves to talk when they think no one's paying attention."

Cheka’s expression shifted, curiosity piqued. “What do you mean?”

Maggie leaned back, as if rethinking her choice of words. "Oh, nothing specific. Just... people talk. Especially after a few drinks."

Cheka narrowed her eyes slightly, clearly interested but not fully trusting. “You seem to know a lot about that.”

Maggie shrugged and gave her a sly smile. “Let’s just say, I listen.”

As the door opened and two women walked into the washroom, the conversation paused. Maggie took the opportunity to change the subject. “Anyway, I should head back to the party. We can catch up later, maybe over a drink?”

Cheka nodded, but there was a flicker of suspicion behind her casual expression. “Sure, maybe we will.”

Maggie flashed her a final smile before exiting the washroom. As she reentered the noisy party, her mind raced. Cheka’s presence was unexpected, but it might work to her advantage. For now, though, she needed to return to her role, blending in with the crowd, playing the part of Magnolia San Miguel, the socialite and executive, while listening for any valuable bits of information that could help her next move.

As Maggie rejoined the party, she spotted a group of security officials and bureaucrats huddled together in a corner, speaking in low tones. Their laughter occasionally cut through the thumping bass of the music, but Maggie could tell that they were discussing something important, something beyond the surface level of the party's casual chatter.

She casually approached the bar, ordering another drink, all the while keeping her attention on the conversation at the corner. It was time to get back to work.

Maggie sipped her drink slowly, her eyes scanning the crowd, though her attention remained fixed on the group of officials and security personnel. She had become adept at blending into the background while observing. The music shifted, a heavy industrial beat thumping through the dimly lit venue, casting shifting shadows over the gathered figures. They seemed unaware of her presence, their conversation lost in the pulse of the rave.

As she edged closer, pretending to watch the DJ, snippets of their conversation began to reach her over the music. Phrases like “next shipment” and “discreet channels” piqued her interest, confirming her suspicion that this was more than casual party talk. One of the men, a mid-level bureaucrat she had seen before but never officially met, leaned in and said something that made the group chuckle nervously. The name he dropped, however, caught her full attention: *Delos Santos*. It was a name she had heard in certain circles—associated with darker dealings, possibly even connected to the DDS.

Maggie’s instincts kicked in. This was her opening.

She took another sip of her drink and, in a perfectly timed moment, stumbled slightly, pretending to lose her balance. Her glass tipped, spilling a small amount of liquor onto one of the men’s shoes. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she said, feigning embarrassment as she bent down to wipe it with a napkin.

The man, surprised but not angry, waved it off with a half-smile. “No worries. It happens.” His eyes quickly scanned her, recognizing her as someone who must be important enough to be at the party, given how she carried herself.

Maggie flashed him a charming smile, standing upright. “I’m usually more graceful, I promise,” she said with a light laugh. “But I guess I’ve had one too many.”

He chuckled, the ice broken. “Happens to the best of us.”

Seizing the moment, she continued. “I couldn’t help but overhear you guys talking about the next shipment,” she said, feigning tipsiness. “Sounds like big business. Are you guys with logistics or... security?”

The man raised an eyebrow, momentarily thrown off, but his companion, a younger security officer, laughed. “Something like that. It’s... a different kind of shipment. Nothing you need to worry about, Miss...?”

“Maggie,” she said, offering a casual smile. “Magnolia San Miguel. I’m with Robotron, handling the regional side of things. But parties like this... I love meeting people who get things done.”

The man who had introduced the name Delos Santos nodded, still cautious but intrigued by her confidence. “You handle high-level contracts, then?”

Maggie leaned in slightly, letting the music mask the weight of her words. “I’ve dabbled in a few government deals. You know how it goes... the right connections, the right timing.”

The group seemed to relax a little, though they were still guarded. The man who seemed to be in charge, a stocky figure with sharp eyes, tilted his head. “You’ve worked with the government, you say? You might just know the kind of people we deal with.”

She smiled and took another sip, carefully playing the role of someone who knew more than she let on but was still approachable. “I might. Though I try not to get too deep into the bureaucratic maze. But I do hear things... especially from people who are in... security.”

Her emphasis on the last word made the group exchange glances. The leader leaned in, lowering his voice. “You’ve heard of Delos Santos, haven’t you?”

Maggie gave a nonchalant shrug, her eyes twinkling with interest. “Who hasn’t in certain circles? Let’s just say I’m familiar with names like that. And with the kind of business that requires... discretion.”

The man’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He seemed to be sizing her up, deciding how much to trust her. “You seem to know your way around.”

“I make it a point to,” Maggie replied smoothly. “In our line of work, information is currency, right?”

The man nodded, but before he could say more, a loud cheer erupted from another group nearby as the DJ switched tracks, sending the room into a louder frenzy. The momentary distraction gave Maggie the chance to step back slightly, giving the group some space, but not before the leader gave her a final look.

“If you’re interested in hearing more, maybe we’ll talk later,” he said. “But for now... enjoy the party.”

Maggie nodded, flashing one last smile. “Absolutely. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”

As she walked away, her heart raced, but she kept her expression composed. The name Delos Santos wasn’t just casual gossip—it was a lead. The kind of lead that could open doors to the inner workings of the DDS or, at the very least, give her valuable insight into their operations.

Making her way back to the bar, she saw Cheka again, now engaged in conversation with her government contact. Maggie caught Cheka’s eye and gave a subtle nod, as if to say their earlier chat hadn’t been forgotten. The night wasn’t over, and there were still connections to be made.

Maggie took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the next step. Tonight had only just begun, and there was plenty more to uncover before the night was through.

As Maggie returned to the bar, she replayed the interaction in her mind, careful to note every detail: the names mentioned, the looks exchanged, and the subtle tensions in the group’s conversation. It wasn’t enough just to overhear; she needed more concrete information. She had come prepared for nights like this.

Tapping her finger gently against her glass, Maggie felt the small device hidden within the wide cuff bracelet on her wrist. It was a miniature audio recorder, one she had discreetly activated the moment she had "accidentally" spilled her drink on the man’s shoes. The device, tiny but powerful, had captured the entire exchange. While the noise from the party was loud, the technology was sophisticated enough to filter out background sounds, focusing on nearby voices.

She took a deep breath, trying to look casual as she leaned on the bar. She couldn’t listen to the recording right away, not without drawing suspicion, but she could feel the thrill of knowing that she had the conversation safely stored. Now, it was just a matter of collecting more pieces to fit the puzzle.

Glancing over her shoulder, Maggie spotted the group again. The men were still deep in conversation, though now they had shifted to a more secluded corner, away from the main crowd. She needed to stay close, but not too close, at least not for now. Her earlier move had worked, but she couldn’t afford to be seen as too curious.

She watched as one of the men, the younger security officer, moved towards the bar, leaving the group temporarily. Maggie saw her chance. She caught the bartender’s attention with a subtle wave and ordered another drink, making sure to place herself near where the security officer would likely stand.

As he approached, Maggie turned slightly, giving him a warm smile. “Looks like a lively night,” she said, casually striking up conversation.

He nodded, still a bit cautious but seemingly more relaxed than his colleagues. “Yeah, it’s not bad. A lot of... interesting people here tonight.”

Maggie leaned in a bit, lowering her voice just enough to seem like she was about to share something personal. “Interesting people... and interesting conversations. I overheard you guys talking earlier—about some business with Delos Santos, right?”

The man’s expression stiffened slightly, but Maggie quickly followed up, her tone playful. “Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pry. I just know how these government contracts can get... complicated. People talk.”

The security officer hesitated, but Maggie’s disarming smile seemed to ease his nerves. “Yeah, well, you know how it goes,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Sometimes you’ve just got to handle things quietly.”

Maggie raised her glass in agreement. “Exactly. Discretion is everything.” She paused for a moment, then added, “I’m guessing that’s why you’re all here tonight, keeping things under the radar?”

The man glanced over at his group, then back at Maggie. “You could say that. We’re just trying to avoid too much attention... especially with Delos Santos involved. You know his reputation.”

Maggie nodded thoughtfully, feigning understanding. “Oh, I’ve heard the stories. People in certain circles say you don’t want to cross him.”

“Yeah, well, crossing him isn’t the issue,” the man replied, lowering his voice. “It’s getting involved with him in the first place.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Sounds like you’ve had some experience with that.”

The man shrugged, but his eyes betrayed more than he intended. “Let’s just say... it’s not my first time working with people like him.”

Maggie nodded again, careful not to push too hard. “Well, I can imagine it takes someone smart and resourceful to manage that kind of thing.”

The man smirked slightly, taking the compliment. “Yeah, something like that.”

Maggie took another sip of her drink, knowing she had gathered enough for now. She didn’t want to push too far and risk drawing suspicion. But the pieces were falling into place. Delos Santos was involved in something big, something that required secrecy, and these men were part of it.

As the security officer returned to his group, Maggie subtly brushed her hand over the cuff of her bracelet, ensuring the recorder was still running. She would collect more information as the night went on, listening for any further clues that might slip through their conversations.

The night wore on, with the music pounding and the party continuing in full swing. Maggie kept her distance, blending into the crowd, but always keeping an ear out for the bureaucrats’ group. Every now and then, she caught glimpses of them speaking in hushed tones, their body language tense. They were careful, but not careful enough for someone like Maggie.

Later, as the party began to thin out, Maggie slipped away into a quieter area of the venue, finally able to check the recording she had made. She put on a pair of discreet wireless earbuds, pulling up the recording from her bracelet device. The background noise of the party was heavy at first, but as the filters kicked in, the conversation became clearer.

She heard the familiar voices of the men, and then, the name she had been waiting for: *Delos Santos*. They were talking about a shipment—one that was due to arrive soon, but needed to be kept off the radar. They mentioned discreet channels, the kind that bypass normal customs procedures, and hinted at something bigger than just contraband. There was a brief mention of government officials being paid off to look the other way.

Maggie’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just idle gossip; this was something concrete, something actionable. If Delos Santos was involved, and if the DDS was part of it, this could lead to a much larger operation—one that Maggie had long suspected was happening under the radar.

She smiled to herself, feeling the rush of victory. The night had been more than productive. She now had valuable intel, and the recording would serve as a perfect tool for her next move.

But she wasn’t done yet. There was still more to uncover, more to piece together. And Maggie, or rather *Schey*, knew how to play the long game.

VII

Using her alias, Schey went to a coffeeshop in Escolta where someone awaited her. While waiting, Maggie (her alias) ordered a cup of coffee while a middle-aged man approached and asked her: 

“Are you ms. San Miguel?”

“I am Magnolia.” Maggie said. “Magnolia San Miguel. Just call me Maggie anyway.”

“I am Lutgardo Luningning,” the squad leader said. “Just call me Gardo.”

Then he introduced his companions:

“And here’s my friends.”

Maggie then nod and asked:

“Well, nice to meet all of you. Care to join with me for coffee?”

Then she ordered cups of coffee for her ‘friends’, followed by going to the fifth floor where a room was reserved for the meeting. 

While at the room reserved for the meeting, Gardo asked: “So this is the meetingplace?”

“Yes.” Maggie said. “I have to make the meeting secured knowing that agents are still looking for us.”

“I see,” Gardo said. “I was ordered by the committee to meet you.”

Maggie, while typing in her tablet, replied:

“Yup, actually a friend told me that the movement is in need of help.”

“Yes.” Gardo said.

“And I heard that the Iron Sparrow is in need of upgrade.” Maggie added.

“Yes.” Gardo said. “And I was told that Quintrix is able to help us.”

“I am from Quintrix.” Maggie replied. “And I am also willing to take part in the resistance.” 

And Maggie then provided a brief to Gardo about the the plan to intensify resistance against the Gadon regime. From there it includes assassinations and bombing vital installations. 

“Sounds like straight from the ‘Light A Fire’ and ‘Red Army Fraction’ playbooks isn’t it?” Gardo said, as he find her work interesting.

After browsing her papers, he asked:

“Sorry to ask, but have you been fighting against the regime for so long?”

“Yes.” Maggie said. “I was trained in Palestine and Hayastan before I moved back to the country. I became an exile for years after Gadon rose to power.” 

Followed by showing her cache of guns, ammo, and grenades to be used for the resistance. 

“Here are the things your group needs.” Maggie added.

“Our group.” Gardo replied. “And I can make contact you with the leader as soon as possible.” 

VIII

As “Magnolia San Miguel” forged connections with the urban underground, she realised the need to 'become more than just a lone assassin'. With her new found colleagues met at Escolta days ago, a ragtag unit was transformed into a potent urban fighting force. Eight men from light cells were available, each carrying a submachine gun, a rifle, a semi-automatic pistol, and hand grenades (usually one per light cell). Twelve men in heavy cells were equipped with both the individual weapons and a heavy machine gun. Three cells made up a unit; three cells made up a battalion; three battalions made up a regiment; two regiments made up a brigade; and two brigades made up a division. The division of battalions into roughly fifty-man automobile squads was possible. Written correspondence was avoided whenever possible. 

While having breakfast with her uncle in Forbes Park, Schey said to her uncle:

“I know that soon the DDS will notice me.”

“So in that case, be much careful my dear.” Uncle Nick said. “I know you wanted to seek revenge against the regime but this action is more than just assassinating those from the police and the military. Expect the DDS will try their best to capture that person behind those killings so be prepared.”

Then Schey asked:

“So what shall I do?”

“Make your action provoke a sense of hope on those who are victims of the order’s tyranny.” Uncle Nick said. “Your actions can become propaganda by nature especially that those you’ve been killed are those who have debts against the people. I know you wanted to make their downfall happen from the day you returned to the country, so I prepared the necessary measures including your needs as a fighter.”

“How?” Schey said.

Her uncle then stood up and had her enter his room where he showed to his niece a M1923 helmet from Denmark, a jacket,  and an Obrez gun. Schey then held the helmet, and her uncle said:

“Try it.”

“Huh?” Schey said. “Do I also need to wear that helmet?”

Her uncle smiled at her and said:

“You may wear it as you’ve done your getup. And from now on you will be called as ‘Black Magnolia’ as you engage in a war against the order.”

Schey then recalled some old Japanese anime shows about a masked antihero and said:

“Then I need to wear shades for this and a balacava.”

“You get it right.” Uncle Nick said. “To be a fighter is a dangerous task. You already had first shots but doesn’t mean this could then accepted and replied: “Thanks uncle for supporting me.” “I am too old to engage in a battle.” Uncle Nick said. “I have contributed much in building defence and development but I don’t want to be remembered as taking part in Gadon’s orderist agenda. I love my country as I admire your father Schey, but in this situation this becomes more than just empty cries and marches, people demand something that’s really radical, through blood and iron if necessary.”

“And why Black Magnolia?” Schey asked.

“Black represents rebellion.” Uncle Nick replied. “And Magnolia represents nobility.”

“Therefore my rebellion is driven by noble intentions?” Schey said. “Wow then.”

“Then you answered your question.” Uncle Nick said. “Loving a country is a noble intention- and that reason is itself also why people revolt against the system that hinders the growth of the nation even it pretends to promote like one.”

Schey’s heart raced as she absorbed her uncle’s words. The gravity of her new identity as "Black Magnolia" weighed heavily on her. She carefully donned the M1923 helmet, adjusting the straps to fit snugly. The helmet, though slightly worn, seemed to carry a weight of its own—a symbol of resistance and history. Her uncle handed her the Obrez gun, its compact frame feeling solid and reassuring in her hands. Schey slipped on the jacket, which was surprisingly well-fitted despite its rugged appearance. With the helmet and jacket in place, she wrapped a black balaclava around her face and slipped on a pair of dark sunglasses, completing the transformation.

Uncle Nick’s approval was evident in his nod. “You look the part, Black Magnolia. Now, let’s discuss your next steps.”

They moved to a map spread out on the table in the corner of the room. Nick pointed to several key locations within the city. “You’ll need to strike at the heart of their operations. Their control is strongest in these areas.” He indicated several zones, including government buildings and police stations. “But remember, it’s not just about causing chaos. It’s about sending a message.”

Schey studied the map intently. “What kind of message?”

“A message that their actions have consequences,” Nick said firmly. “That the people they’ve oppressed are no longer silent. That there’s a price to pay for tyranny.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “And what about the other fighters? How will we coordinate our attacks?”

“Your ragtag unit has potential,” Nick said, his eyes glinting with determination. “They’re already experienced in urban warfare. They’ll need your leadership. Training and coordination are crucial. You’ll need to make use of the skills each cell brings to the table.”

“Understood,” Schey said, nodding. “I’ll make sure they’re ready.”

Nick walked over to a cabinet and retrieved a small, rugged case. Opening it, he revealed a set of encrypted communication devices. “These will help you stay in contact with your team. Avoid using regular phones or email. They’re too easily intercepted. Use these devices for secure communication.”

Schey took the devices, appreciating their practicality. “Thanks, Uncle Nick.”

“You’re welcome,” he said, his expression softening. “Remember, the people you’re fighting against are well-equipped and ruthless. Your unit will need to stay sharp and resourceful. And while you’re leading them, make sure to keep their morale high. They’re fighting not just for survival, but for a better future.”

As Schey absorbed his advice, she felt a sense of purpose settling within her. She was no longer just a lone assassin but a leader of a movement against an oppressive regime. Her uncle’s support and the gear he provided were vital, but the true power lay in her ability to inspire and lead.

“Don’t forget,” Nick added as she prepared to leave, “you’re fighting for more than just revenge. You’re fighting for justice and the future of your people. Keep that in mind when things get tough.”

“I will,” Schey said, determination clear in her voice. “Thank you for everything.”

IX

From then on Schey, as “Maggie”/“Black Magnolia” done a black jacket, shirt, jeans, shades, and a M1923 helmet. At first she find her getup “obvious” for a fighter but she quickly realise the need for someone to look upon as a “destroyer” of the old order and not some revenge filled killer. Her uncle also gave her a key as well, and Schey asked:

“What is this?”

“Your key to one of my creation.” Uncle Nick replied.

“Where?” Schey asked.

“Come,” Uncle Nick said as they rode from Casa Magnolia to the private hangar near the airport.

“Where are we going?” Schey asked.

“To the factory.” Uncle Nick replied. “From there I will show you something where will you use the key I gave to you.”

And as they reached the factory in the former thermal plant in Sucat, Uncle Nick, along with Schey, went to the hangar where the newly-made Armedroid was garaged.

“So much for tying industrialisation to the needs of defence, yet we failed to feed and clothe the people.” Said Uncle Nick as he and Schey entered the factory. “I remember your father promised development through industrialisation to create jobs, provide cheap products, and save local businesses. But Gadon turned the idea into his own distorted ambition. I know that we need to defend the country but he seems preoccupied with defending his own rule pretending he’s defending the country. I had heard reports of those who end arrested by the DDS, some even forced to escape abroad just like you when you were young.”

“But what brought you to stay?” Schey asked. “And why did you even participate?”

“I have business to tend on.” Uncle Nick replied. “I love my country on the first place, and being a businessman I want my industry be actively involved in development as I had to grab the opportunities given by the government.“

“But to be honest”, Uncle Nick added. “That as time goes by this situation has nothing to do with the country at all, let alone the president trying to maintain power. For sure you heard news about the DDS trying to suppress opposition on the pretense that they’re fighting the insurgents. He even prioritised his “special projects” with the DDS and the Defence department and that includes the Armedroid. I may not explain further about this but the situation will grow worse.” 

Then he showed to her the cherry red Omicron and said:

“Here it is. The Cherry Red Iskra.”

“Is that the Armedroid we’re talking about?” Schey asked.

“Why not give it a try? The key I gave to you is for you to able to run that mobile weapon.” Uncle Nick said.

“Sounds science fiction to me.” Schey replied. “Armedroid? How could a third world country can do such thing?” 

 But as she inserted the key to the port and activated the mobile weapon, Schey find the armedroid manageable as she manned it. 

 "This reminds of a walking tank." Schey said as she manned the vehicle. "But certainly more than a walking tank." 

Uncle Nick, as he observed his niece running the mobile weapon said:

“Seems that you easily manage the Omicron.”

“I was trained in Hayastan how to use a mobile weapon.” Schey said. “And participated in the war in Artsakh before I returned here in the country.”

“What kind of mobile weapon they have?” Uncle Nick asked.

“Sort of a walking tank made clandestinely in Stepanakert during the battle against Azerbaijan.” Schey replied.

“I see,” Uncle Nick said. “I made that Omicron in response to the project Cyeton the government is using. But the technology I used are different from what the government made. The main weapon is a 15 cm sIG 33 Howitzer, while secondary ones consist of launchers that release cylindrical air burst grenades that spray deadly shrapnel over a small area."

"Nice," Schey replied as she continued running the vehicle. "It made me able to make use of my earlier training in Hayastan before I returned home for the resistance."

Her uncle didn’t speak but instead nod on what his niece said while “trying out” his Omicron. 

Schey maneuvered the Omicron with growing confidence, each movement feeling more intuitive as she adjusted to the controls. The machine responded with an impressive blend of agility and power, its massive frame moving with a surprising fluidity.

“Your training must have been quite thorough,” Uncle Nick commented, his eyes still fixed on the Omicron’s various readouts and displays. “It seems you’re a natural with this kind of technology.”

Schey gave a small, satisfied smile. “The training was intense, but it was necessary. In Hayastan, we faced some pretty formidable enemies, and we needed every advantage we could get. This—” she gestured to the Omicron’s controls, “—is a different beast, but I think I can handle it.”

Uncle Nick nodded. “Good. The Omicron was designed with both versatility and firepower in mind. But remember, it’s not just about the hardware. It’s about using it wisely. The DDS what more this current order have access to powerful technology, but that doesn’t mean it’s always used effectively.”

Schey glanced at her uncle. “So, what’s the plan with this thing? Are we going to use it for direct confrontation, or is there a different strategy in mind?”

Uncle Nick sighed. “The immediate plan is to prepare. Gadon’s regime is getting increasingly desperate, and desperation can make them more dangerous. We need to be ready for anything. But long-term, we’ll have to use the Omicron strategically. It’s a game-changer, but it can also attract unwanted attention. We need to make sure it’s used to support our objectives without becoming a liability.”

As Schey continued to test the Omicron’s capabilities, Uncle Nick walked over to a nearby console and pulled up a holographic map of the region. “Here’s where we stand. The DDS has been consolidating power in several key areas. They’ve also been fortifying their positions and expanding their reach. Our intelligence suggests they’re planning a major offensive soon, and we need to be prepared to counter that.”

Schey peered at the map, her expression serious. “What’s the current status of our allies and resources? Do we have a solid network in place?”

Uncle Nick nodded. “We have a network of trusted allies, but resources are always a challenge. The DDS has been cracking down hard, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to operate openly. We’ll need to be cautious and strategic in our movements.”

Schey’s eyes narrowed as she absorbed the information. “Understood. We’ll need to coordinate with our allies and make sure we’re ready for whatever comes next. The Omicron will definitely give us an edge, but it’s up to us to use it effectively.”

Uncle Nick smiled, a glimmer of pride in his eyes. “I knew you’d be the right person for this. Your skills and experience are invaluable. We’re counting on you to help lead the fight against Gadon’s regime and to restore some semblance of justice to this country.”

Schey gave a determined nod. “I won’t let you down. We’ll turn this situation around, no matter what it takes.”

As she finished her trial run, she felt a renewed sense of purpose. The Omicron, known as the "Cherry Red Iskra", with its advanced technology and firepower, was more than just a weapon—it was a symbol of resistance and a tool to fight for the future she believed in. And with her uncle’s support and the resources at their disposal, Schey was ready to take on the challenges ahead and fight for the change her country so desperately needed.

X

In North Harbor, Maggie and two of her crew ambushed a pair of policemen who were guarding a consignment of gelignite from the docks, followed by ordering her colleagues to get the guns, ammo, and the ‘jelly’ used for making bombs.

While taking the 'jelly' Maggie asked:

“Are you prepared for this?”

“Yes,” Gardo said.

But as he looked at the ‘jelly’, Gardo asked:

“These are ingredients in making bombs, do we need these?”

“We need to shook the capital with fire before we strike.” Maggie said. “Guns aren’t enough. We make them realise that this is no coup but a revolution. Believe me, this will show their weakness.”

The partisans' first aim was police stations. These offices, more than any other, represented the "attack dogs of the order" and the corrupt extortionist. Partisans attacked Metro Manila police stations simultaneously on a Saturday night. The operation went off without a hitch, with teammates able to capture enemy weaponry with no losses. 

Two weeks later, the partisans set out once more, this time to carry out sabotage in so-called "industrial towns" in response to the law restricting the right to strike and the onerous working conditions. This mission was also a success, with no casualties. 

As the days rolled on, the partisans' actions began to generate waves of uncertainty among the city’s ruling elite. The boldness of their strikes was sending a clear message: the resistance was organized, well-equipped, and unwavering. The police stations and industrial towns had been hit hard, disrupting not just operations but also shaking public confidence in the regime's ability to maintain order and safeguard economic stability.

Maggie—known as Black Magnolia to her allies—gathered her crew in a makeshift operations room set up in an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of North Harbor. The walls were covered with maps and intelligence reports, and the air was thick with the scent of burnt coffee and anticipation.

Maggie leaned over a table strewn with documents and satellite images, her team listening intently. Gardo and his fellow operative, Luz, stood by her side, their expressions reflecting a mix of determination and fatigue.

“Alright, team,” Maggie began, her voice steady. “Our recent actions have made an impact, but we need to keep the momentum going. The next phase of our plan involves a more strategic operation. We need to hit critical infrastructure points—energy plants, water facilities, and communication hubs.”

Luz raised her hand. “And how do we plan to avoid heavy retaliation? We’ve stirred the hornet’s nest, and I’m sure they’ll be looking for us more intently now.”

Maggie nodded. “We’ll be careful. The goal is to create maximum disruption while minimizing our exposure. We need to strike where it hurts, but also ensure we have escape routes and contingency plans in place.”

Gardo, his eyes still scanning the materials, added, “What about public support? So far, our actions have been bold, but if we push too far, we risk alienating the very people we’re trying to liberate.”

Maggie acknowledged his concern. “We’re aware of that. That’s why we’ll coordinate with local communities and unions to ensure they understand our goals and motivations. The public needs to see that we’re not just causing chaos but fighting for their rights and freedoms.”

She turned her attention back to the maps, pointing to several key locations. “These are our targets. We’ll use the gelignite to disable critical systems and make sure our actions are precise. No collateral damage. We’ll need teams to handle each site, and timing will be crucial.”

Gardo and Luz exchanged determined glances, then nodded in agreement. “We’re ready,” Gardo said firmly.

With the plan set, the partisans began their preparations. Teams were assigned to different targets, and Maggie ensured that everyone was equipped with the necessary tools and knowledge for their missions. The operations were meticulously timed and coordinated to ensure that their strikes would create maximum impact while keeping their movements unpredictable.

On the night of the operation, the city was on edge. Black Magnolia’s crew executed their plan with precision. Explosions rocked several critical sites, plunging parts of the city into darkness and chaos. The disruption was significant, affecting energy supplies and communication lines.

Despite the upheaval, Maggie and her team managed to slip away unnoticed, retreating to their safe houses. The aftermath of the strikes saw the regime scrambling to restore order, their vulnerabilities exposed for all to see.

The media was ablaze with reports of the attacks, and while the government attempted to downplay the incidents, the public couldn’t ignore the growing unrest and the stark contrast between the government’s promises and the reality of the situation.

Maggie convened her team once more to assess the situation. The damage had been done, and the regime’s reaction was fierce, but the partisans had achieved their objective: they had demonstrated their strength and the regime’s weakness.

“We’ve made our statement,” Maggie said, her voice resolute. “Now, we need to stay vigilant. This is just the beginning. We must continue to fight and build support. Our revolution is far from over.”

As the city continued to grapple with the effects of the partisans’ actions, Maggie and her team prepared for the next phase of their struggle, their resolve hardened by the challenges ahead. The path to liberation was fraught with danger, but they were determined to see it through to the end.

XI

As more operations were undertaken, the fighters gained experience and became increasingly daring.

But the real "baptism of fire" for these flying columns came as people in Tondo, Manila, conducted an 8-day strike despite threats from the government, particularly those of the DDS. After that, workers stopped working and occupied the buildings, blocking access to the port terminal and demanding pay raises, permanent status for temporary workers, paid maternity leave for women, a halt to illegal firings, and an end to sweatshop labor. The strike appeared to be a success because most businesses remained closed, workers did not show up, and children did not go to school. 

However, as striking workers and the community refused to stand down on the authorities’ orders, police tried to violently disperse them by means of truncheon and tear gas. Strikers had no choice but to resist with stones to that of makeshift oil bombs and pillboxes, making the protest actions demanding better wages and working conditions turned violent.

Initially, the strike had been broken as police pushed forward forcing strikers to withdraw from their barricades. But within few days police stations were attacked simultaneously by armed city partisans in Metro Manila. The operation went smoothly and without casualties as partisans got firearms and ammunition. Furthermore they distribute propaganda leaflets that end in the hands of media outlets.

“Develop the class struggles. Organize the proletariat. Start the armed resistance!” These are the words said in one of its statements made by the partisans distributed in the papers, radio, and television. “The rising costs of living, systematic corruption, and social injustice has forced the masses to march and take arms despite threats from the attack dogs of the state…and we are well-prepared for their onslaught…” 

"How is this possible?", Director Coronel inquired as Gadon displayed the papers to the official's astonishment. "Is this a putsch of some sort?”

"I don't know," the director replied. "The scenario is unexpected, especially now that rebels have entered Manila!” 

“Insurgents?” Gadon remarked. "How could they enter a city where there are attack dogs all around?”

The director said nothing other than to display a document. Gadon responded, "That sounds interesting. Rebels in Manila? Such a joke!” 

“These are the papers, though!", declared Director Coronel. “They have gathered their forces to back the protesters! ”

"Yes, I do.” Gadon replies fiercely. “But I must ask, did you call up our troops for this?”

Director Coronel replied, "Yes…Yes, sir. If necessary, I'll instruct the police to bring armoured vehicles.”

“Then do it!” Gadon said. “You may send the armedroids too!” 

The partisan actions forced the authorities to mobilise both the armed police and the DDS. Meanwhile, a “flying column” of urban partisans carried out the first series of bomb attacks on Metro Manila. Using the captured 'jelly' from the enemy, partisans placed bombs at the “Public Safety Savings and Loan Association”, the state-owned “Tabacalera”, and the “Philippine Long Distance Telecommunications Company” which killed 13 and injured 50. Even the office of the Department of Interior and Local Government was bombed that killed 23 and wounded 15, making a clearly shocked interior secretary Eduard Edades told Director Coronel after the visiting the bombed area of the office building: "We must finish these people off!"

The bombings had shaken Manila to its core. The city, once bustling with its usual rhythm, now echoed with the sounds of sirens, chaos, and the distant thud of military drills. Director Coronel and Secretary Edades met in a dimly lit, fortified command center, their faces set in grim determination.

“We’ve underestimated their resolve,” Edades admitted, his tone heavy with frustration. “These partisans are not just random troublemakers. They’re well-organized, and they’ve clearly had time to prepare.”

Director Coronel nodded, his fingers drumming on the table. “We need to re-evaluate our strategy. The previous approach of using standard crowd control methods won’t work here. We’re dealing with a well-equipped, tactical adversary.”

The room was filled with the low hum of communication devices and the occasional burst of static as officers and agents coordinated their efforts. Gadon stood by a large map of Metro Manila, marking areas of interest with red pins.

“Implementing more aggressive measures seems inevitable,” Gadon stated decisively. “Increase patrols, set up checkpoints, and, most importantly, control the flow of information. The media is amplifying their message.”
Coronel and Edades exchanged a glance. “We need to keep the city calm and prevent any further escalation,” Coronel said. “But we must also ensure that our actions don’t provoke the populace into even more rebellion.”

Outside, the streets were swarming with both police and DDS operatives. The air was tense, filled with the smell of tear gas and the shouts of officers barking orders. Military vehicles and armored drones rolled through the streets, their presence a stark reminder of the state’s power. Helicopters hovered above, scanning the ground for any signs of insurgent activity.

In the midst of this turmoil, a new plan began to take shape among the partisans. They met in a dimly lit warehouse, their faces obscured by shadows. Leaders of the movement, weary but resolute, gathered around a table strewn with maps and schematics.

“The recent bombings have shown our strength,” the lead partisan, a woman named Lila, declared. “But we can’t rely solely on fear and destruction. We need to solidify our support within the community.”
A grizzled veteran, Mark, nodded in agreement. “We’ve got to be smart about this. Our next actions should not only disrupt but also galvanize the masses. We need to show that our struggle is their struggle, that we’re fighting for a future they can believe in.”

The partisans discussed their next steps, focusing on creating safe havens for families displaced by the violence and organizing rallies to maintain public support. They aimed to turn the tide of public opinion further against the authorities, who were increasingly being viewed as oppressors.

Back in the command center, Coronel and Edades were preparing for a counter-offensive. The air was charged with urgency.

“We’re deploying additional forces,” Coronel said, reviewing the plans with a stern face. “We’ll reinforce the police and DDS with special units trained in urban warfare. We need to cut off their supply lines and dismantle their networks.”
“And we’ll use propaganda of our own,” Edades added. “To counter their message, we need to highlight their violence and paint them as threats to national security.”

The two men nodded in agreement, their focus sharp. The battle for Manila was escalating into a full-blown conflict, with each side preparing for a protracted struggle. The city, once a vibrant hub of daily life, was now a battleground where the future of its people hung in the balance.

As night fell, both the authorities and the partisans braced themselves for the next phase of the conflict. The coming days would test their resolve, strategies, and the very fabric of Manila itself.

XII

The provocative actions of the partisans renewed resistance in Tondo as workers decided to continue the strike. Despite threats from the armed police and the DDS, striking workers and the entire community became careful and at the same time stubborn as they set up again their barricades and encampments. 

“What a coordinated action.” Said Director Coronel after he received the news. “But this seems to be more than just led by a group of insurgents. For someone is leading in an efficient manner, with all the bombings around Metro Manila to disrupt us while at the same time there’s a strike in Tondo that’s growing.”

“Tell me,” said the director to a member of an elite unit. “Are you willing to counter those people behind those actions?”

“Yes sir.” Said that member along with a snappy salute.”

“Well then Franchesca Arce,” Director Coronel said. “You will lead the Special Unit at once!”

Coronel, along with Police General Maligalig soon deployed their men and used armored cars to disrupt the picketlines and destroy the barricades while army trucks trying to round up workers and schoolchildren to attend their jobs and studies. But the people continued to resist as urban partisan units distributed guns and bombs as one cellphone message said: “Breaking news for you. The Gadon government have just mobilised the police and the armed forces to destroy the strike. People, to arms! Charge! Turn every tool into a weapon, turn the strike into a situation the enemy cannot suppress!” 

Meanwhile, Cheka and her group were searching for that “ringleader” behind the bombings and the strike. From there they encounter stiff resistance from the armed mob that’s willing to die despite carrying stones and oil bombs. Some would even firing guns from the barricades and in their houses, “all thanks to the armed city partisans” who organised and provided arms with them. But Cheka, despite seeing policemen killed or wounded, doesn’t mind but instead activated her Cyeton and started firing her gun against them. BOOM! One barricade destroyed making police and DDS able to fire back and advance against the armed mob. 

“This is not their protest anymore!” said Cheka to her unit. “Fire them as necessary!”

But this doesn’t stop the people from fighting.

XIII

The streets of Tondo were now a chaotic battleground, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of explosives. The once orderly neighborhood had transformed into a war zone, where every corner seemed to be fortified and every alleyway a potential ambush. The determination of the striking workers and the community was unwavering, despite the overwhelming force deployed against them.

Director Coronel and Police General Maligalig, observing from a makeshift command post, were increasingly frustrated by the resistance they faced. The use of armored cars and army trucks had only intensified the confrontations, and every attempt to break through the barricades seemed to be met with a fierce counterattack.

“Cheka,” Coronel said over the radio, “report.”

“We’ve breached the barricades, but the partisans and their supporters are proving to be incredibly resilient,” Cheka responded, her voice tense but controlled. “They’re well-armed and organized, which makes them difficult to dislodge. But we’ve managed to push them back in several areas.”

Coronel’s brow furrowed. “We need to escalate. Use heavier firepower if necessary. Our priority is to crush this uprising and restore order.”

“Understood,” Cheka replied, her tone steely.

As Cheka’s unit advanced, they encountered increasingly fierce resistance. The urban partisans, now more determined than ever, used every means at their disposal to defend their positions. They had become adept at using the city’s terrain to their advantage, turning narrow streets and dense neighborhoods into formidable defensive positions.

Cheka’s Cyeton, a heavily armored combat drone equipped with advanced weaponry, roared through the streets. Its weapon systems cut through barricades and disrupted enemy formations, but the partisans’ defensive tactics adapted quickly. They used makeshift barriers and improvised cover to mitigate the impact of the drone’s firepower.

In the midst of this, Black Magnolia held a clandestine meeting with her colleagues in a hidden safe house. Maps and plans were spread out on a table as she addressed her team.

“The government is pushing back hard, but we’ve shown we can hold our ground,” Maggie said. “Our next move is to extend the strike’s impact beyond Tondo. We need to spread our influence and create disruptions in other areas of Metro Manila.”

Her second-in-command, Gardo, nodded. “We should target key infrastructure that will have a broader impact. The government is already stretched thin. Strikes on transportation and communication hubs will weaken their control.”

The partisans began planning their next wave of actions. They coordinated efforts to hit transport hubs, including bus terminals and train stations, as well as critical communication facilities. The goal was to stretch the government’s resources even further and to gain more support from the general population.

Meanwhile, Cheka’s operations were met with both success and mounting complications. Her unit managed to clear several barricades, but the partisans’ ability to regroup and re-fortify their positions meant that the conflict was far from over. The casualties on both sides were mounting, and the public sentiment was increasingly swayed by the violence and disruption.

Director Coronel convened an emergency meeting with his key advisors. The situation was deteriorating faster than anticipated, and public opinion was becoming a serious concern.

“We must consider a different approach,” Coronel said, pacing the room. “Continuing with our current strategy could lead to a protracted conflict that we may not win in the court of public opinion.”

General Maligalig, who had been observing the situation closely, spoke up. “We need to explore options for negotiation and containment. If we can isolate the most disruptive elements and negotiate with other community leaders, we might be able to restore some degree of order without further escalating the conflict.”

Coronel nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, we should start talks with neutral parties and see if we can negotiate a ceasefire or at least a reduction in hostilities. At the same time, we must continue to press the insurgents and prevent them from gaining further ground.”

Back in the streets, Cheka’s unit faced mounting pressure as the partisans prepared for their next moves. The city was in turmoil, and the struggle for control had become a test of endurance and strategy for both sides.

The government’s forces continued their push, while the partisans remained resolute, driven by their cause and their growing network of support. The outcome of the conflict hung in the balance, with every action and reaction shaping the future of Manila and its people.

XIV

As the armed mob continue fighting, the police, along with the DDS able to fight back with Cheka and her special unit manned their Cyetons against them. Initially, the unit scored success as they killed those who resist in in the ensuing firefight, making authorities able to pass through the blockade and to “control the situation”. But the unit suddenly faced the dilemma as a flying column led by a girl wearing a balakava and a helmet countered their actions. 

 “What the fuck!” Said one DDS agent as the flying column methodically rather than stubbornly resisting against the hostile troops with one of the rebels hiding in the alleys firing an RPG against them. One Ceyton was destroyed while another badly beaten by the stubborn defence of the rabble. 

 On the other hand, another DDS agent observed from his Cyeton the well-organised but stubborn defense their enemy doing. 

“We are not fighting an armed rabble anymore” he said. “But instead we are fighting an army. I thought we’ve beaten the mutineers years ago. We’re even trying to beat the rebels in the countryside recently, but this? Looks like another challenge to me.”

“This doesn’t matter!” Said Cheka as she’s trying to ‘control the situation’. “Fuck them! If they want war, we’ll give them war!”

Then she fired her cannon against the tenement housing where the enemy fires its machine gun against them. 

On the other hand, Maggie and her column immediately escaped from the besieged building and noticed an enemy checkpoint. Gardo then asked:

“What shall we do? The enemy is setting up checkpoints around the area.”

“No worries.” Maggie said. “Just stay here at the moment I’ll be the one to diffuse the situation.”

As she sneaked through the alleys trying to evade enemy patrols and checkpoints, Maggie then saw one of the armedroid pilots smoking alone at the corner near his Cyeton. She then knocked him down from the nape, stole his key, and went to his Cyeton where she activated and drove away leaving its pilot lying down before his colleagues approached him. 

As Maggie got the Cyeton, she immediately issued a coded message to her colleagues to follow her orders: “Seize the day by seizing their means!” 

Gardo and some peeps respond by going to Tutuban as ‘Black Magnolia’ provide the information about a train containing mobile weapons intended for the police. From there they immediately took a getaway vehicle, evaded checkpoints as they carefully kept their weapons, and went to Tutuban station through Tayuman where they sought a train wagon which contained 11 Cyetons. 

Maggie, who was driving a Cyeton taken from the enemy, was able to assist Gardo in taking out the Cyetons of their pursuers before gathering them at the train station in Tutuban that had Omicrons intended for the police. With assistance from the stolen Cyeton and on the orders of Black Magnolia, the rebels acquired all of the Cyeton and started methodically killing all hostile troops in the district. 

Nevertheless, despite “putting things in control” the order was not to have everything its way. Within a few days news reports claim that “the strike had been broken” with destroyed barricades and a number of casualties from the striking workers and the affected community in general.  

But the battle has just begun. 

XIV

As time goes by, news about actions from the partisans shook the entire order Gadon had created. 

"members of the Armed City Partisans placed six bombs in the pro-administration "Bulletin Today" office in Manila. Only three of the five bombs exploded, but 36 people were injured."

"A bomb was planted at the Basa Air Base by the Armed City Partisans... The blast destroyed an Air Force C-130 transport about to carry 114 DDS agents heading for a counterinsurgency operation, killing 23 and wounding 29."

"Two rockets were fired at the police station in Makati... Armed City Partisans claimed responsibility...”

The Department of Public Information tried to stop the news reports, however, it became too late as news outlets broadcasted such reports from print, radio, television, and the internet what the order initially tries to deny as such- making Press Secretary Jose Sonza trying to dispel fear as being questioned by the news during a press conference:

“The security forces is trying best to resolve this embarrassing matter.” Sonza said. “We have news about a cache of firearms and explosives being captured in Port Area and in Cavite by the police.”

“But isn’t that report said two days ago?” The reporter from ‘Bulgar’ asked.

“Yes…yes.” Sonza replied. “But no matter it was done two days ago this report shows that the authorities are still trying best to control the situation."

"Isn't this a Manila autumn waiting to happen?" The reporter from the Manila Times sarcastically asked. "Or should say a Manila summer?"

"I don't think a Manila autumn nor a Manila summer would happen." Sonza said. "They able to maim or kill authorities to advance their intentions but doesn't mean they can win the war they've started."

Meanwhile, Director Coronel received more reports of urban guerilla attacks, stressed, he said to Cheka:

"This is more than an autumn or summer in Manila as what the reporter said to that Sonza. This is gonna become a year of raining lead between us and them in this goddamn Manila."

Cheka simply nod on the Director's remark, and replied:

"It doesn't matter whether it may take years. I and the team will deal with these bandits."

"Is that so?" the Director asked. "Do you think arrests of supporters and capturing guns enough to resolve this?"

Cheka first didn't bother her superior's question as she smoked a cigarette.

“You have nothing to say on this?” Asked the director.

"Since they have armedroids, the better." Cheka replied. "As what you said, this is gonna be a long war for us against them."

Even at the countryside, as Alipato read news about urban partisan attacks in his tablet while planning. 

"Sounds like a cross between ASALA, Irgun, and La Cagoule to me." Alipato said. "Their actions did provoke a lot against Gadon."

"How come?" Melchor asked.

"How could that group able to shook the system's 'atmosphere of peace' with explosions and assassinations? The police, military, the DDS failed to control the situation." Alipato said. "Looks like no one did ever made this."

But despite such statements, the actions brought by these urban partisans showed a renewed and intensified resistance. Throughout much of the country, those who opposed the regime, including that of soldiers opposing Gadon took to the hills and joined the National Peoples Army with whatever weapons were available and became guerilla fighters. The DDS tried to diffuse the situation either capturing or assassinating members as well as those suspected of participating in a growing resistance against the regime- and yet Black Magnolia’s deed as well as that of the armed city partisans created cracks Gadon's impression of order.

XV

Again, the country remained relatively calm. 

However, the following months seems to be "a time for reckoning"- that of assassinating supporters of the Gadon regime especially that of the corrupt bureaucrats and despotic landlords alike, described by the masses "profiteering tyrants" who used "industrial peace to exploit the working mass." The DDS, especially Cheka's "special unit" did afford to capture or kill any of the partisans involved in the killing, but this didn't stop the growing number of people to take arms against Gadon-especially after the failed "Rojas revolt" in Sangley Point and in Subic Bay, if not the rise of "Black Magnolia" after the Battle of Tondo. The regime also felt losing control of mountain districts as the National Peoples Army expand its guerilla zones. The group also favored a strategy of "immediate action to destabilize the enemy", by creating "an atmosphere of general insecurity" through "expanded and repeated attacks".

It was 9:00 pm. As media outlets broadcasted its usual shows, it suddenly interrupted by a pirate broadcast. First screens went black for about fifteen seconds, followed by the song "Ang Detinido" being played for a background music.

Then Black Magnolia appeared. Sitting, wearing her jacket, helmet, shades, and balaclava, Maggie presented herself to the media through a  broadcast signal interruption her speech justifying the partisan's actions. 

"Greetings.

At first, pardon if I interrupt your broadcast, for Please accept my apologies for this interruption. I, like many of you, value the comforts that made us enjoy routinely. I enjoy them just as much as any other people around. But, in the spirit of commemoration, in which significant events in the past, usually associated with someone's death or the end of some awful bloody struggle, are commemorated with a nice holiday, I thought we could mark this November thirty-ith, a day that's remembered as an anniversary of the 'revolution', just by sitting down and having a little chat.”

The speech is juxtaposed with scenes of poverty in the cities and in the countryside followed by the events of the coup. Pictures of the late Sebastian with the people were also being shown.

"These folks, coming from various walks of life, had sworn not just to remove the shackles of incompetence and injustice, but to uplift the living standards of the working people, who had enough of the system's bullshitries disguised as promises, if not to promote the common good, emphasise sound development, and to revive a nation's glory that's more than just gaining titles in sports and in beauty pageants.

But the taste for a renewed nationalism was interrupted by tyrants who took the situation of a patriot's death for their interest. The pretentious kind of patriotism presented by this regime failed to touch the minds and hearts of the filipino masses, whose hopes quashed down by those who pretend to be on the side of change and justice. Their dear Sebastian was betrayed by his friend, who poisoned him just to take over the reins of power and to continue to perpetuate this unjust social order. 

But regardless of this so-called "orderism" such bullshitries has renewed resistance. The order Gadon brought rather appeased that of the profiteering moneylender and the bloodthirsty local tyrant. Yes, he is the Gadon praised for development as he opened factories and favours more foreign investment, but he is the same Gadon who doesn't mind justice at all just to promote his distorted kind of "order". Will you remain quiet as he and his attack dogs maim and exploit you? There is no difference between his order and that of the old, both rotten as Gadon wasted the promise of his friend who had sworn to reborn this country he loved through justice. 

Again, he is not like Sebastian who promised you peace, land, bread, and justice. And although Gadon promised you order and continuity of my father's work, that order is rooted on fear whether he distorted the law or mobilised the entire security force just to silence your right to live in peace. You have seen the armedroids mobilised in the streets, if not he declared the country in a state of siege. But cracks unfold as news about corruption been broadcasted to that of the security forces felt beaten by the armed partisans in the streets. Yes, order has brought stability as what Gadon said, but his government had gown arrogant and corrupt from within. 

You know how it was to end, with this order likely to lose the war, which may seal their fate. This history has made us all victims!"

The video ended with the logo of a red star inside a yellow eight-rayed sun, and stopped as the image faded briefly into static, and then viewers were returned to their respective shows after a total interruption of about 90 seconds. The interruption was so sudden that technicians could not counteract the signal takeovers because there were no engineers on duty at that hour at the transmitter tower of ABS-CBN at Mother Ignacia and at NBN in Visayas Avenue.

"I couldn't believe that the enemy able to do this thing." Said Gadon to National Security Adviser Catamco and DDS director Coronel as he saw the message. "We did mobilise the DDS alongside the military and the police, but how did let this happen?"

“I don’t even know.” Director Coronel said. “That video came a surprise.

Meanwhile, an officer came and showed a dossier regarding 'Black Magnolia', and said: "Mr. President, here is a dossier about that so-called 'Black Magnolia'." 

Gadon immediately took and opened the envelope about the information about that known rebel. The information still quite sketchy that the DDS failed who that person behind the  was- except that of graffitis in the streets saying "a hundred black magnolias will bloom" if not "Sebastian lives". Those who were captured and tortured didn’t even know nor say about who ‘Black Magnolia’ was.  

As “Black Magnolia”, Schey personally marked the Junta, particularly Gadon as her personal target in her quest for revenge after she discovering that he masterminded her father's death in order to take over the government. The DDS marked that mysterious fighter as "Public Enemy No. 1" aside from the members of the Philippine Liberation Movement and the National Peoples Army. 

But despite her actions, she remembered one person who afforded to counter her. Thinking about that person just made her cringe in her cockpit seat. 

"Cheka Arce." Schey said to herself as she looked at her picture. "I remember her as my classmate and a rival during my college days. Why on earth she has to be part of this battle?"

"Is there anything wrong Schey?" Asked Uncle Nick.

"Huh?" Schey replied. "No, nothing. I just remember someone I saw during the firefight. I think she recognises me."

"Recognises you even you're in helmet and shades?" Uncle Nick replied along with a laughter.

"Hope may not." Schey said.

Uncle Nick replied:

"She is part of the special unit of the DDS."

"I see," Schey replied. "In fact, she looks like my classmate in San Sebastian."

"What's her name?" Uncle Nick asked.

"Franchesca Arce." Schey replied. "And if she is, then she's just like me but in a different direction, and quite far from the course she finished in San Sebastian."

"What a coincidence then." Uncle Nick replied.

"In fairness, she's looking good in her uniform." Schey said.

As soon as the public had been reassured by the authorities and the media that they were in no danger, that the state security continues to crack down on the "criminals, bandits", most relaxed again and went back to their television screens and social media. But the interruption brought by that “girl having a crossover of Lady Une and Kycilia Zabi” did really provoked by surprise as that of the partisan actions against the system immediately, carrying out executions of corrupt judges and legislators, propagandists of the system, and other system figures aside from corrupt policemen and torturous military officers. 

But as long as the government is able to keep the economy somehow gasping and wheezing along, the people can be conditioned to accept any outrage. The order tries its “best” to assure stability by intensifying security precautions such as unleashing the DDS in search of “criminals”. Who cares about issues like the continuing inflation and the gradually declining standard of living? Or corrupt personages and torturous security officers? The people are still able to keep their bellies full today, making the ones concerned must simply face the fact that that's the only thing which counts with most of them.

XVI

Despite numerous partisan attacks, the DDS also had its share of reprisals against the movement. 

Aside from capturing arms caches and capturing suspected partisan members, the state security agents violently dislodged students and instructors from the universities particularly in the University of the Philippines and in the University Belt. Using "restoring order" as pretense, the police, along with the DDS barged into campuses and into classrooms, disregarding autonomy and forced to dislodge students with long batons used by the authorities to hit students, instructors, and graduates while taking out of the buildings. Books were confiscated while laboratories end padlocked. 

The 'Commission on Higher Education' filed protest against the DDS for their action, however it fell silent but instead responding it with padlocking its offices. In an televised address from the Department of Education, the Secretary of Education justifies such actions as that of "purging of undesirables" and to "intensify efforts in national security."

"Sorry for the inconvenience, but the actions from the authorities is to remove undesirables in the academe and to put in place our education- that of focusing on national development and to build sound bases of national security." said the Education secretary. "To be honest, I pity on most students and instructors, but the country has to punish those who pretend to be educating."

Meanwhile, a documentary made by the 'Philippine Information Agency' talks about the actions brought by the partisans. The statement, obviously a propaganda piece, tries to insist that the armed opposition was as same as that of a bandit group, as it said:

"In their attempt to incite hostility to the security forces, the so-called rebels take advantage of the inconvenience and occasional violations that nearly always occur. Accounts of ill-treatment have sometimes been manufactured in the struggle against an insurgent movement operating from among a civilian community."

Furthermore, it also featured a funeral of an armed partisan, but it rather shows a different slant blaming the rebel rather than understand the reason behind his willingness to fight and die for the cause, as the narrator explains the situation:

"...Practically every time an armed rebel is murdered there is a protest regarding the circumstances of his killing: generally the initial protestations evolved into the truth next day, in the death column of the tabloids, when one would read: 'Michael Angelo Trimanez, 19, died in action against Security Forces'. However, in some situations, the reaction to the tragedy was so strong that a presumption of innocence became the dominant viewpoint..."

But the reprisals from the authorities doesn't stop the "struggle". 

XVII

"If one may ask, who's their backer?" Coronel asked whilst looking at the papers concerning the use of mobile weapons by the rebels. "How could these terrorists able to have armedroids if not the ability to be trained?"

"Is it Black Magnolia?" Cheka said. "If she's behind all those then what's the real purpose of fighting against the government? I doubt the so-called 'Iron Sparrow' unit of the NPA can do it."

"It doesn't matter whether it is led by that Black Magnolia, Iron Sparrow, or any other armedroid-driving terrorist." Coronel said. "Who's behind all these? The ability to have these armedroids against us?" 

Meanwhile an officer came with a dossier containing lists of "manufacturers" both local and foreign, and from there the Director browsed some and said:

"Is the Quintrix active in manufacturing arms?"

"Quintrix is behind the manufacturing of Omicrons used by the police sir." Said the officer. "They also export to Armenia and in Timor Leste."

"So is the Police or even the Armed Forces wanting to compete against us? Aren't they contented in their own armored cars, tanks, ships, and planes?" Director Coronel asked. 

"For sure we heard about the President allowing them to manufacture to support efforts in bolstering national defence and to promote industrialisation." The officer said. 

"It doesn't matter," the Director said. "We uphold the order more than these policemen and the military. We kept the markets and investments alive and well more because of us and not the laws that obviously toilet papers."

And as the Director looked again at the dossier of Quintrix, he recalled Nicolas Bersa, and said to his subordinate:

"Investigate that Nicolas Bersa ASAP."

"Why do we need to investigate him?" Cheka asked.

"Bersa was connected to the past regime." The Director said.

"Huh?" Cheka said. "But we all know that he doesn't mind about politics, let alone engaging in business and supporting government projects."

"Just because he's investing in national defence makes him supportive of this government?" Director Coronel said. "Think! It doesn't matter whether he has friends in the government or the international community to save himself from the law!"

"But," Cheka said.

"That's an order!" Director Coronel strongly replied. "Should I need to say he's a potential subversive? A terrorist? He is!"

Meanwhile the secretary immediately approached the director and said:

"Sir, a call from the president."

The director replied through the voicegram and asked:

"Is there anything sir?"

"Look at the news online." the president said.

"Okay...okay." the director replied.

The director then saw the news from abroad in the computer with videoes of partisans fighting against the police and the DDS, and it says:

"The battle has spread to the city limits."

 "How could outside news sources able to capture these?" the director said. 

XVIII

Maggie was wondering about why her former college classmate/rival joined the ruling order. By the time she and Cheka coincidentally met at the washroom, Maggie had thoughts that she joined the DDS or any of the agencies aligned by the order, knowing that the parties she was invited happened to involve any of the government departments including that of state security, in which became a client for the Omicron project. 

Maggie's "parties" created an opportunity for her to gather information as government officials used the event for their meetings. Mostly situated in the discotechques in Makati, these gatherings, with rave or industrial music being played and free booze, Maggie able to listen to political gossip as highly-placed officials would openly discuss their work and army plans. Again, she would pretend to be drunk to encourage such conversations as she paid close attention to it.

In one of the parties she organised, a higher official from Merlion Holdings approached and asked her:
"Pardon to ask, what brings you to deal with the government?"
"I worked at Robotron Technologies." Maggie said. "And your agency is one of my clients. If I remember you know Director Sunico?"
"Yes?" Said the officer. "I am he."
"Oh!" Maggie said. "Nice to meet you sir."
Along with a handshake.
"I'm sorry if I asked that way," said the director. "Call me Peter from now on."
"Okay Peter." Maggie said. "Since you asked me about dealing with the government, my company assists in some of your projects- particularly in technology transfers from Iran, Iraq, and Israel."
"Hmm..." Peter said. "By the way, do you also acquire equipment from Bulgaria? Romania?"
"Ya?" Maggie replied. "But for now had to focus attention on the middle east since they also have good, if not better precision instruments and technology needed for projects."
"If not mistaken, you used to be under Quintrix right?" Peter asked.
"Yes, back then." Maggie replied. "But Robotron offered me better packages that made me moved from there."
"If I may ask, have you heard Scinteia?" Peter again asked. "They offer good equipment from Eastern Europe too."
"Yes, I heard about it." Maggie replied. "I did make contacts with them too."
"I see," Peter replied. "Anyway, pardon if I asked bluntly about your dealing with us in the government."
"No problem," said Maggie. "Tech companies need government support as the government needs tech companies especially for their major projects."
"I guess I am already drunk." Peter said.
"Got to go!" and he left.

The bass of the rave music pulsed through the walls, but inside the backroom of the club, it was eerily quiet, the atmosphere starkly contrasting the chaos outside. Maggie leaned against the door, her hand subtly tapping the small device concealed beneath her sleeve. Her eyes flicked from the wall to the small monitor she held in her palm, ensuring the bug she had placed earlier in the room was transmitting clearly. The device, no larger than a matchbox, was capable of picking up even the faintest whisper in the otherwise soundproofed room.

The meeting inside the room, a discreet gathering of top government officials, was now underway. Maggie knew she had to be cautious. The rave party she organized was more than just a way to blend into the nightlife scene of Makati—it was an avenue for acquiring sensitive information. She had orchestrated it so that most of the key figures from various agencies, including state security, had attended. By playing the role of an innocent party organizer, no one suspected her true intentions.

Her heart beat faster as she adjusted the frequency on her device, tuning into the conversation in the room. The voices were low, but her skills in filtering out background noise allowed her to hear every word.

“We can’t afford any leaks with this project. If the press gets wind of it, it’s all over,” a voice said—one she recognized. It was Director Sunico, or Peter, as he had insisted. She had known him to be a key figure in securing government contracts, but hearing his voice now, so tense and focused, confirmed her suspicions.
“You don’t need to worry about the press,” another voice chimed in, slightly muffled. “We have everything under control. What about the equipment from Scinteia? Do we have a clear timeline for delivery?”
“Just last week,” Peter responded, his voice steady but with an edge to it. “It’s en route. But the Israelis are still hesitant. We might need to push for a stronger negotiation, especially with their new policies. But I trust Robotron’s contact in the Middle East will handle that.” 

Maggie’s pulse quickened as she heard her name mentioned. Robotron was her former employer—her connection to the government was still under the radar, but it was becoming clear just how involved her company was in some of these high-stakes dealings. She leaned in closer, barely breathing as she concentrated on the conversation.

“Has anyone reached out to that contact of yours in Tehran? We need a reliable source for the technology. If we’re going to compete with the Chinese, we need precision, the kind they can’t match.” “Already on it,” Peter replied. “I’ve instructed them to push for better terms. We’re taking a gamble on this, but it should pay off. Just make sure you’re handling the local aspects—get the right people in place.”

Maggie felt a shift in the air, a sense of urgency building. The stakes were higher than she had thought. The project they were discussing, it wasn’t just about technology—it was about control, influence, and power. This was a game of geopolitics, and Maggie was getting caught in the middle of it.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. She quickly glanced at her monitor, ensuring her device was still transmitting. The voices inside grew louder, as if in response to the interruption. Maggie quickly slipped the device back into her sleeve, straightening her posture and slipping back into the guise of a carefree party organizer.

“Peter,” one of the voices said from inside, now more urgent. “We’ve got to move on this now. Time’s running out, and the longer we wait, the more unstable the situation in the Middle East gets. The Russians are already making moves. We can’t risk losing control of this.” Peter’s voice softened, but Maggie could hear the decision forming.
“Alright, make the calls. Get the contacts moving. If this falls apart, we’ll be the ones who pay the price.” With that, the meeting began to wind down. Maggie turned her back to the door, carefully removing her earpiece and slipping into the shadows. She’d gathered more than enough intel for now.

As she made her way back to the main dance floor, blending into the crowd, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her former classmate—Cheka—was somehow connected to all of this. The lines between politics, business, and military power were blurring, and Maggie had to stay one step ahead. The stakes were higher than ever, and in the world of shadow deals and covert operations, one wrong move could cost everything.

But Maggie wasn’t afraid. She had learned long ago how to navigate the murky waters of espionage and power. The party may have been over, but the real game was just beginning.

As Maggie slipped back into the pulsating crowd of the rave, her mind raced with the implications of what she had just overheard. The Directorate of Domestic Security (DDS)—the very name sent a chill down her spine. Under the Gadon regime, the DDS had become the central authority for domestic surveillance, political repression, and intelligence gathering. The implications were clear: the government was building a highly sophisticated network of technology and influence, and they were using her connections to make it all happen.

The mention of “Robotron’s contact in the Middle East” wasn’t just casual chatter. Maggie knew that, in addition to supplying the latest military tech, her company’s dealings with the Middle East were under heavy scrutiny. The DDS, having expanded its reach under the Gadon regime, had a vested interest in controlling not just the flow of information, but the very infrastructure that would secure their dominance. Maggie’s involvement, though indirect, was a piece of a much larger puzzle.

She made her way to a quieter part of the club, a corner tucked behind the thumping speakers. She pulled out her device and reviewed the conversation one more time, allowing the details to settle into place. The name “Scinteia” kept echoing in her mind, a company she had only heard of in passing—an Eastern European arms supplier that had been quietly making waves in the defense industry. If Scinteia was involved, that meant high-grade weaponry and cutting-edge surveillance systems were on the table, which made sense given the DDS’s growing power.

Maggie’s thoughts shifted to Cheka. Her former classmate, with her deep ties to the regime and her shadowy connections, was no stranger to power and manipulation. If Cheka was involved in any way with the DDS, then Maggie could only assume that she was playing a role in this complex web of control. But why had she joined the DDS? Was she simply using her position to further her own ambitions, or was she truly loyal to the Gadon regime’s agenda? Maggie couldn’t shake the feeling that Cheka had her own reasons, ones that might even extend beyond the DDS itself.

Maggie recalled their university days: Cheka had always been fiercely ambitious, competitive in every aspect. But there had been something else, a coldness in her gaze that hinted at a deeper drive. Now, seeing the power dynamics at play, Maggie wondered if that drive had led her straight into the heart of the regime, where loyalty to the state was paramount and the stakes were dangerously high.

With the revelations swirling in her mind, Maggie knew that she had to dig deeper into this connection—her role in the covert operations, Cheka’s involvement, the DDS, and the Gadon regime’s ambitions to maintain power. Every step she took seemed to lead her further into a maze of deception and danger.

She slipped her phone out and sent a brief message to her contact at Robotron Technologies: “Keep an eye on DDS activity. There’s more at play than we thought. Can’t go into details yet.”

She was a step ahead, but not by much. The Gadon regime, with its tight grip on both the political and security sectors, was on the move. And Maggie had no intention of letting herself get caught in the gears of their machine.

The music from the rave pulsed in the background, but Maggie was already looking beyond the flashing lights and neon colors. This wasn’t just another night out; this was a mission, one that would unravel far more than just political gossip. Maggie had crossed into a world of espionage and covert operations, and there was no turning back. If she wanted to expose the full extent of the regime’s plans, she would need to stay one step ahead of everyone—including Cheka.

XIX

While Maggie is enjoying coffee at "The Den", a handsome guy with tucked-in shirt, pants, and shoes saw her, he then approached and asked:
"Sorry to ask, are you Maggie San Miguel?"
"Yes?" Maggie replied. "And you are?"
“I am James Limtuaco.” The guy said. “I am the guy who owns the distillery where you brought the whiskey for the party.”
“Many thanks for the whiskey by the way.” Said Maggie. “So are you related to Don Bonifacio Limutaco?”
“He is my father.” James replied.
“So how is the Castel Blanca?” Maggie asked. “If I remember that old house near the sea remains picturesque.”
James smiled at first, and said: “Perhaps next time try to visit, I bet you will like the place.” 
"Of course!" Maggie replied. "By the way, coffee?"
"Sure!" James said. "Your treat?"
"No problem." Schey replied, followed by calling a waiter for a cup of Americano.

As the waiter brought James' Americano, he sat across from Maggie, resting his hands on the table. Maggie couldn't help but notice the subtle confidence in his posture, something that intrigued her.
"So," James began after taking a sip, "how was the party? I hope the whiskey added a little magic to the evening."
Maggie chuckled softly. "It was a hit, to be honest. People couldn't stop talking about it. But you know what they say—it's not just the whiskey, but the company you share it with."
James leaned in slightly, an eyebrow raised in curiosity. "And who was the company that night? Anyone special?"
Maggie tilted her head thoughtfully. "Let's just say, the night was full of interesting characters. But none as unexpected as running into the distillery owner himself today."
James laughed, his smile warm. "Well, I guess I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time."
Maggie smiled in return. "Or maybe you just enjoy the serendipity of life."
For a moment, they sat in a comfortable silence, the hum of the café around them.
"So, Maggie," James said, breaking the quiet, "what's next on your agenda? More parties, or are you planning something else? I imagine you have quite the busy life."
"Busy?" Maggie echoed, her smile faint but her eyes distant. "Well, busy is one way to put it. I'm actually in between... phases. Trying to figure out the next big step."
James nodded, his gaze steady. "I can relate to that. Castel Blanca... it's more than just a house by the sea. For me, it's like a crossroad. There's so much family history tied up in that place. Sometimes I wonder if I should stick around and preserve it or—" he paused, considering his words, "—move on."
Maggie's interest was piqued. "It sounds like Castel Blanca holds a lot more than just memories for you."
"It does," James admitted. "My father poured his heart into that estate aside from the distillery, and now it’s up to me to decide what comes next."
Maggie took a sip of her coffee, her mind racing with thoughts. "Maybe I should take you up on that offer to visit. Seeing the place might help you decide."
James’ smile widened. "Maybe it will. And perhaps, you'll find some answers of your own while you're there."

XX

Meanwhile, General Bert Nazario, a respected military leader and loyal to the late president, had been imprisoned by the DDS for his opposition to the new regime. His incarceration was a brutal affair, intended to break his spirit and silence any dissent. The DDS, known for their ruthless tactics, had kept him in a high-security facility isolated from the world. His only solace was the belief that a resistance existed outside the prison walls, waiting for the right moment to act.

In a dimly lit room within the prison, a clandestine meeting was taking place. General Nazario was shackled to a chair, his face lined with determination despite the grim surroundings. Across from him, two figures, cloaked in shadow, spoke in hushed tones.
"General, we have a plan to get you out," whispered one of the figures, a tall man with a cold, calculating gaze. "But we need your cooperation."
"How do I know I can trust you?" Nazario’s voice was steady, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.
"We share a common enemy," the second figure said, stepping into the light to reveal a familiar face—Captain Figueroa, now a key player in the resistance. "The DDS won't stop until they’ve crushed all opposition. We need to act quickly."

The plan was set into motion. The resistance had managed to infiltrate the prison’s security systems, exploiting weaknesses in the guards’ routines and the facility's outdated surveillance equipment. It was a daring and risky operation, but their goal was clear: free General Nazario and get him to safety.

Late one night, as the prison was engulfed in the usual sounds of darkness, the operation commenced. Captain Figueroa and his team, armed with disguises and stolen access cards, breached the facility’s outer defenses. Inside, they navigated the labyrinthine corridors, avoiding patrols and bypassing locked doors.

In the prison’s central control room, the team disabled the alarms and communications, creating a window of opportunity. Meanwhile, Nazario, with the aid of a hidden lock-picking tool, managed to free himself from his restraints.

The General emerged from his cell, his imposing figure moving with purpose. He met Figueroa and the team in the dimly lit hallway, and they quickly set off toward the exit. Their progress was interrupted by a sudden alarm—someone had detected their presence.

Without hesitation, Figueroa’s team engaged the guards in a series of fierce combat encounters. The clamor of gunfire and the clash of metal echoed through the corridors as his men, trained and resolute, held back the DDS.

General Nazario fought alongside them, his military training evident in every move. He tackled guards with precision and skill, his tactical mind guiding the team through the chaos. His presence was a beacon of strength and determination, bolstering the morale of his rescuers.

As they neared the outer perimeter, the team was ambushed by a squad of DDS elite enforcers. The battle was intense. The resistance fighters, though outnumbered, fought valiantly. Nazario, ever the strategist, quickly assessed the situation and devised a counterattack.

He directed the team to take cover and utilized the environment to their advantage. Explosions rocked the facility as improvised devices created by the resistance triggered chaos among the DDS troops. Nazario fought his way through, his leadership and bravery earning him respect from his rescuers.

Finally, they reached a concealed vehicle waiting at the edge of the prison grounds. With Nazario safely inside, Figueroa and his team provided covering fire as they made their escape. The pursuit was relentless, with DDS vehicles chasing them down. The road ahead was perilous, but the resistance’s driver skillfully evaded the pursuing forces.

After a harrowing chase, they reached a safe house, where Nazario was greeted by his allies. The immediate danger had passed, but the escape was only the beginning. The General, now free, had to regroup and prepare for the next phase of their struggle against the regime.

In the safe house, General Nazario, now free from the DDS's clutches, met with the resistance leaders and shared vital intelligence about the regime’s operations. The escape had been a success, but the fight was far from over. The General's return was a significant morale boost for the resistance, and his strategic insights would prove crucial in the battles to come.

The DDS, enraged by the breach and the escape, intensified their efforts to hunt down both Nazario and those who helped him escape from the maximum security compound. But for now, the General’s daring escape had rekindled hope and provided a crucial advantage in the ongoing struggle against the oppressive regime.

XXI

When Maggie, along with her new friend James visited Castel Blanca, Don Bonifacio Limutaco, James's father, appeared. His son approached and had an honouring gesture to him. Maggie followed suit, that made the old man asked his son:

"So tell me who is she?"

"My friend," James replied. "Maggie San Miguel."

"Hmm..." Don Bonifacio said. "How familiar."

Then the old man looked at his friend and said:

"At least she know's what respect is. How rare to find people who able to do an act of respect to elders."

Maggie simply nod on what he said, but, the old man approached her and whispered:

"But I know you."

"What do you mean?" Maggie asked.

"You are Schey Sebastian." Don Bonifacio replied in a whisper. "Your face looks too familiar to begin with."

The girl didn't speak as what the old man said to her.

"Don't be scared." Don Bonifacio said. "Come into my office, we'll have a time to talk with you."

In a closed door meeting with James, Don Bonifacio first apologised for calling her real name, and asked:

"How is your mother?"

"She's okay," Schey said. "She continues helping the diaspora the way they protected her."

"I see," Don Bonifacio said. "I and your parents are good friends. In your appearance I know that you are the daughter of the late president Andre Sebastian, but, how lucky that you able to evade the DDS especially that dreaded Gadon is trying to root out against the opposition."

"I know," Schey said. "Some friends and relatives able to help me return here in this country and to conduct resistance, especially my uncle Nick Bersa who let me stay at his home in Forbes Park."

"Nick?" Don Bonifacio asked. "How is he? I haven't seen Nick for years."

"He's working in a project." Schey replied.

"Sorry to ask," Don Bonifacio said. "But is there any way to help you? If necessary, I will let this Castel Blanca of mine to serve as your hideout."

"What do you mean?" Schey asked.

"I am strongly against Gadon as I strongly support your father." Don Bonifacio said, "Your father's colleagues either end in prison, killed, disappeared, or in hiding as these thugs-in-uniform trying to look for those opposing their dreaded master."

"And I have enough of them seeing my friends suffer." Don Bonifacio said as he showed to her a picture of himself along with her father, and her uncle Berting. "To be honest, I am willing to fund the opposition even if it includes buying guns and bombs."

"I see," Schey said. 

"James?" Asked Don Bonifacio, "How do you know this guest of ours?"

"She used to buy whiskey and brandy in our distillery." James said. "She also fund parties that involved some government officials."

"Interesting," the old man replied. "A good time to gather information." He then looked back at Schey, and asked:

"But isn't it that risky that you set up parties and able to mingle with them? Remember, there are DDS still looking for the opposition and that includes you."

"For now they don't know me." Schey said. "When I met your son, he didn't knew that I am Schey Dominique Sebastian, only Maria Magnolia San Miguel. I and your son transact professionally until he invited me to visit your place here in Castel Blanca."

"I see," Don Bonifacio replied. "But still, be careful. On the other hand, you are creative enough to evade them and able to gather information from them."

"I am a businesswoman," Schey said. "If not trying to support my uncle's business in the science sector, building The clients happened to be in the government, including that from the state security. Of course, the DDS may try to join in if necessary, not knowing that they're being overheard."

The old man, while listening to her words, opened a bottle of whiskey and poured a glass for himself, his son, and to his guest. "Whiskey?" he asked.

"Sure." Schey said. 

"My granduncle used to obey orders from the authorities to throw precious liquor away in order not to be fall from the Japanese," Don Bonifacio said. "He was imprisoned, luckily he got pardoned during the emperor’s birthday and stayed at Bahia Encantada while clandestinely supporting the anti-Japanese resistance. My father was young at that moment when his uncle James chose to defy the enemy. When I hear it I wonder why successful people sometimes find risky times a good time for them, especially when it involves their beliefs. Even I who, as a friend of your father and mother sometimes wonder why their love of country includes their willingness to sacrifice."

Schey simply nod on what the old man said, and replied:

"To be honest Don,"

"Don't call me Don Bonifacio." The old man said with his hand waving begging to differ. "You may call me Uncle Bonnie instead."

"Ok uncle." Schey said. "To be honest, I am seeking support for the resistance I am initiating. Recently you heard news about the armed attacks against the regime's security forces, and I am the one leading in those actions."

"How interesting," Uncle Bonnie said. "Tell me more."

"For sure you heard about the 'battle of Tondo' where DDS forced to withdraw after being beaten." Schey said. "Another is the string of assassinations against corrupt and oppressive officials in the bureaucracy."

"Yes I heard about that." Uncle Bonnie said. "I know those mouthpieces in the TV or in the Radio either trying to deny or what but they felt getting beaten."

"Thank you uncle." said Schey.

"But," Uncle Bonnie said. "Be careful, I know you may trying to evade authorities but this doesn't mean their eyes aren't looking after you. By the way, you need to stay here even for a week, then I will tell my driver to bring you back home."

"Thank you." Schey replied.

"No problem." Said the old man. "Here in Castel Blanca and Bahia Encantada I will call you by your real name, but outside I will call you by your alias."

It was weekend noon when Schey was enjoying at the beach in Bahia Encantada. Riding a white horse and wearing a red bikini, she find herself having a "relief" after engaging in a long war, if not missing horseback riding years after her last ride in Hayastan. James also joined her in a horseback ride, and asking:

"So is it okay to call you Schey?"

"You may," Schey said. "But only here. For sure you already know what your father said to me."

"I couldn't understand," James said. "But how could you able to return here in the country despite attempts to get you?"

"there are people who able to help me return here safe and sound." Schey said. "But it's risky at the same time, just like how I deal with authorities. It takes a lot of money, persuasion, time, and idea to engage with them just like Oskar Schindler."

"Okay, okay." James replied. "But why not use your real name? Show yourself? I bet the current administration will just move on, or even pardon you."

"So you want me to get arrested?" Schey strongly asked him as she stopped. "Gadon loves to use words- he can use the word peace and friendship but doesn't mean he can do it as such. For him, everything's a hyperbole except his point of view. Your father's friends were also that of my father's- arrested, killed, or even disappeared. So imagine is returning home means moving on? No- for now returning home means taking part in a resistance."

And she rode away leaving James misunderstood. Meanwhile, the old man of the house called them for lunch, with Schey dismounted from her horse, she then approached Uncle Bonnie and asked:
"How's cooking?"
"Well," Uncle Bonnie said as he prepared seafood. "I cooked a sumptuous meal for us three."
Schey smiled as the old haciendero cooked some fish and seafood. The latter then offered her some whiskey and said:
"Care for a drink?"
"Sure!" Schey said as they clink their glasses iced and partially-filled with whiskey. 
James also came in and asked for a whiskey. 

For Schey, her time at Castel Blanca was a much-needed escape. The sound of the waves and the serene beach offered a moment of clarity amidst the chaos. As she soaked in the sun, she reflected on her dual existence—one as Magnolia San Miguel, the socialite, and the other as Black Magnolia, the elusive figure who had evaded the grasp of authorities. 

The memories of the recent incident weighed heavily on the minds of the DDS, their loss palpable as they mourned their fallen officers. Schey, acutely aware of the tension, relished the brief respite, knowing that the authorities were still reeling from the aftermath. This quiet moment was not just an opportunity for relaxation but a strategic pause, allowing her to reconsider her next moves in a game where stakes were high and shadows loomed large.

"I'm sorry if I say something that offends you." James said. 
"It's alright." Schey replied. "I'm just serious in my commitment."
"What else should I do to help you?" James asked. 
"I don't know," Schey said. "But make sure be careful if you really want to help me. Or maybe I got used to be myself."
"By the way, it's good that you asked that question earlier. It may sound offensive but concerning at the same time especially for a woman like I. But, everything's already happened, and it cannot simply stopped." Schey added.
James didn't say something but instead he nod and took some sips of whiskey. "Alright," James said, setting his glass down. "I understand. I'll tread carefully."
Schey glanced at him, her expression unreadable. "Thank you for understanding. Sometimes it's hard for me to gauge how much I should open up."
James nodded. "It's not always easy, I know. But if you ever need to talk or need help with something specific, just let me know."
Schey managed a small, appreciative smile. "I’ll keep that in mind. For now, let’s just take it one step at a time."
They both fell silent for a moment, the weight of their conversation lingering in the air. James took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the warmth as he contemplated the delicate balance of their interactions. Schey, lost in her own thoughts, looked out the veranda, her mind drifting to past experiences and uncertainties about the future.
"So," James finally broke the silence, trying to shift the mood, "what’s your plan for the rest of the evening?"
Schey turned back to him, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. "I hadn't really thought about it. Maybe just some quiet time. How about you?"
"I might stick around here for a bit longer," James said, gesturing to the bar. "It's been a long day, and I could use a little more downtime."
Schey nodded in agreement. "Sounds good. Let’s enjoy the moment and see where it leads."

XX

As Schey left Bahia Encantada and returning home to Casa Magnolia in Manila, a coded message appeared in her phone urging her to go to a safe house in Subic bay. From there she diverted her route to the former naval base, where another coded message told her to enter. 

Meanwhile, the former General Bert Nazario sat in the safe house’s dimly lit interior, his mind still processing the whirlwind of his daring escape. He had been through battles before, but the stakes now were higher. This wasn’t just about his freedom—it was about a larger fight to topple the regime. Across the table from him sat Captain Figueroa, reviewing maps and making contact with resistance cells across the country.

“We’ve managed to secure most of the checkpoints. The DDS won’t find you easily, General,” Figueroa said, his voice low but steady.

Nazario nodded, but his eyes were distant. “They’ll hunt me down harder now, Captain. They’ll know someone inside helped me, and they won’t stop until they have names.”

“That’s why we have to move quickly,” Figueroa replied. “Your escape is a blow to them. But we need to capitalize on it. We’ve already sent word through Igor. Black Magnolia will want to know what happened.”

At the mention of Black Magnolia, Nazario’s brow furrowed. “Who is Magnolia? Are you sure it’s wise to involve her at this stage?”

Figueroa glanced at his watch. “You might know her by another name. Let’s just say she’s been deeply involved in our efforts for much longer than you think.”

Nazario’s silence indicated his curiosity, but he trusted Figueroa and his network. He leaned forward. “So, what’s next?”

Several hours later, in a secure apartment near Subic Bay, Schey—operating under the alias Magnolia San Miguel—was deep in thought. Her latest article critiquing the regime’s relationship between peace and repression had caused a stir in underground circles, but she knew that real action was happening beyond the printed word.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Igor entered, closing the door behind him.

“You’re in luck,” he said, walking over to the table and dropping a small device next to her. “News from inside. The General is free.”

Schey raised an eyebrow, leaning forward in her chair. “Uncle Bert? How?”

“A team led by rebel soldiers,” Igor replied, settling into the seat opposite her. “It wasn’t easy. They had to disable the entire facility’s communications and fight their way out. But they did it.”

Schey glanced down at the encrypted device, her mind racing. “And now they’re hiding him?”

“Safe house within one of our controlled sectors,” Igor confirmed. “The DDS is still clueless. We’ve kept the operation quiet, but they’ll start connecting the dots soon.”

Schey looked thoughtful for a moment before standing up and pacing the room. “We need to meet him. Now that he’s free, we need to strategize. I can’t afford for the DDS to start putting two and two together.”

Igor nodded, pulling out a secure phone. “I’ll set up the meeting. You’ll see him soon.”

Later that night, Schey arrived at the abandoned warehouse, a nondescript building within the freeport zone. It was a secure location, where only trusted resistance members knew of its purpose. She stepped inside, greeted by the faint hum of low conversations. Rebel soldiers were scattered around, working on maps and radio equipment.

Captain Figueroa stood by the entrance, a somber look on his face. “He’s inside. Ready to see you.”

As she walked into the meeting room, Schey saw General Nazario sitting at the head of a table. He looked up, surprise briefly flashing across his face as she approached.

“Black Magnolia?” Nazario asked, though his tone carried a hint of disbelief.

She smiled slightly as she removed her shades. “That’s what they call me, but I think you know me better as Schey."

Nazario’s eyes widened as realization dawned. “So, it’s true. You are Andre's daughter.”

“I am,” Schey replied, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “And I’m glad to finally meet you face to face, Uncle Bert. Igor told me everything. The resistance is behind you.”

Nazario leaned back in his chair, a smile playing on his lips. “I heard whispers about you in prison, but I never imagined…your father would be proud.”

Schey nodded but quickly shifted the conversation. “We don’t have much time. The DDS will be on high alert. What’s the next step, Uncle? Your escape is significant, but we need to follow through.”

Nazario’s face hardened with focus. “You’re right. My escape was the first strike, but it’s not the end. The regime will tighten its grip, and we need to be prepared for a counterattack.”

Captain Figueroa joined them at the table, laying out a map of key DDS-controlled areas. “We have several cells across the country ready to act, but we need your guidance, General. The resistance is scattered, and they need leadership.”

Nazario studied the map before speaking, his voice calm but commanding. “The regime’s strength lies in its control of the military and intelligence apparatus. We need to disrupt that. If we can target their communication hubs and weaken their intelligence network, we’ll force them into disarray.”

Schey chimed in, her voice sharp with insight. “We’ve already seen signs of instability. The string of bombings and assassinations I organized has them paranoid. They’re scrambling to maintain order, and the people are starting to question their power.”

Nazario looked at her with a mix of admiration and concern. “That was your doing? Impressive. But we must tread carefully. They’ll tighten their surveillance. We need to move swiftly but avoid drawing too much attention before we’re ready for a full-scale assault.”

Figueroa nodded, pointing to key locations on the map. “We can hit these targets within the next few weeks, but we’ll need to move resources. I’ve already arranged for weapons and equipment to be transported.”

Schey leaned forward, her eyes focused. “I’ll continue to work behind the scenes, organizing more strikes and spreading dissent through my articles. The more we disrupt their control, the more pressure we can apply.”

Nazario stood up, his presence commanding the room. “Then it’s settled. We move forward with precision. We take back our country—one strike at a time.”

Schey rose as well, meeting his gaze. “For my father. For the people.”

The General extended his hand, and she shook it firmly. “For the future.”

As they finished the meeting, the weight of their next steps hung heavy in the air. The escape had been just the beginning, and now, with Schey and General Nazario working together, the resistance was stronger than ever. The fight ahead would be fierce, but their resolve was unshakable.

XXI

Maggie moved through the rave, seamlessly mingling with guests, her sharp ears catching bits of conversations that mattered. She was listening to a group of executives discussing a merger when she felt a presence nearby. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, that familiar sense of being watched.

She turned slightly, and there she was—Cheka. Standing just a few feet away, casually engaged in conversation with a well-known lawyer from the DDS. Maggie’s pulse quickened, though she kept her face neutral. Cheka hadn’t noticed her yet, or so it seemed, but Maggie knew better.

As she shifted her weight and prepared to move away from the group, Cheka’s voice rang out, cutting through the hum of the party.

“Well, well, Magnolia San Miguel. Fancy running into you here.”

Maggie paused, her back still half-turned. The familiar cadence of Cheka’s voice sent a ripple of tension through her. Slowly, she pivoted, facing Cheka fully, a soft smile forming on her lips.

“Cheka,” Maggie replied smoothly. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

Cheka’s eyes sparkled with amusement, though there was always something guarded behind her gaze. “You know me. Always where the action is.”

Maggie felt the weight of the moment but kept her demeanor light. “And always a step ahead, right?”

Cheka smiled, but there was a hint of challenge in it. “Something like that.”

They stood there for a beat longer, a silent understanding passing between them. Cheka was not someone who missed much, and Maggie knew she had to tread carefully. She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, straightening her posture, allowing herself a second to regain control of the moment.

“Enjoying the party?” Maggie asked, keeping her tone casual, but her eyes stayed sharp.

Cheka chuckled softly. “I could ask you the same thing. But something tells me you’re not here just for the fun.”

Maggie’s smile widened. “Aren’t we all here for a bit of both?”

Cheka’s expression remained playful, but her eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between the lines. “Perhaps.”

With that, Cheka nodded, her attention drifting back to the conversation she had been in. But as she turned away, Maggie knew this wouldn’t be the last time they crossed paths tonight.

Maggie exhaled softly and continued through the crowd, her mind now working overtime. Cheka had a way of complicating things, and Maggie needed to stay one step ahead.

As Maggie rejoined the party, she spotted a group of security officials and bureaucrats huddled together in a corner, speaking in low tones. Their laughter occasionally cut through the thumping bass of the music, but Maggie could tell that they were discussing something important, something beyond the surface level of the party's casual chatter. She casually approached the bar, ordering another drink, all the while keeping her attention on the conversation at the corner. It was time to get back to work.

Maggie sipped her drink slowly, her eyes scanning the crowd, though her attention remained fixed on the group of officials and security personnel. She had become adept at blending into the background while observing. The music shifted, a heavy industrial beat thumping through the dimly lit venue, casting shifting shadows over the gathered figures. They seemed unaware of her presence, their conversation lost in the pulse of the rave.

As she edged closer, pretending to watch the DJ, snippets of their conversation began to reach her over the music. Phrases like “next shipment” and “discreet channels” piqued her interest, confirming her suspicion that this was more than casual party talk. One of the men, a mid-level bureaucrat she had seen before but never officially met, leaned in and said something that made the group chuckle nervously. The name he dropped, however, caught her full attention: 'Antonio Delos Santos'. It was a name she had heard in certain circles—associated with darker dealings, possibly even connected to the DDS.

Maggie’s instincts kicked in. This was her opening.

She took another sip of her drink and, in a perfectly timed moment, stumbled slightly, pretending to lose her balance. Her glass tipped, spilling a small amount of liquor onto one of the men’s shoes. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she said, feigning embarrassment as she bent down to wipe it with a napkin.

The man, surprised but not angry, waved it off with a half-smile. “No worries. It happens.” His eyes quickly scanned her, recognizing her as someone who must be important enough to be at the party, given how she carried herself.

Maggie flashed him a charming smile, standing upright. “I’m usually more graceful, I promise,” she said with a light laugh. “But I guess I’ve had one too many.”

He chuckled, the ice broken. “Happens to the best of us.”

Seizing the moment, she continued. “I couldn’t help but overhear you guys talking about the next shipment,” she said, feigning tipsiness. “Sounds like big business. Are you guys with logistics or... security?”

The man raised an eyebrow, momentarily thrown off, but his companion, a younger security officer, laughed. “Something like that. It’s... a different kind of shipment. Nothing you need to worry about, Miss...?”

“Maggie,” she said, offering a casual smile. “Magnolia San Miguel. I’m with Robotron, handling the regional side of things. But parties like this... I love meeting people who get things done.”

The man who had introduced the name Antonio Delos Santos nodded, still cautious but intrigued by her confidence. “You handle high-level contracts, then?”

Maggie leaned in slightly, letting the music mask the weight of her words. “I’ve dabbled in a few government deals. You know how it goes... the right connections, the right timing.”

The group seemed to relax a little, though they were still guarded. The man who seemed to be in charge, a stocky figure with sharp eyes, tilted his head. “You’ve worked with the government, you say? You might just know the kind of people we deal with.”

She smiled and took another sip, carefully playing the role of someone who knew more than she let on but was still approachable. “I might. Though I try not to get too deep into the bureaucratic maze. But I do hear things... especially from people who are in... security.”

Her emphasis on the last word made the group exchange glances. The leader leaned in, lowering his voice. “You’ve heard of Antonio Delos Santos, haven’t you?”

Maggie gave a nonchalant shrug, her eyes twinkling with interest. “Who hasn’t in certain circles? Let’s just say I’m familiar with names like that. And with the kind of business that requires... discretion.”

The man’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He seemed to be sizing her up, deciding how much to trust her. “You seem to know your way around.”

“I make it a point to,” Maggie replied smoothly. “In our line of work, information is currency, right?”

The man nodded, but before he could say more, a loud cheer erupted from another group nearby as the DJ switched tracks, sending the room into a louder frenzy. The momentary distraction gave Maggie the chance to step back slightly, giving the group some space, but not before the leader gave her a final look.

“If you’re interested in hearing more, maybe we’ll talk later,” he said. “But for now... enjoy the party.”

Maggie nodded, flashing one last smile. “Absolutely. I’m sure we’ll cross paths again.”

As she walked away, her heart raced, but she kept her expression composed. The name Antonio Delos Santos wasn’t just casual gossip—it was a lead. The kind of lead that could open doors to the inner workings of the DDS or, at the very least, give her valuable insight into their operations.

Making her way back to the bar, she saw Cheka again, now engaged in conversation with her government contact. Maggie caught Cheka’s eye and gave a subtle nod, as if to say their earlier chat hadn’t been forgotten. The night wasn’t over, and there were still connections to be made.

Maggie took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself for the next step. Tonight had only just begun, and there was plenty more to uncover before the night was through.

As Maggie returned to the bar, she replayed the interaction in her mind, careful to note every detail: the names mentioned, the looks exchanged, and the subtle tensions in the group’s conversation. It wasn’t enough just to overhear; she needed more concrete information. She had come prepared for nights like this.

Tapping her finger gently against her glass, Maggie felt the small device hidden within the wide cuff bracelet on her wrist. It was a miniature audio recorder, one she had discreetly activated the moment she had "accidentally" spilled her drink on the man’s shoes. The device, tiny but powerful, had captured the entire exchange. While the noise from the party was loud, the technology was sophisticated enough to filter out background sounds, focusing on nearby voices.

She took a deep breath, trying to look casual as she leaned on the bar. She couldn’t listen to the recording right away, not without drawing suspicion, but she could feel the thrill of knowing that she had the conversation safely stored. Now, it was just a matter of collecting more pieces to fit the puzzle.

Glancing over her shoulder, Maggie spotted the group again. The men were still deep in conversation, though now they had shifted to a more secluded corner, away from the main crowd. She needed to stay close, but not too close, at least for now.

Before she could think too much, her phone buzzed in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw a message from her assistant:

"Meeting confirmed with A.D.S tomorrow at 3 PM."

A rush of excitement surged through her. This was the opportunity she’d been waiting for—a chance to gather more evidence and dig deeper into the murky waters of corruption that surrounded Mr. Delos Santos and his connections.

“Perfect,” she murmured to herself, an idea already forming in her mind. The party would soon wind down, but Maggie had more in store for Antonio than just a simple meeting. She would gather information tonight and prepare for the next step tomorrow.

As she took another sip of her drink, a plan began to coalesce. She would use the connections she made at the rave to her advantage, weaving a web of information that would ensnare Antonio. The Black Magnolia was in motion, and with each step, she was closer to unraveling the web of deceit he had spun.

Later that night, as the party began to wind down, Maggie slipped out, feeling invigorated. She had secured a meeting with Antonio Delos Santos, made valuable connections, and gathered vital information. The thrill of the chase ignited a fire in her, and she couldn’t wait to see where it would lead next.

Her mind raced with possibilities as she walked to her car, the city lights reflecting off the sleek surface. Tomorrow, she would put her plan into action, and nothing would stand in her way. Maggie was ready to take down a corrupt bureaucrat, one calculated move at a time.

As Maggie stepped into her car, the weight of the night’s revelations hung heavily in the air. The meeting with the bureaucrat was not just a simple business arrangement—it was a carefully orchestrated plan, part of Black Magnolia’s larger mission to expose and punish the corrupt elite.

Maggie had spent months building up to this moment, gathering intel, forming alliances, and gaining the trust of key players in the city’s underbelly. Delos Santos was a "big fish" in the corruption pond, and Black Magnolia was ready to reel him in.

With the audio recording of the men’s conversation fresh in her mind, she pulled out her phone and quickly sent a message to her contact within Black Magnolia. It was time to bring the team into the loop.

"Meeting set with A.D.S. tomorrow. Gathering intel tonight. Prepare the plan for the next phase. We strike hard."

The reply came almost instantly.

"Understood. Time to send a message."

Maggie’s heart raced. This was it. The wheels were already in motion. She had to make sure every detail was accounted for, that the plan was foolproof. Delos Santos wouldn’t know what hit him.

She glanced at the time. The rave was winding down, but she needed to connect with a few more contacts before the night ended. A sense of purpose ignited within her as she navigated the dark streets, her thoughts swirling around the intricacies of the upcoming plan.

Back at the venue, she re-entered the throbbing pulse of the party. The atmosphere was electric, the air thick with sweat and excitement. She spotted a few familiar faces from her earlier conversations, the ones who had proven useful in the past. Approaching them, she engaged in light banter, all the while planting seeds of information that would lead to greater cooperation when the time came.

“Hey, I overheard some interesting stuff earlier,” she said to a security officer, letting her voice drop to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know about Mr. Delos Santos and his operations, right? I’ve got some intel that could be valuable.”

The officer’s interest piqued, and they leaned in closer. “What do you have?”

Maggie felt a rush of adrenaline as she divulged a few tidbits she had gleaned, carefully weaving in her knowledge to position herself as someone who could be trusted. “I might have a way to disrupt his plans, but I’ll need support.”

“Count me in,” he said, a grin breaking across his face. “I’ve had my suspicions about him for a while now.”

With every conversation, Maggie built a network of allies, ensuring that when the time came to execute their plan against Antonio Delos Santos, they would be ready. 

By the time she left the rave, her heart was pounding not just from the thrill of the night, but from the anticipation of what lay ahead. She could almost taste the victory. This wasn’t just about exposing corruption; it was about justice. 

As she drove home, she visualized the day’s events and the steps leading to tomorrow’s meeting. Antonio had no idea that he was stepping into a trap, one meticulously set by Black Magnolia. She was ready to strike, ready to bring down the corrupt and ensure that their actions had consequences.

The game was on, and Maggie was determined to play it to win. Tomorrow would be the start of a reckoning, a calculated move that would send ripples through the city’s power structure. The Black Magnolia was ready, and so was she.

XXII

The next day dawned with a sense of purpose coursing through Maggie. She had spent the early morning preparing for her meeting with Antonio, meticulously reviewing her notes and organizing the intel she had gathered. Each detail mattered; she had to project confidence and knowledge while keeping her true intentions concealed. At 2:30 PM, she slipped into a sleek black dress that hugged her figure perfectly, a look that spoke of elegance but hinted at danger. She finished her ensemble with a pair of understated heels and a delicate necklace, one that held a tiny camera embedded within its charm—just another layer of her meticulous plan.

Arriving at the upscale restaurant where the meeting was set, Maggie took a moment to compose herself before stepping inside. The ambiance was plush, the air filled with the rich aroma of gourmet dishes. She spotted Antonio seated at a corner table, his presence commanding, a smug smile on his face as he scanned the room.

“Magnolia,” he greeted, his voice smooth, though she could detect a hint of condescension. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Of course Mr. Delos Santos,” she replied, sliding into the seat across from him. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to discuss business.”

"Don't call me Mr. Delos Santos", said the bureaucrat. "Call me Antonio instead."

As they exchanged pleasantries, Maggie subtly activated her necklace, the camera capturing every moment. She maintained eye contact, gauging his reactions, searching for any cracks in his composed façade.

“So, tell me more about Robotron and Scinteia Technologies,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. “I’ve heard impressive things.”

“Oh, we’re doing some exciting work, particularly in the realm of government contracts,” Maggie said, injecting just the right amount of enthusiasm into her voice. “But I’m sure you’re familiar with that world.”

His eyes sparkled with interest, but there was also something else lurking beneath the surface—greed. “Indeed. It’s a competitive field. But I find that connections matter more than capabilities.”

Maggie nodded, subtly maneuvering the conversation. “Exactly. I’ve always believed in leveraging relationships. That’s why I thought it would be beneficial for us to meet today. I have some insights that could be of mutual interest.”

The old bureaucrat leaned in, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

With careful precision, Maggie began to weave a narrative. She hinted at upcoming projects that required discretion, emphasizing her ability to facilitate connections with key players in the government. Each word was laced with double meanings, implying that she held the keys to lucrative deals, while subtly insinuating that his operations could be vulnerable.

“After all,” she said with a coy smile, “you want to stay ahead of the game. There are whispers that others are looking to disrupt established networks. I thought we might consider a more... proactive approach.”

Antonio's demeanor shifted slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his face before he masked it with bravado. “Proactive? You mean eliminating the competition?”

Maggie leaned back, her gaze unwavering. “Let’s just say that maintaining a certain level of discretion can work wonders for business.”

The tension in the air thickened. Antonio was now fully engaged, the gears in his mind turning as he considered her implications. “And what would you suggest?”

At that moment, she took a calculated risk. “Perhaps we could collaborate, share resources. With my connections at Robotron and Scinteia, we could ensure that any potential disruptions are swiftly dealt with. But it’s crucial we approach this delicately.”

He studied her for a moment, the predatory gleam in his eye sharpening. “Interesting proposition. But trust is hard to come by in our line of work. How do I know you won’t turn on me?”

Maggie leaned forward, her voice low but firm. “Let’s just say that I value my partnerships. But I also believe in consequences for those who overstep. And you, Antonio Delos Santos, have made a lot of enemies.”

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of appreciation flashing across his features. “You’re sharper than I expected, Magnolia.”

“And you underestimate me at your own peril,” she replied, her confidence unwavering.

As the conversation unfolded, Maggie carefully observed his reactions, recording every detail. She wasn’t just fishing for information; she was building a case against him, gathering evidence of his corrupt dealings. She knew that this meeting could serve as the turning point in her mission.

Antonio, feeling the weight of her words, leaned back slightly, his posture shifting as he considered her offer. “Perhaps we can find common ground. I’ll need to think about this.”

“Take your time,” Maggie said, flashing a disarming smile. “But remember, in our world, hesitation can be costly.”

The meeting continued, and Maggie steered the conversation toward less sensitive topics, keeping the atmosphere light while she absorbed every nuance of the old bureaucrat's demeanor. The more he spoke, the more she learned about his operations, his connections, and the dark corners of his dealings.

Eventually, they wrapped up the meeting. As they stood to leave, Maggie extended her hand. “I look forward to hearing your thoughts.”

Antonio took her hand, his grip firm. “You’ve certainly given me something to think about, Magnolia. I won’t forget this meeting.”

As she walked away, Maggie felt a rush of adrenaline. She had played her cards perfectly, gathering the intel she needed while maintaining the guise of a willing collaborator. The tiny camera had captured everything, and now it was time to relay this information to her contacts.

Back at her car, she reviewed the footage, her heart racing as she processed the implications. Antionio Delos Santos was a dangerous man, but she now held the key to his secrets. With every detail recorded, she could expose his corruption and dismantle his operations piece by piece.

This was only the beginning. Maggie was ready to execute the next phase of her plan, ready to bring justice to those who thought they were untouchable. The Black Magnolia had set her sights on a big fish, and she would not rest until he was caught.

XXIII

Maggie meticulously planned her next steps, knowing that the supper club would serve as the perfect backdrop for her ongoing investigation. Under the guise of throwing another rave, she was really setting the stage to catch more incriminating conversations. The club’s pulsating beats and strobe lights provided ample cover for her discreet surveillance. With a series of hidden cameras and microphones placed strategically throughout the venue, she was ready. Each corner of the room was rigged, from the VIP lounge to the back hallway where deals were often made in hushed tones.

On the night of the event, Maggie arrived early, her heart pounding with anticipation. The venue was alive with energy as the staff prepared for the influx of guests. She mingled with the crowd, keeping her demeanor casual while scanning for familiar faces among the bureaucrats and business moguls she aimed to expose.

As the night unfolded, the music thumped through the air, drowning out conversations while Maggie kept her eyes on Delos Santos and his associates. She noticed how they gravitated towards the shadowy corners of the club, away from the dancing crowd. It was there, in that dimly lit area, that she suspected the real conversations would take place.

As she moved closer, she activated her devices, ensuring everything was recording before she settled into a nearby booth, feigning interest in the pulsating rhythm of the music. The laughter and shouts of revelers around her masked the seriousness of the exchanges happening in the shadows.

Then, she caught a glimpse of Delos Santos leaning in close to a tall, suited man with slicked-back hair. Their body language was tense, and Maggie leaned in closer, her pulse quickening as she adjusted the focus on her hidden camera.

“I need to know the delivery schedule,” Delos Santos said, his voice low but urgent. “The last shipment was delayed, and we can’t afford to have any more hiccups.”

The suited man nodded, his expression serious. “I’ll make sure it’s handled. Just remember, we can’t draw any attention. If the authorities catch wind, it’ll be our heads.”

Maggie’s heart raced as she recorded the exchange. This was exactly the kind of evidence she needed—proof of their illicit operations and a direct link to the corruption she was determined to expose.

Just then, a group of partygoers bumped into her booth, momentarily distracting her. As she glanced back to catch more of the conversation, she realized they had moved deeper into the shadows, their voices now barely audible over the thumping bass.

Determined not to lose her opportunity, Maggie quickly repositioned herself, navigating through the crowd. She skirted past the throngs of dancing bodies, her focus laser-sharp on her target. As she approached a less crowded area, she caught sight of Delos Santos again, now engaged in conversation with another bureaucrat.

“Remember, the more we keep this under wraps, the more we can profit,” the new figure said, a smirk on his face. “You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

Maggie felt a surge of triumph. The pieces were falling into place, and every detail mattered. She recorded their exchange, her mind racing with the implications of their words. This was the network she needed to expose, and she was prepared to dismantle it brick by brick.

As the night wore on, she continued to gather intel, capturing names, dates, and figures that would tie Delos Santos and his associates to a web of corruption and deceit. With each recording, she felt more empowered, knowing that she was inching closer to her goal.

Finally, as dawn broke and the club began to empty, Maggie slipped away, her mind buzzing with the night’s revelations. She had what she needed—a treasure trove of evidence that would bring down one of the most dangerous figures in the city. With the files securely saved and ready for her contacts, Maggie felt a sense of satisfaction. The Black Magnolia was just getting started, and the fight for justice was far from over. Delos Santos had no idea what was coming, and Maggie was more than ready to show him.

Assuming the role as Black Magnolia, she stood in the shadows of a dimly lit warehouse near the airport, the hum of distant aircraft vibrating through the air. The pungent scent of oil and metal surrounded her as she adjusted the balaclava over her face and tightened the black jacket that clung to her form. Tonight, she would confront Delos Santos—not as a transactor, but as the fighter she had become.

Weeks of careful planning had led her to this moment. She had gathered evidence of Delos Santos’s corrupt dealings, his ties to the Gadon regime, and the illegal operations that flowed through this very warehouse. It was a critical hub in his network, and tonight, she would expose him.

The cargo bay was lit only by flickering fluorescent lights, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. Magnolia took a deep breath, her heart racing with anticipation. She checked the small camera hidden in her jacket, ready to capture every moment. Delos Santos was inside, meeting with his associates to discuss a shipment that could jeopardize everything.

The evening air was thick with anticipation as Magnolia San Miguel navigated the dimly lit corridors of the warehouse. She had carefully planned her approach, knowing that Antonio Delos Santos would be at the tarmac preparing for a late-night flight. The sound of distant jet engines echoed ominously, a reminder of the power he wielded and the escape that awaited him.

As she slipped into the open expanse of the tarmac, the glow of the runway lights illuminated Delos Santos’s private jet, sleek and imposing. Magnolia could see the figure of Antonio standing near the aircraft, his back turned to her as he spoke to a group of associates. Their laughter rang out, a stark contrast to the tension that hung in the air.

Magnolia took a moment to collect herself, adjusting the balaclava over her face and securing the black jacket around her. She had come prepared, armed with evidence and the resolve to confront him. This was not just about exposure; it was about dismantling the web of corruption he had spun.

Suddenly, Delos Santos turned, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. Magnolia held her breath, remaining hidden in the shadows. His expression changed as he spotted her, the jovial atmosphere dissipating instantly.

“Who’s there?” Antonio called, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. He gestured to his guards, who immediately stepped forward, hands resting on their weapons.

Magnolia stepped into the light, her presence bold and unyielding. “It’s just me, Mr. Delos Santos. Time to have a conversation.”

The guards moved to intercept her, but Antonio raised a hand. “Wait. Let’s see what she has to say.”

Magnolia felt the weight of his gaze, a mix of curiosity and defiance. “You know why I’m here. You’ve been operating under the radar for too long, using your network to further the Gadon regime’s agenda.”

Antonio smirked, though his eyes flickered with uncertainty. “You think you can intimidate me? You’re just a lone wolf playing a dangerous game.”

“Dangerous? I prefer to think of it as necessary,” she replied, stepping closer. “You’ve built an empire on the suffering of others. It ends tonight.”

With a sudden motion, Antonio barked an order to his guards. “Get her!”

In a split second, Magnolia sprang into action. She moved like a shadow, dodging the first guard who lunged at her. With a swift kick, she sent him stumbling back, and before the second could react, she ducked low, sweeping his legs out from under him. The remaining guards hesitated, momentarily thrown off balance by her speed and agility. Magnolia seized the opportunity, darting toward Antonio. In a heartbeat, she was upon him, pinning him against the side of the jet.

“Let me go!” he shouted, his bravado cracking as he struggled against her grip.

Magnolia tightened her hold, her voice a low whisper, “You think you can call for help? You’re surrounded by your own lies, Antonio.”

Antonio’s eyes flashed with fear as he glanced around, realizing that the noise from the jet engines masked any sound of his guards regrouping. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed.

“I doubt it,” she replied, a steely determination in her voice. “Your time is up. You’ve been hiding behind power for too long, and now it’s time for the truth to come to light.”

With a quick motion, she produced her phone, hitting play on the recording that documented his dealings with the Gadon regime. The audio echoed into the night, revealing conversations that exposed the depth of his corruption.

As the realization hit him, his defiance crumbled, replaced by a mix of anger and fear. “You think this will change anything? The Gadon regime will protect me!”

“Not for much longer,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You’ve been a linchpin in their corruption, and I have everything I need to expose you. You’re not untouchable.”

Antonio shifted uncomfortably, the weight of her words sinking in. “So what’s your plan? Take me out? You really think that will change anything?”

Magnolia leaned closer, her gaze unwavering. “It’s not just about you. It’s about dismantling the system that has allowed you to thrive on the suffering of others.”

As Black Magnolia stood over Antonio, the tension in the air was palpable. The roar of the jet engines in the background was the only sound breaking the eerie silence. Delos Santos, bound and kneeling, was staring at her with a mixture of defiance and fear.

“You’re making a mistake,” Antonio said, trying to regain his composure. “There are others who will come for me. You can’t stop the network.”

Black Magnolia’s gaze was steady as she looked down at him. “You’re mistaken if you think this is just about you. I already know the extent of your network. Your operations, your connections—everything. And I know how deeply entrenched you are in the system.”

Antonio’s eyes narrowed. “You think you know everything? You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

Black Magnolia took a deliberate step closer, her voice low but firm. “I know more than you think. I know about the Gadon regime and how it’s benefited from your illicit operations. Your network didn’t just deal in illegal shipments; it’s been a linchpin for a regime that thrives on corruption and crime.”

Antonio's face twitched with a mix of surprise and irritation. “You’re barking up the wrong tree. The Gadon regime is powerful. They’ve been using my network to maintain their grip on power. They’ve turned a blind eye to your so-called justice because it serves their interests.”

Black Magnolia nodded, her expression unwavering. “I’m aware. The Gadon regime has used your operations to fuel their agenda, enriching themselves while the people suffer. Your network is more than just a criminal enterprise; it’s a key component in their corrupt machinery.”

The bureaucrat shifted uncomfortably, realizing the depth of her knowledge. “So what’s your point? You think taking me out will change anything?”

Black Magnolia’s tone grew colder. “It’s not just about you. It’s about sending a message. Your operations have perpetuated a system of oppression and greed. By removing you, I’m dismantling a crucial part of that system. The regime might still be in power, but without you, their operations are crippled. And that’s a step toward breaking their hold.”

Antonio tried to maintain his composure, but his voice wavered. “You’re making a grave mistake. You don’t know the full extent of what you’re disrupting.”

But the gravity of the situation sank in. Antonio trembled before Black Magnolia. His eyes darted around the airfield, desperately searching for an escape that wasn’t there. His voice wavered as he spoke, “Okay, okay, I’ll give you everything! Money, connections—whatever you want! Just please, make me live!”

Black Magnolia’s gaze remained cold and unyielding. “You can’t change my mind,” she said firmly. “I already hacked into the system you bragged about, the one you thought was impenetrable.”

Antonio’s face contorted in panic. “You what? How did you—”

“Your arrogance led you to believe that you were untouchable,” Black Magnolia interrupted, her tone steady. “But every layer of your network is compromised. I know all about your deals with Gadon, the concessions you received, and your connections with the DDS. Your network is in ruins, and so is your ability to manipulate and control.”

"Besides, You don't really know me. Unless you know the former president- the late Sebastian whom you're against with. You allied with Gadon in exchange for concessions. You able to gain connections with the DDS to benefit from illegal transactions." Black Magnolia further said.

Antonio’s knees gave way, and he collapsed to the ground, his bravado shattered. “Please,” he begged, “you don’t understand. I was only doing what I had to in order to survive. I never wanted things to get this far.”

Black Magnolia watched him, her expression impassive. “Survival isn’t an excuse for the harm you’ve caused. Your network has enriched corrupt officials and fueled a system that oppresses and exploits. It’s time for accountability.”

Desperation was etched in the bureaucrat’s eyes as he pleaded, “You don’t have to do this. There are other ways. I can help you expose everything. I can be valuable to you.”

“I don’t need your help,” Black Magnolia replied. “I’ve already collected all the evidence I need. Exposing your operations and the regime’s corruption is more than enough.”

Antonio felt trembling as he even heard the name of the late president. He then said "okay okay i will give you everything, even money, please make me live!"

Black Magnolia’s gaze remained unflinching. “You cannot change my mind,” she said coldly. “I’ve already hacked into the system you boasted about as being secure. I’ve uncovered all your illicit dealings and your connections with the DDS. I also plan to expropriate your assets to further the cause.”

Desperation etched in every line of his face, the bureaucrat’s pleas became frantic. “Please, there must be another way! I can be of use to you! You don’t need to do this!”

Black Magnolia’s expression was resolute. “I’m afraid not. You’ve had your chance to make a difference, and you chose to perpetuate corruption and crime. You have two options now: accept the fate of being executed, or face the consequences of being exposed as a supporter of the rebels. Either way, your ability to influence and manipulate is over.”

Antonio's fell silent, the realization of his predicament weighing heavily on him. He looked at Black Magnolia with a mix of fear and resignation. “Is there really no other way?”

Black Magnolia shook her head. “Your actions have consequences. The damage you’ve caused cannot be undone, and there is no place for someone like you in a just world.”

With a final, resolute breath, Black Magnolia raised her Obrez Gun. The choice was made. Antonio Delos Santos had been given every opportunity to change his path, but he had chosen the wrong one. As the night air grew colder and the engines of the jet roared, the sound of the suppressed gunshot was final and unambiguous. The corrupt bureaucrat Antonio Delos Santos slumped to the ground, his reign of power and influence coming to a definitive end. Black Magnolia took a moment to absorb the weight of her decision. The mission was complete, and justice had been served in the harshest form.

Turning away from the scene, Black Magnolia felt the weight of her actions settle over her. The road ahead was filled with challenges, but she was prepared to continue fighting against the forces of corruption and injustice. The battle was far from over, but with each decisive action, she was making strides toward a world that was a little bit more just.

As soon as the bureaucrat fell to the ground, Black Magnolia knew she had only moments before the inevitable chaos erupted. The suppressed gunshot had been nearly silent, but the commotion of the jet engines and the distance from the nearest buildings masked it well. Still, it was only a matter of time before his guards realized something was amiss.

With practiced efficiency, Black Magnolia swiftly moved towards the shadows cast by the cargo area of the airfield. She had planned for this, and every step of her escape route was meticulously calculated. As she navigated the maze of crates and machinery, her heartbeat quickened, not out of fear but from the adrenaline of a successful mission and the urgency of her departure.

Using the cover of darkness, she made her way to a hidden exit—a maintenance door that led to an adjacent storage area. Her ears were attuned to any sign of approaching guards. The rumble of the jet engines helped drown out any distant sounds, but she stayed alert.

Once she reached the maintenance door, Black Magnolia pulled out a small set of lockpicking tools from her utility belt. The lock clicked open swiftly, and she slipped inside, leaving the airfield behind. The dimly lit corridors of the storage area were familiar to her from earlier reconnaissance. She moved with a sense of purpose, her mind focused on reaching the exit undetected.

As she emerged from the storage area into the cool night air, Black Magnolia’s vehicle—a sleek, inconspicuous car—was parked a short distance away. She climbed inside, her heart still racing from the thrill of the night’s events. With a deft hand, she started the engine and pulled away from the airfield, her escape planned down to the last detail.

The night was calm, but the tension of the mission lingered. As she drove away, she glanced at the rearview mirror, ensuring she wasn’t being followed. The guards would soon discover their boss's body and the chaos would unfold, but by then, Black Magnolia would be long gone.

The drive to her safe house was uneventful, allowing her time to review the success of her operation. Antonio Delos Santos was eliminated, his network dismantled, and his assets seized—all crucial steps in her mission against corruption and injustice. The evidence she had gathered would further her cause, and the impact of her actions would reverberate through the layers of corruption she sought to dismantle.

Upon reaching the safety of her hideout, Black Magnolia took a deep breath, letting the adrenaline fade. The night had been a victory, but it was also a reminder of the ongoing struggle. The fight against corruption was relentless, but she was determined to continue her work with the same resolve and precision that had guided her tonight.

The news of Delos Santos’s death quickly made its way to the DDS, sending shockwaves through the organization. Director Coronel, the formidable head of the DDS, was in the middle of a high-level briefing when the report came in. The sudden intrusion of one of his trusted aides, visibly distressed, immediately caught his attention.

“Director Coronel, urgent news,” the aide said, trying to keep his composure.

Coronel, a man known for his sharp mind and commanding presence, gestured for the aide to proceed. “Speak.”

The aide took a deep breath before continuing. “Antonio Delos Santos has been found dead. It appears he was executed.”

The room fell silent, the gravity of the news sinking in. Coronel’s expression shifted from shock to a simmering rage. “Executed? By whom?”

The aide hesitated, then replied, “The reports suggest that it was a high-profile operation. The details are still emerging, but it appears to be the work of someone with considerable resources and expertise.”

Director Coronel slammed his fist on the table, his anger evident. “Antonio was a crucial part of our operations. Who dares to undermine us like this?”

Another aide, more familiar with the intricacies of the situation, spoke up. “Sir, there are speculations that this might be the work of Black Magnolia. She has a history of targeting high-value targets and could be aiming to disrupt our network.”

Coronel’s eyes narrowed. “Black Magnolia. Of course. We should have anticipated that she would strike when we were most vulnerable. She’s as elusive as she is dangerous.”

He turned to his senior officers, his tone cold and commanding. “We need to act quickly. Delos Santos’s death is a significant blow, but it’s also an opportunity. We must tighten our operations and ensure that no further breaches occur. I want a full review of our security protocols and an immediate investigation into how Magnolia managed to infiltrate our network.”

One of the senior officers nodded. “We’ll mobilize all available resources. But Director, how should we handle the fallout with our connections and partners?”

Coronel’s face was set in a hard line. “Reassure our allies that we are handling the situation. Make sure they understand that this is an isolated incident and that our operations remain secure. We cannot afford to lose their trust.”

As the officers began to disperse to execute Coronel’s orders, he took a moment to reflect. The loss of Delos Santos was a setback, but it also ignited a burning resolve within him. The DDS had faced challenges before, and they would overcome this one too.

“Prepare a response,” Coronel instructed his aides. “If Black Magnolia wants to play this game, we’ll show her just how far we can go to protect our interests. We cannot let her actions destabilize us.”

The room buzzed with activity as plans were set into motion. Director Coronel’s reaction was a mix of anger and strategic resolve. Delos Santos’s death was a blow, but it also marked the beginning of a renewed effort to secure their operations and counter any threats from Black Magnolia and her allies. The DDS was far from defeated; instead, they were preparing to strike back with even greater force.

The atmosphere in Director Coronel’s office was thick with tension. Papers lay scattered across the mahogany desk, the glow of a single desk lamp illuminating the furrowed brow of the director. He leaned back in his chair, the weight of Delos Santos’s death heavy on his shoulders. The door swung open, and Cheka Arce stepped in, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern.

“Director Coronel,” she greeted, her tone professional yet slightly apprehensive. 

“Sit down, Cheka,” he commanded, gesturing to the chair opposite him. “We have a situation that requires your expertise.”

Cheka took her seat, her mind racing with possibilities. “Is it about Delos Santos?”

“Yes,” Coronel replied, steepling his fingers. “He’s been liquidated, likely by that 'Black Magnolia'. We can’t afford to let this incident disrupt our operations any further.”

Her eyes widened, but she kept her composure. “What do you want me to do?”

Coronel leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “I need you to investigate Black Magnolia. We need to understand her methods, her connections, and how she infiltrated our network undetected. I want every piece of information we can gather on her.”

“Understood, sir,” Cheka replied, her mind already racing with strategies. “Do we have any leads?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “But she has a history of targeting high-profile individuals, and it’s clear she has resources at her disposal. We need to anticipate her next move before she strikes again.”

Cheka nodded, her determination sharpening. “I’ll reach out to our informants and dig into any recent activities linked to her. We should also analyze any surveillance footage from the tarmac area. There might be clues about her presence.”

“Good,” Coronel said, his tone approving. “And I want you to connect with the analysts. They should compile a dossier on her—everything from her past operations to her potential allies. If we can find a weakness, we can exploit it.”

Cheka scribbled notes, her mind already crafting a plan. “Should we consider increased security measures for our remaining key personnel?”

Coronel’s expression hardened. “Absolutely. We can’t afford to lose anyone else. This isn’t just about retaliation; it’s about ensuring our organization remains intact.”

She met his gaze, her resolve unwavering. “I’ll get on it right away. We won’t let her destabilize us.”

As she stood to leave, Coronel called out, “Cheka.”

She turned, looking back at him. 

“Be careful. Black Magnolia is not just a criminal; she’s cunning and resourceful. Underestimate her, and it could cost us everything.”

Cheka nodded solemnly. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

As she left the office, a fire ignited within her. This was not just an investigation; it was a personal challenge. Black Magnolia had crossed a line, and Cheka Arce would ensure that the DDS would strike back, stronger and more strategic than ever. 

The hunt was on, and she was determined to uncover the truth behind the enigmatic figure who threatened to unravel their carefully constructed world.

XXIV

In the wake of Antonio Delos Santos's death and the confiscation of his assets, Black Magnolia intensified the campaign, targeting those who upheld Gadon's regime. The assassinations of key figures—business tycoons, corrupt bureaucrats, and complicit military and police officers—quickly became the focal point of news reports. 

Each hit seemed meticulously planned, sending a clear message: the rebel was unyielding in its pursuit of justice. With every high-profile assassination, public sentiment began to shift. Some citizens started to view Black Magnolia as a symbol of resistance against a deeply flawed system, a crack underneath a wall appearing to be 'strong', and a beacon of hope in a landscape marred by injustice and corruption. Social media buzzed with posts and comments related to the string of killings against the cruel and the corrupt, drawing in supporters who organized rallies and candlelight vigils in memory of the fallen whistleblowers and innocent victims of the regime.

On the other hand, the government’s response was swift and aggressive. President Gadon, addressing the nation in a televised speech, denounced Black Magnolia as a terrorist organization. “They seek chaos and anarchy under the guise of justice!” he proclaimed, his voice resonating with urgency. “We will not stand idly by as they threaten our order!” His words rallied the military, police, and DDS agents, prompting a crackdown on dissent and protests, which only fueled public anger.

In a show of force, the military, police, and the DDS launched operations in known hotspots of Black Magnolia support, attempting to intimidate citizens into silence. However, the tactics backfired. Instead of suppressing dissent, they ignited it. A series of underground meetings and rallies were organized, with activists sharing stories of the corruption they had witnessed. Among them, a young woman named Elena, who had lost her brother to the regime’s brutality, took to the stage at a secret gathering, her voice trembling but resolute. “We can’t let fear dictate our lives! Black Magnolia fights for us, for the truth!” Her passionate words resonated with the crowd, spurring them to take action.

As the body count rose, the government faced increasing pressure from within. Whispers of an underground movement began to circulate, suggesting that even among military ranks and law enforcement, there were individuals disillusioned with Gadon’s regime. Some soldiers quietly expressed their support for Black Magnolia, believing that the group represented a genuine chance for reform. Meetings took place in a closed assembly room, where dissenters exchanged ideas and discussed the possibility of shifting allegiances.

The atmosphere became charged with uncertainty as General Mateo stood before his fellow leaders at the roundtable meeting. The tension in the air was palpable; everyone knew the stakes were high, yet fear kept many silent. 

With a steely resolve, General Mateo addressed the assembly. “If we continue to suppress the people,” he began, his voice steady but urgent, “we risk losing everything. We must consider the possibility that Black Magnolia is not the enemy, but a response to our failures.” 

A murmur rippled through the room. Colonel Rivas, a staunch supporter of the current regime, scoffed. “With all due respect, General, that’s naïve. Black Magnolia is a terrorist organization bent on chaos. We can’t afford to coddle them.”

“Coddle? No,” Mateo shot back, his frustration evident. “But ignoring the root causes of dissent only deepens the divide. We need to engage with the people, not alienate them further.”

Major Sanchez, sitting with arms crossed, chimed in. “And what would you suggest, General? A dialogue with insurgents? They’ve already declared war on us.”

“Not dialogue with the insurgents, but with our citizens. Understand their grievances before they turn to violence,” Mateo argued, his tone growing more passionate. “It’s a matter of strategy, not sympathy.”

The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled in. Just then, an aide slipped a note to the General. His expression darkened as he read it. “What is it?” Colonel Rivas asked, his skepticism momentarily replaced by concern.

“They’ve… they’ve just killed someone,” Mateo said, his voice trembling slightly. “A civilian caught in the crossfire.”

“An unfortunate casualty,” Rivas replied dismissively. “We have bigger concerns.”

“No! This is exactly what I’m talking about!” Mateo exclaimed, his frustration boiling over. “Every death alienates us further from the very people we’re trying to protect.”

Suddenly, the doors burst open, and armed agents of the DDS stormed in. Gasps filled the room. Before anyone could react, they apprehended Mateo, dragging him away. 

“General, no!” Sanchez shouted, but it was too late.

Days later, news spread like wildfire: General Mateo had been killed in broad daylight, framed as a casualty of Black Magnolia’s attack. The narrative was spun quickly, but whispers of doubt lingered among the officers. 

In the aftermath, Colonel Rivas stood before the assembly once more, but his bravado was gone. “We must rally together and show strength. We cannot allow his… misguided views to undermine our mission.”

But Major Sanchez, who had initially supported Rivas, looked around the room, conflicted. “Strength is important, but at what cost? If we ignore the people, we might find ourselves fighting against them. Mateo saw that.”

The room erupted in a heated debate, voices rising as the specter of General Mateo loomed large over their decisions. Each officer wrestled with the implications of their choices, as the ghost of uncertainty hung heavily in the air.

Nevertheless, amid the chaos, Black Magnolia continued to strike. In one audacious operation, they disrupted a major gala attended by Gadon’s allies, broadcasting a live message to the nation. A group of armed men led by a masked operative stood on the stage, flanked by supporters holding banners that read "to hell with the order" and pictures of the late president Sebastian. 

“We are here to expose the truth!” the operative declared. “Your corruption will no longer go unpunished. We will continue to fight for Sebastian's legacy- for a future free of tyranny!” The broadcast sent shockwaves through the government and the populace alike, galvanizing support for Black Magnolia.
However, Black Magnolia herself wasn't there, but her supporters, who understood the reason to resist against Gadon and to restore justice. 

As the tension reached a boiling point, the question loomed larger: Would Black Magnolia succeed in dismantling Gadon’s grip on power, or would her actions lead to even greater tyranny in the name of order? With each assassination, bombing, and armed action in various forms, the divide between the regime and the people deepened, setting the stage for an inevitable clash between the forces of oppression and the cries for justice.

Meanwhile, General Catapang sat alone in his dimly lit office, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The echoes of the meeting with General Mateo haunted him. He replayed the scene in his mind—Mateo’s impassioned plea, the defiance in his eyes, the way his words had sparked a flicker of doubt among the ranks.

He leaned back in his chair, staring out the window at the sprawling city below, its streets having eerie silence. "What have we become?" he muttered to himself. The loss of Mateo felt personal; they had been allies, men who had once shared a vision for a stronger, united front. Now, that vision lay in tatters, shattered by the ruthless hands of power and fear.

Catapang sighed deeply, grappling with the implications of the General's death. He recalled the fervor in Mateo's voice—his insistence that Black Magnolia represented the people’s frustration rather than an outright enemy. A part of him had resisted that notion, clinging to the belief that loyalty and strength would quell the rebellion. But now, uncertainty gnawed at him.

"Perhaps Mateo was right," he thought, grappling with the idea that the enemy might not be so clearly defined. The protests and dissent were rising, fueled by a sense of betrayal and anger at a system that seemed deaf to their suffering. Could it be that in their quest for control, they were losing the very hearts and minds they sought to protect? 

As Catapang stood in the dim light of his office, the weight of his thoughts bore down heavily. The specter of General Mateo's death loomed large, a haunting reminder of the consequences of rigid loyalty. His gaze drifted back to the hidden picture of General Nazario, a man who had once embodied the ideals Catapang had fought for—a leader who sought to inspire rather than intimidate.

The tension in the city was palpable, a pressure cooker ready to explode. Catapang’s heart raced as he considered the implications of Nazario’s rumored escape. If the charismatic General had indeed found a way out, it could shift the balance of power dramatically. The actions of Black Magnolia were gaining momentum, whose flying columns fueled by discontent and a growing belief in their cause.

"What if Nazario could unite us?" Catapang pondered. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, but it also ignited a flicker of hope. In a world where alliances were built on fear, perhaps a return to a more principled stand could be the answer. If he could find a way to reach out to Nazario, to join forces in a bid for reform, they might just reshape the narrative.

But loyalty was a double-edged sword. He knew that aligning with Nazario could be seen as treasonous by those still loyal to the regime. Colonel Rivas, with his unyielding adherence to orders, would never entertain such a notion. And Major Sanchez—was he truly swayed by doubt, or was he just biding his time until it was too late?

Catapang’s resolve hardened. He could no longer be a passive observer in this storm. "I need to act, and I need to do it carefully," he decided, pacing with renewed purpose. He would gather intelligence, listen for whispers of Nazario’s whereabouts, and assess the mood among the ranks. The first step would be to test the waters with Sanchez—if the Major was beginning to see the cracks, perhaps there was still a chance to sway him.

He paused by the window again, looking out at the "silent unrest" below. Everything's "silent" as if nothing happened as if an extension of the cold, calculated decisions made in the halls of power. "These people deserve better," he whispered, as if the city could hear him.

Resolute, Catapang returned to his desk and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. He began to draft a plan—a discreet message to any trusted contacts who might have ties to Nazario. The path ahead was fraught with danger, but the prospect of forging a new alliance, of reclaiming the ideals they once stood for, was a risk worth taking. In that moment, the general felt the stirrings of hope and defiance—two things he thought he had lost amidst the chaos. He would not allow fear to dictate his actions any longer. The winds of change were rising, and he intended to harness them.

With the ink drying on his carefully worded message, Catapang felt a surge of adrenaline. He folded the paper neatly and slipped it into an envelope, marking it with a simple symbol he hoped would resonate with any who received it—a stylized magnolia flower, a nod to the burgeoning movement he had once dismissed. 

He paused, contemplating his next move. Trust was a fragile thing in these times, and he had to be cautious. First, he would need a messenger—someone who could navigate the tense streets without drawing attention. The shadows of suspicion were everywhere, and even a slight misstep could spell disaster. Catapang’s mind then turned to a young lieutenant, Alonzo, known for his quick thinking and resourcefulness. The man had connections with both military and civilian circles, a bridge that might be invaluable. He had seen Alonzo’s potential early on, and perhaps now was the time to utilize it.

Calling for Alonzo, Catapang prepared for the conversation, knowing he had to tread carefully. When the young officer arrived, he stood at attention, eager yet anxious. 

“Lieutenant Alonzo,” Catapang began, his voice steady. “I have a delicate task that requires discretion and a keen sense of judgment.”

Alonzo’s eyes brightened, a spark of curiosity igniting within. “Sir, I’m ready for any assignment.”

“I need you to deliver this message to a contact of mine. It concerns General Nazario,” Catapang said, gauging Alonzo’s reaction. The lieutenant’s expression shifted, intrigue battling with the weight of the implications.

“Nazario, sir?” Alonzo echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… he’s been declared an enemy of the state.”

“Exactly. That’s why this must remain confidential. If anyone finds out about this, it could mean severe consequences for both of us. Do you understand?” Catapang leaned in slightly, emphasizing the gravity of the situation.

“Yes, sir. I understand,” Alonzo replied, his resolve hardening. “What’s the message?”

Catapang handed him the envelope, watching as the young officer carefully tucked it away. “Take the utmost care. Your safety is paramount. Once you’ve delivered it, return here immediately. If you sense any danger, abort the mission.”

Alonzo nodded, the seriousness of the task settling in. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

As Alonzo departed, Catapang returned to his desk, mind racing with possibilities. He had set the wheels in motion, but uncertainty still loomed. If Nazario was indeed in contact with Black Magnolia, what could he offer? A united front against the regime? Or a return to the old ways that had caused so much suffering?

Moments stretched into hours as Catapang waited, anxiety coiling tighter with each tick of the clock. He paced the office, the faint sounds of unrest drifting through the window, reminding him of the stakes at play.

Finally, just as dusk began to settle, Alonzo burst through the door, breathless and wide-eyed. “Sir, I delivered the message. My contact was… surprised but willing to pass it on. He said I should expect a reply within a few days.”

“Good work,” Catapang replied, trying to mask the surge of relief and anticipation. “What was the atmosphere like out there?”

Alonzo hesitated, then continued. “There’s a lot of tension. People are restless. Whispers of Nazario’s escape are spreading. Some view Black Magnolia as hope, while others see them as a threat. It’s divided.”

Catapang rubbed his temples, absorbing the weight of Alonzo’s words. “We’re at a tipping point, then. If we don’t act soon, the conflict could spiral out of control.”

Alonzo nodded, concern etched on his face. “What’s our next move, sir?”

Catapang paused, the possibilities unfurling in his mind. “We need to gather intelligence on both sides—what Black Magnolia is planning and how the military is responding. And we must also prepare for the possibility of Nazario’s return. If he emerges as a leader again, it could change everything.”

The two men shared a moment of understanding, both aware of the precarious position they were in. The shadows of uncertainty loomed large, but within them flickered a fragile hope. They had taken the first steps toward a path that could lead to change, and while the road ahead would be fraught with danger, Catapang was resolved to see it through. 

Amidst trying to "put things in order", the city outside was alive with rumors of unrest, but within the confines of the general's office, a plan was taking shape—one that could reclaim not just their honor but the very soul of the nation.

XXV

The evening was thick with the scent of rain, the low hum of distant thunder vibrating across the air. Manila’s skyline had long since surrendered to the oppressive blanket of darkness, its neon lights flickering like dying embers beneath the looming clouds. The city was alive with the pulse of unrest—sirens wailing, explosions in the distance, and the steady, rhythmic rumble of DDS enforcers closing in. 

Schey moved through the backstreets of Sucat, her boots silent on the wet pavement, the damp air sticking to her skin. She didn’t need to check her surroundings. She could feel the tension in the air, like the moment before a storm broke loose. The DDS had unleashed their hounds—their heavily armed mechs and drones scouring the metro, hunting down rebels like rats. She wasn’t fooling herself; they knew she was a threat now, and it was only a matter of time before they found her.

But Schey, now as Black Magnolia had a plan.

As she approached the power plant at the edge of the district, she couldn’t help but pause for a moment. The facility, now repurposed to house the Cherry Red Iskra, stood like a forgotten monument of defiance against the looming darkness of the rotten order. The cold steel of the hangar doors greeted her, the faint whir of cooling fans inside a reminder of the machine that had been waiting for this moment—waiting for her.

She took a long breath, the air tasting of metal and old oil, then approached the security panel beside the gate. The city was a living thing—its veins clogged with the blood of corruption and power. But tonight, it would be different. Tonight, Schey would give it a chance to breathe again.

With practiced ease, she entered the override code, a sequence of numbers burned into her memory by her uncle's hand. The doors groaned open, revealing the dark shape of the Cherry Red Iskra, bathed in the faint glow of emergency lights. Its sleek, cherry-colored armor reflected the overhead lamps, its form standing like a guardian in the shadows.

As she walked toward the mech, Schey felt the weight of the moment settle over her. This wasn’t just another mission. This wasn’t another small-time sabotage or a rescue op to buy time. The DDS was pushing their forces deeper into the city, closing in on every last resistance cell, and the time for petty strikes was long gone. The DDS had to be brought down—once and for all.

A low hiss of static broke her thoughts. She glanced up, spotting the figure in the corner of her eye. Ceyetons—DDS’s relentless hunting dogs—stood at the far end of the plant’s grounds, its red optics scanning the horizon for any sign of movement. The mechanical beast was a mobile weapon, armed to the teeth, a killing machine. 

Her fingers clenched into fists.

The "Cherry Red Iskra" wasn’t just her family’s legacy. It was her last chance. 

Schey wasn’t just going to fight back tonight. She was going to fan it further. Without hesitation, she made her way toward the Iskra’s cockpit. The door to the mech’s cockpit slid open with a soft hiss as she climbed inside, settling into the pilot’s seat. The familiar hum of the Iskra’s systems powered up as the cockpit sealed around her like a second skin. She glanced around the console, each button, each lever, a reminder of everything her uncle had taught her before he’d fallen. 

The key her uncle Nick had given her all those years ago now felt heavier in her palm. She looked at it for a moment—a simple piece of ancient tech that had been passed down through generations, the symbol of her family’s connection to the old world, to the fight against tyranny. It was time.

With a final breath, she inserted the key into the ignition slot, twisting it with purpose. Instantly, the Iskra’s systems roared to life. Power surged through the frame of the machine, the cockpit’s display flickering on with a rush of data. The red lights surrounding her dimmed for a moment, and the quiet hum of the mech’s power became a deep, resonating pulse that seemed to echo her heartbeat.

A faint smile crept across Schey’s face. “Let’s see how they like this.”

Outside, the Armedroid began its slow march toward the hangar, its sensors picking up on the rising energy signature of the Iskra. It didn’t matter. Schey’s mind was already set. This was it.

She slammed the throttle forward. The Cherry Red Iskra roared to life, its massive feet grinding against the concrete as it propelled itself out of the hangar with a burst of speed and into the streets. The armedroid immediately took notice, its guns whirring to life. But Schey was faster. With a sudden lurch, she steered the armedroid into a roll, dodging the incoming plasma fire from the Armedroid's cannons. The cityscape blurred as she soared into the dark sky, the Iskra's thrusters leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Come on, you oversized tin can,” Schey muttered through gritted teeth, her fingers dancing across the controls. She fired back—a series of explosive missiles launched from the Iskra's shoulder-mounted pods, each one tracking the Armedroid’s heat signature. The explosion lit up the night sky, and the enemy machine staggered under the force of the blast.

But the Cyeton wasn’t finished. It fired a retaliatory shot—plasma beams streaking through the sky toward the Cherry Red Iskra. Schey dodged again, flipping the mech in a graceful roll, before spinning and locking onto her target.

With a flash of light, the armedroid's main cannon charged up, its barrel glowing a menacing red. Schey squeezed the trigger. The shot hit the Cyeton's dead center, and the mech exploded in a shower of sparks, the force of the blast sending shockwaves through the surrounding buildings. The night was alive with the crackling sound of falling debris and the faint whimper of dying systems.

She didn’t even pause to watch it fall. Schey knew the enemy would send more. They always did. But tonight, she had a message for them. The Black Magnolia was done being small time. With the last of the Cyeton's smoke still swirling in the air, Schey turned her armedroid toward the , where enemy units were already descending. Their attack dogs would scatter like rats when they saw the red armedroid coming.

And this time, when she fought, it wasn’t just for survival.

It was for the future.

The country was waiting for someone to rise up against the darkness. Maggie, or Schey wasn’t just Black Magnolia anymore. She was a storm, and the DDS had no idea what was about to hit them. As she surged forward, the Cherry Red Iskra cutting through the sky like a blade through silk, she whispered, almost to herself, "It’s time."

The evening in Metro Manila was thick with humidity, the damp air clinging to skin as the city’s skyline stretched against the heavy clouds hanging overhead. The last light of day had faded, and the streets buzzed with the residual energy of a city too alive with chaos to sleep. In the southern districts, particularly around Paranaque and Bicutan, the air felt different—heavy with tension, alive with whispers of something extraordinary happening in the streets.

The battle had raged for hours. Cyetons—DDS’s armedroid enforcers—lay broken in the streets, their once-formidable frames reduced to twisted heaps of smoking metal. But as the city’s resistance continued to push back against the order's grip, one thing had become clear: this battle was no ordinary skirmish. The ruins of wrecked mechs were too much for any regular resistance cell to claim. This had the mark of something... different.

And in the heart of the chaos, there was talk of a red-armored mech—an entity that defied explanation. The rumors rippled through the city’s underground like wildfire.

"Did you see it? It’s like a robot, but made of steel!" a young boy whispered as he crouched behind a wall of debris, his face pale, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. His friend, who had survived the latest wave of DDS patrols, nodded gravely, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"I saw it too," the second boy muttered, clutching the remains of a shattered data pad. "It... it’s not like any mech I’ve ever seen. It’s faster than the DDS’s. The Cyetons couldn’t keep up with it. I swear, I thought it was a dream, but I saw the smoke... and the wreckage. It tore through them. One shot from its chest—just one—and they were gone. Exploded like a firecracker."

"What color was it? Red?" the first boy asked, his voice growing excited.

"Yes," the second boy confirmed, nodding. "Like blood. Like fire."

The first boy’s face lit up. "It’s Black Magnolia!"

The name hung in the air, and for a moment, the city seemed to hold its breath. "Black Magnolia." The legend. 

"No way," the first boy said, shaking his head in disbelief. "She’s dead. Everyone says so. My uncle said she’s gone."

"But it has to be her. The red armor, the way it moved. It’s her."

Elsewhere, at the DDS command center, Director Coronel was pacing in his office, his usually impeccable posture now strained by the endless stream of troubling reports flooding in. His officers had failed to contain the disturbance in the southern districts, and now, as he stood there, trying to make sense of the disarray, his anger began to simmer.

"We’ve confirmed it, sir," one of his aides said hesitantly, holding up a tablet. "The Cyetons in the southern districts… they’ve been destroyed. In ways we can’t explain. No enemy contact on the ground. No sign of any organized resistance cells. But there’s something else."

Coronel didn’t need to hear more. "What are you saying?" he demanded, turning sharply. His eyes were hard, his voice tight with frustration.

"It’s… the heat signatures, sir," the aide continued, tapping the tablet nervously. "They don’t match any of our standard equipment. The data’s been scrubbed, but there’s an anomaly. We’ve been seeing this red-armored mech moving across the south. It’s fast. It’s powerful. And it’s been tearing through our lines without a second thought. No one can stop it."

A heavy silence filled the room. Coronel stared at the aide, his mind racing. This was no ordinary attack. It was a challenge. And it was one they hadn’t been prepared for. 

"That’s impossible," Coronel muttered, his hands clenching into fists. "How cold a mobile weapon able to destroy us?"

Back in the southern districts, the streets lay in ruins, the remnants of the day’s battle scattered in the smoke-filled air. The Cherry Red Iskra stood tall, its gleaming armor reflecting the orange glow of the fires. Its massive form towered over the wreckage, the air still buzzing with the residual energy from the earlier skirmishes.

Black Magnolia sat in the cockpit, staring out across the devastation. The initial battle had gone well—too well, perhaps. The DDS was scrambling, their Cyetons obliterated by a force they hadn’t anticipated. But the fight was far from over. This wasn’t just about surviving another night. This was about something bigger—something that had been building in the dark corners of the city for years.

A shift in the air seemed to pass through the Iskra, as if the city itself had felt the rumblings of rebellion. A storm was coming. A storm that no one in the DDS could contain.

Schey reached for the communication console, her fingers brushing across the controls. The message would spread, whether the DDS liked it or not. The people of Manila had been waiting for someone to rise up against the corruption, to give them hope again.

"Let them talk," Schey muttered, her voice steady. "Let them spread their rumors. It’ll be the last thing they do."

She slammed the throttle forward, and the Cherry Red Iskra surged to life. The ground beneath her rumbled as she launched the machine into the night sky, her targets already set. The DDS would send more mechs, more reinforcements, but they wouldn’t be ready for what was coming next.

Manila was waking up. And the Black Magnolia was leading the charge.

And the fight for the city- or the country, was about to intensify further.

XXVI

As she left Forbes Park, Black Magnolia felt a mix of anticipation and anxiety. Her path was fraught with danger, but the cause was just. The battle against the oppressive regime had begun, and she was ready to lead her team with both strategy and spirit.

Her first task was to convene with her unit. The ragtag group had been waiting in a safe house, a dilapidated building on the outskirts of the city. They greeted her with a mix of curiosity and respect.

Schey, as Maggie, addressed them with confidence.

“We have a new objective. We’re not just fighting against the regime’s enforcers but against the system that oppresses our people. Each of you has been chosen for your skills and your commitment. We’re going to train, coordinate, and strike at the heart of their operations. Our goal is to disrupt their control and show the people that change is possible.”

Her colleagues, though rough around the edges, nodded in agreement. There was a fire in their eyes—a hunger for change. Over the next few weeks, Black Magnolia and her unit worked tirelessly, honing their skills, planning their strikes, and building a network of support among the oppressed citizens.

As they prepared for their first major operation, Black Magnolia felt a renewed sense of purpose. She was no longer just a lone fighter but a symbol of resistance and hope. The road ahead was perilous, but with her uncle’s wisdom and the support of her unit, she was ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

The city was on the brink of transformation, and Black Magnolia was at the forefront of a revolution that sought to reclaim justice and freedom from the clutches of tyranny. The weeks leading up to Black Magnolia’s first major operation were intense and filled with both anticipation and anxiety. The days were spent training and strategizing, and the nights were filled with covert meetings and reconnaissance. Her leadership was put to the test as she molded her diverse group of fighters into a cohesive unit. Each member had their own strengths and weaknesses, but Maggie, as "Black Magnolia" was determined to harness their potential and forge them into an effective fighting force.

The ragtag group, now more disciplined and organized, was prepared for their first strike. They had identified a high-priority target: a government facility suspected of housing key figures in the regime’s intelligence network. The facility was heavily guarded, but the intel Black Magnolia and her team had gathered suggested it was vulnerable to a well-coordinated assault.

Maggie gathered her team in the safe house one final time before the operation. The atmosphere was charged with a mixture of tension and excitement.

“Tonight, we hit them where it hurts,” Maggie said, her voice steady and commanding. “This operation is crucial. We’re not just targeting a building—we’re striking at the heart of their control. The goal is to send a clear message that their tyranny will no longer go unchallenged.”

She laid out the details of their plan on a makeshift table, using a map and the encrypted communication devices to ensure everyone was on the same page. “We’ll approach the facility from three directions,” she explained. “Alpha team will create a diversion at the north entrance. Bravo team will breach the south side, and Charlie team will provide cover and take out any reinforcements that try to intervene.”

The team nodded in agreement, their eyes locked on Black Magnolia with a mix of respect and determination. The training and preparation had paid off, and they were ready to execute the plan.

As the night fell, Black Magnolia and her team moved into position. The city was eerily quiet, the streets deserted as they approached their target. The sound of distant sirens and the hum of the city’s lights provided a stark contrast to the tension of the impending operation.

Alpha team, led by one of Black Magnolia's most skilled operatives, approached the north entrance of the facility, setting off a series of small explosions to create chaos and draw attention. The blasts illuminated the night sky, casting an orange glow over the facility’s exterior. Guards rushed to the scene, their attention diverted by the diversion.

Bravo team, equipped with cutting-edge gear and the Omicron, made their way to the south entrance. Maggie, clad in her Black Magnolia outfit and with the Obrez gun at the ready, took the lead. The Omicron, piloted by a seasoned operator, moved with precision, its massive frame providing both protection and firepower.

The breach was swift and effective. Bravo team used their advanced equipment to neutralize the guards and break through the facility’s defenses. Inside, they encountered a labyrinth of corridors and security measures, but their training and coordination allowed them to advance quickly.

Charlie team, stationed at a vantage point overlooking the facility, provided cover fire and eliminated any reinforcements that attempted to intervene. Their role was critical in ensuring that Bravo and Alpha teams could complete their objectives without additional threats.

As Black Magnolia and her team pressed forward, they encountered a high-ranking official who had been identified as a key player in the regime’s oppressive activities. The official was found in a secured office, surrounded by confidential documents and communication devices.

Black Magnolia, with her team at her side, confronted the official. The intensity of the moment was palpable, but her resolve remained unshaken. “Your time of tyranny is over,” she declared. “The people you’ve oppressed are rising up, and tonight is just the beginning.”

The confrontation was brief but impactful. The official was taken into custody, and the facility’s critical data was secured. The operation had achieved its primary objectives, and Black Magnolia’s message had been sent loud and clear.

As they exfiltrated the facility and returned to their safe house, Black Magnolia felt a deep sense of accomplishment. The operation had been successful, and their message had resonated. But she knew that this was only the beginning. The regime would respond, and the struggle ahead would be long and arduous.

Her team, though exhausted, shared in the victory. They had proven themselves in the heat of battle, and their confidence was bolstered by their success. Black Magnolia addressed them with a mix of pride and resolve.

“This is just the start,” she said. “We’ve shown them that we’re capable of making a difference. But there’s much more work to be done. Our fight is far from over, and we must remain vigilant and united in our cause.”

The city was indeed on the brink of transformation, and Black Magnolia was at the forefront of a revolution that sought to reclaim justice and freedom from the clutches of tyranny. As she looked around at her team, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and determination. They were no longer just individuals fighting for a cause; they were a unified force driving towards a future where oppression would no longer reign.

The road ahead would be fraught with challenges, but with each victory, they moved closer to their goal of dismantling the old order and forging a new path for their people. Black Magnolia and her team were ready to face whatever lay ahead, their resolve strengthened by their shared commitment to justice and freedom. The news of the devastating attack had arrived like a thunderclap. As Gadon, seated in his ornate office in Malacañang, stared at the images on his screen. Smoking remains of mobile weapons flashed before his eyes—an obliterated armory, overturned vehicles, and soldiers rushing to rescue the wounded. The airstrike had been precise, leaving no room for speculation about its target.

 Gadon slammed his fist on the desk, causing the glass of whiskey beside him to tremble. “This… this isn’t the National Peoples Army nor another mutineer,” he muttered, his voice cold but trembling with rage. “No ordinary bombing, no simple gunfight. How could they possibly achieve this level of destruction?”

 As the gravity of the situation sank in, he grabbed the phone and dialed. The line clicked, and Coronel’s voice, calm but tinged with wariness, answered. “Coronel,” Gadon barked, “what the hell happened in Muntinlupa? I thought you had full control over the area! Explain to me how someone slipped through your fingers and turned an entire garrison into rubble!” 

Coronel, being a Director of Domestic Security, took a deep breath. He was already on edge, having reviewed the damage reports himself. 

 “His Excellency,” Coronel began, his tone measured, “we’re still investigating, but this wasn’t any of the usual suspects. The tactics don’t match the National Peoples Army’s patterns. They lack the resources for an airstrike of this scale. This was something different—” 

 “Different?” Gadon interrupted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Don’t give me vague assessments, Coronel. I need answers. Was it foreign intervention? An alliance between rebel groups?”

 “There’s no evidence of that,” Coronel replied, though doubt lingered in his voice. “But we do have a lead. Survivors reported spotting advanced mobile weapons—small units, highly coordinated. They came in under radar, hit their targets with precision, and vanished before our reinforcements could arrive.” 

 “Mobile weapons?” Gadon repeated, his brow furrowing. His mind raced, recalling the rumors of an elite insurgent group operating outside traditional rebel lines. “Could it be the Flying Column?” 

 “That’s a possibility,” Coronel admitted. “We’ve intercepted chatter about a group led by someone called ‘Black Magnolia.’ If this is her work, she’s operating on a level we haven’t seen before.” 

 Gadon’s anger boiled over. “You mean to tell me that a ragtag group of insurgents, led by some glorified folk hero, just wiped out one of our most fortified bases? How did you let this happen, Coronel?!”

 “Sir,” Coronel began, his voice growing tense, “with all due respect, the Flying Column isn’t just any insurgent group. If the reports are true, they’re equipped with cutting-edge mobile weapons, possibly salvaged or stolen from black-market arms dealers. They’re not amateurs.” 

 Gadon took a long breath, trying to steady himself. The revelation was a blow to his pride. For months, he had assured the administration that the rebellion was contained, that groups like the National Peoples Army were dwindling. Yet here was evidence of a growing, more sophisticated resistance.

 “They’re making fools of us,” Gadon said bitterly. “And if this Black Magnolia thinks she can waltz through Central Luzon unchallenged, she’s got another thing coming. Double the patrols. Find their hideouts. I don’t care what it takes—mobilize the Special Unit if you have to.” 

 “Mobilizing the Special Unit might not be enough,” Coronel warned, his voice cautious. “This group isn’t just about firepower; they’re strategic. Every move they make is calculated. If we act recklessly, we might walk into a trap.”

 “I don’t need lectures, Coronel,” Gadon snapped. “You have your orders. I want results. If you can’t deliver, I’ll find someone who can.”

 Coronel didn’t respond immediately. He knew better than to argue with Gadon in this mood. 

“Understood, sir,” he said finally. “I’ll coordinate with Cheka’s team. If anyone can counter this, it’s her Special Unit.”

 As the call ended, Gadon leaned back in his chair, staring at the flickering images of destruction on his screen. The name Black Magnolia echoed in his mind, a thorn in his side he could no longer ignore. 

 “This isn’t just rebellion anymore,” he muttered to himself. “This is war.” 

 Outside his window, the city lights twinkled as if nothing had changed, but Gadon knew the truth: the resistance was evolving, and it was only a matter of time before the flames reached the heart of power.

The hideout was nestled deep within the dense jungles of Laguna, hidden from prying eyes by layers of thick foliage and steep cliffs. The faint glow of dusk faded into the shadows of the forest, and the stars began to pierce the evening sky. Inside an abandoned warehouse that had been retrofitted into a makeshift operations center, Black Magnolia stood before her assembled Flying Column.

Her voice broke the tense silence as she addressed her comrades. Gardo, Julio, Anna, and Jackie, the core members of her group, sat on upturned crates around a table littered with maps, schematics, and blueprints. Behind her loomed the sleek and imposing forms of the Omicron Mobile Weapons—metal giants painted in a matte black finish, their designs an evolution of the models used during the skirmish in Manila.

“This is more than bombings and firefighting,” Black Magnolia said, her voice cold and resolute. She gestured to the mobile suits behind her. “This is no ‘insurgency’ nor a ‘coup.’” She paused, letting her words sink in before she delivered the next line with steel in her voice: “This is revolution- this is war.”

The Flying Column leaned forward, studying the new machines. These Omicrons were different—not just upgraded versions of their predecessors but purpose-built weapons of revolution.

“This is the next step in our fight,” Black Magnolia continued. “The Cherry Red Iskra might still be my personal unit, but these Omicrons are designed for one thing: total dominance. Improved maneuverability, reinforced armor, and a modified energy core that allows extended combat without overheating.”

She paced in front of the machines as her comrades exchanged looks of awe and anticipation. “Each of you will receive specialized training in operating these weapons,” she said, her gaze sweeping across the room.

 “Ana, you’ll pilot the Vermillion Fang. Jackie, you’ll take Steel Lotus. Julio, your unit is the Ebon Specter. Gardo, you'll take Red Merlion. These aren’t just machines—they’re extensions of our will, tools to liberate the oppressed and strike fear into the hearts of those who would keep us chained.”

Anna leaned back, her expression a mix of excitement and concern. “Maggie,” she said softly, using the nickname the group reserved for their leader. “This is a huge escalation. Are we ready for this? The enemy’s retaliation will be brutal.” Maggie turned to her, her face unreadable. “Brutality is the only language they understand,” she replied. “For too long, we’ve fought defensively—hit-and-run tactics, bombings, ambushes. And for what? To be called ‘terrorists’ or ‘insurgents’ by a regime that slaughters our people without hesitation? No more. This time, we take the fight to them. This time, they’ll know fear.”

Her words resonated with the group, though the weight of what lay ahead pressed heavily on their shoulders.

Maggie activated a holoprojector, and a three-dimensional map of Southern Luzon appeared above the table.

“Our next mission,” she began, “is to test these Omicrons in the field. The military is establishing a supply route through Laguna to support their northern operations. Intel suggests a convoy will be passing through tomorrow night, carrying munitions and reinforcements.” 

Jackie whistled. “A convoy that big means heavy protection. Air support, drones, maybe even their own mobile weapons.” 

Maggie nodded. “Precisely why this is the perfect opportunity to show them what we’re capable of. The goal is simple: destroy the convoy, capture their supplies, and send a message that no part of this country is safe for them anymore.”

 Julio smirked, tapping the table with a gloved hand. “Sounds like my kind of mission. Let’s see if their vaunted Special Unit can handle a real fight.” 

As the meeting concluded, the Flying Column dispersed to prepare. The warehouse buzzed with activity as mechanics and engineers made last-minute adjustments to the Omicrons. Maggie walked among them, offering words of encouragement and ensuring every detail was accounted for.

In the corner of the room, Julio and Jackie were sparring, testing their reflexes and coordination.

 “Don’t forget, Jackie,” Julio teased, “this isn’t just about piloting. It’s about instinct. Trust your gut when things get heated out there.” 

Jackie rolled his eyes but grinned. “You’re just saying that because your gut gets lucky half the time.” 

Ana, meanwhile, was quietly meditating in front of the Vermillion Fang, her hands resting on her knees. She believed in centering herself before battle, a ritual that had become her anchor amidst the chaos.

Maggie retreated to the Cherry Red Iskra, climbing into the cockpit and running diagnostics. As the systems hummed to life, she leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment. The faint beat of Dua Lipa’s music played over the speakers—a reminder of simpler times before the war consumed her life. She allowed herself a fleeting memory of the rave parties she used to attend, the neon lights, and the carefree laughter. But the resistance had called her, and she had answered.

 “This is who I am now,” she whispered to herself. “No turning back.”

As the evening deepened into night, the warehouse became a scene of controlled chaos. Mechanics shouted orders, pilots checked their suits, and Black Magnolia stood at the center of it all, her presence a steadying force.

“Remember,” she said, addressing the Flying Column one last time before the mission. “This isn’t just about destroying a convoy. This is about sending a message: we are not insurgents. We are not rebels. We are a force to be reckoned with, and we will not stop until this regime falls.”

The cheers of her comrades echoed through the warehouse as the Omicrons powered up, their engines roaring to life. Black Magnolia climbed into the Cherry Red Iskra, her resolve unshaken.

As the Flying Column moved out under the cover of darkness, the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Overhead, the stars burned brightly, bearing silent witness to the beginning of a new chapter in the fight for freedom. The war had only just begun.

XXVII

The sun dipped low in the sky, casting a golden hue across the rugged countryside near Manila. Amidst the tranquility of lush fields and distant hills, the peace was shattered as Black Magnolia led her Flying Column—a team of elite armedroid pilots—into the fray. They soared through the air, their mechs glinting in the fading light, a vibrant ensemble of colors and designs that symbolized their unity and resolve.

But lurking in the shadows, waiting to unleash chaos upon them, was Cheka and her notorious special force. Cheka, piloting her menacing Cyeton X, commanded her squad with ruthless efficiency.

“Prepare for engagement,” Cheka ordered, her voice steady as she surveyed the horizon through the cockpit of her mech. The other DDS pilots responded with sharp nods, their faces set with grim determination. They were equipped with formidable mobile weapons, each designed for maximum destruction.

Suddenly, an alarm blared as Black Magnolia’s Flying Column entered enemy territory. “We’ve got visual contact!” a pilot shouted, pointing to the horizon where Cheka and the DDS began to emerge from the landscape like phantoms of death.

“Time to show them what we’re made of!” Black Magnolia shouted, rallying her squad. “Formation Bravo! Keep it tight!” The Flying Column split into an organized formation, each mech readying its weapons. The air crackled with tension as they awaited the inevitable clash. 

“Let’s go!” Cheka’s voice roared over the comms, igniting a fierce determination among her squad. With a swift motion, she launched her Cyeton X forward, leading the charge against the Flying Column. 

 Black Magnolia took to the skies, her Cherry Red Iskra darting forward with an agility that left trails of flame in its wake. She was determined to protect her team, knowing that each pilot under her command was risking everything. 

“Engage the DDS! Watch for their ambushes!” As the two forces clashed, explosions lit up the sky. Cheka activated the Cyeton X’s energy scythe, swinging it in a deadly arc that cleaved through the air. One of Magnolia’s pilots barely managed to evade the strike, but another was not so fortunate, the scythe ripping through the armor of a red and white mech. 

 “Focus fire on that one!” Cheka shouted, gesturing to a vulnerable member of the Flying Column. The DDS sprang into action, coordinating their attacks like a well-oiled machine. Missiles flew through the air, arcing toward their target. The pilot, overwhelmed, struggled to maintain control as the projectiles exploded around him. 

 Black Magnolia felt the loss like a stab to the heart. “Stay close, everyone! We need to regroup!” She activated the Iskra’s thrusters, diving into the chaos, photon blades igniting as she aimed for Cheka’s Cyeton X. 

“This is for my fallen comrade!” Cheka grinned, anticipation gleaming in her eyes as she readied her defenses. 

“You’ll have to do better than that!” With a deft maneuver, she raised the energy shield of the Cyeton X, deflecting the incoming strikes. The two mechs collided in a shower of sparks, blades clashing violently in the open air. 

 “Firing cannon!” a pilot from the DDS yelled, unleashing a barrage of plasma bolts toward Magnolia’s column. The blasts lit up the sky, illuminating the battlefield as the Flying Column pilots scrambled to evade the deadly assault. 

 “Split up!” Magnolia commanded, her voice ringing through the chaos. “We can’t let them corner us!” 

 With a synchronized effort, her team broke formation, weaving through the explosions and debris. Two pilots flanked Cheka, attempting to encircle her, but the DDS was quick to react. Another pilot, cloaked in shadowy armor, darted in to intercept them, unleashing a torrent of fire from its missile pods. 

 Black Magnolia gritted her teeth, channeling energy into her photon blades as she unleashed a series of strikes against Cheka. Each blow was met with resistance, their weapons locked in a furious struggle. 

“You’re not getting away this time, Cheka!” she growled, pouring everything she had into the fight. 

 Cheka countered with a swift kick, sending Black Magnolia staggering back. “You think you can stop the DDS? We thrive on chaos!” She unleashed a barrage of energy blasts from her scythe, the bright arcs illuminating the battlefield as they targeted the stragglers of Magnolia’s column. 

 In the fray, another pilot from the Flying Column attempted to flank the DDS with a stealth maneuver, diving low to avoid detection. But Cheka’s keen senses detected the movement. “Watch out! There’s one trying to sneak past!” she barked, redirecting her focus. The DDS quickly turned their fire, and the pilot’s mech was engulfed in an explosion. 

 The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke and scorched metal. Black Magnolia felt the weight of her team’s losses pressing down on her.

 “We can’t hold out much longer!” she realized, scanning the battlefield for a strategic advantage. Then she noticed an old watchtower looming at the edge of the field, a potential high ground. “Follow me!” Black Magnolia shouted, leading her remaining squad members toward the watchtower. 

They fought their way through the chaos, the remaining pilots rallying to her side. As they reached the tower, they took cover behind its crumbling walls, regrouping for a counterattack. 

 Cheka, realizing the danger, rallied her forces. “Do not let them regroup! Push forward!” The DDS advanced, a relentless wave of mechs moving as one, their weapons primed for destruction. 

 From behind the watchtower, Black Magnolia took a moment to assess her options. 

“If we can create a diversion, we might be able to break their formation.” She turned to her pilots. “Prepare the Aero Strike! We’ll hit them hard from above!” As her pilots readied their weapons, Black Magnolia took a deep breath, steeling herself for the oncoming storm. 

The Flying Column soared into the sky, gaining altitude above the DDS. “Now!” she commanded. They unleashed a rain of fire upon the approaching enemies, a dazzling display of coordinated firepower that lit up the twilight. 

 The special unit was momentarily stunned by the onslaught, and in the chaos, Cheka’s focus faltered. “Regroup! Move!” she yelled, but it was too late. The distraction allowed Black Magnolia to push through the chaos, her Cherry Red Iskra breaking through the lines. 

 With renewed resolve, Black Magnolia surged toward Cheka, determination fueling her every movement. “This is for my team!” she shouted, unleashing a powerful combination of energy blasts and melee strikes. 

 But just as she was about to land a decisive blow, Cheka activated her emergency systems. “You won’t end me here!” she yelled defiantly, launching her escape pod from the Cyeton X’s rear hatch. 

 In an instant, the pod jettisoned into the air, engines roaring to life. Cheka’s laughter echoed in Black Magnolia’s comms as the pod shot toward the horizon.

 “Until next time!” she taunted, disappearing into the night. 

 Black Magnolia halted mid-strike, her heart sinking as she watched Cheka escape once more. 

“No… not again!” Frustration boiled within her, the weight of loss and failure heavy in the air. The battle had raged on, but it was clear this encounter had only set the stage for future confrontations. 

Cheka and her unit might have slipped away, but Black Magnolia knew that she would not rest until she had brought them to justice. 

 As the dust settled and the last echoes of battle faded, Black Magnolia turned to her surviving pilots. 

“We fight on. For our fallen comrades." Black Magnolia said.

With determination in their hearts, they began to regroup, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead, knowing that this was just the beginning of a long and arduous war.

XXVII

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the evening sky over Laguna transformed into a tapestry of orange and purple hues, casting a vibrant reflection across the tranquil waters. But the stillness belied the impending chaos; danger lurked just beyond the tree line.

Inside the Flying Column’s hidden base, an urgent message crackled through the comms, shattering the calm.

“Schey! We’ve detected movement—Cheka’s Special Unit is closing in!”

Schey, known to her comrades as Black Magnolia, felt her heart race. This wasn’t just any mission; Cheka had long been her fiercest adversary, and tonight the stakes were higher than ever.

“Prepare for scramble!” she commanded, her voice cutting through the tension. “This is not a drill! Get to your mobile weapons now!”

With that, her colleagues sprang into action, dashing through the hangar as the shadows deepened around them. The once quiet space became a flurry of motion, as pilots, engineers, and mechanics hurried to their mechs, the air thick with adrenaline and determination.

Schey reached her own mobile weapon, the sleek Cherry Red Iskra, its surface gleaming with the fading light. Climbing into the cockpit, she felt the familiar pulse of energy as the systems powered up, surrounding her with a comforting hum.

“Flying Column, status check!” she called out, her voice steady even as her heart raced.

“Jackie, ready for action!” came the confident reply.

“Ana here, systems green!” echoed another voice.

“Julio, all set, Black Magnolia!” Julio confirmed, his eagerness palpable.

With the team accounted for, Schey turned her attention to the radar. Signals flashed across the screen, indicating Cheka’s Special Unit advancing swiftly, their dark silhouettes becoming more defined as they breached the tree line.

“Form up, everyone! Prepare for engagement!” Schey ordered, the weight of leadership settling on her shoulders.

As the hangar doors creaked open, the night swallowed them whole. The Cherry Red Iskra shot into the dark sky, engines roaring to life as her squad followed in formation, cutting through the cool air above the shimmering waters of Laguna.

“Schey, it’s Cheka!” Jackie reported urgently as they soared. “She’s leading the charge herself!”

“Then let’s give her a fight she won’t forget,” Schey replied, resolve hardening in her voice.

As they neared the enemy formation, the tranquility of the evening shattered into chaos. Cheka’s Special Unit emerged from the treeline, their menacing forms glinting in the moonlight, engines humming ominously as they prepared for battle. At the forefront was Cheka’s Cyeton X, a formidable machine of obsidian and silver, radiating an aura of ruthless efficiency.

“Black Magnolia, I’ve been waiting for this moment!” Cheka’s voice echoed over the comms, laced with derision. “Tonight, you’ll regret challenging the Special Unit!”

Schey’s lips curled into a fierce smile. “Not if I have anything to say about it, Cheka. This ends here!”

With a battle cry, the two forces collided. Energy blasts erupted into the night, lighting up the darkness with bursts of brilliant color. The sound of clashing metal and explosions reverberated across the landscape as the Flying Column engaged the Special Unit, each side vying for dominance.

Schey maneuvered through the chaos with practiced precision, the Cherry Red Iskra weaving in and out of enemy fire. She unleashed a flurry of strikes, her photon blades igniting in fierce arcs of crimson light as she targeted Cheka’s Cyeton X.

The air crackled as Jackie and Ana flanked the enemy, drawing attention away from Schey, allowing her to get closer to Cheka.

“Cover me!” she shouted, her voice steady despite the chaos surrounding them.

Jackie fired a series of energy blasts, forcing two enemy mechs to break formation and scatter. “On it, Black Magnolia! Let’s show them what we’re made of!”

Ana joined in, her own weapon spitting fire at a group of Special Unit mechs that tried to surround Schey. “Keep moving! We need to keep their focus divided!”

As the melee intensified, the night sky exploded with energy. Schey’s senses heightened; she could feel every vibration of the Cherry Red Iskra beneath her. The combatants exchanged blows, energy beams illuminating the dark with each strike.

Just then, a missile launched from one of the Special Unit mechs, arcing through the air toward Julio. “Schey! Watch out!” he yelled, barely dodging the blast.

“Stay close, Julio!” Schey urged, her focus never wavering. “We can’t afford to lose anyone!”

Julio adjusted his trajectory, returning fire at the Special Unit mech that had targeted him, his shots finding their mark and sending it spiraling out of control. “That’s how we do it!” he cheered, his voice filled with adrenaline.

But the chaos escalated when Cheka’s Cyeton X moved to join the fray, its blade swinging with deadly precision. “You think you can escape me, Black Magnolia?” Cheka taunted, a wicked grin on her face.

“Just watch me!” Schey shot back, lunging toward Cheka, her photon blades crackling as they met the metal of Cheka’s mech. The two rivals clashed, blades clanging with an intensity that echoed through the night.

The battle raged on, each side trading blows, the air thick with smoke and the scent of burnt metal. The once peaceful waters of Laguna churned violently below as the fight spilled over the landscape, igniting the very ground they fought upon.

As they exchanged blows, Schey could see the fatigue beginning to set in on her comrades, but her determination only grew stronger. “Don’t falter, everyone! We’re stronger together!” she urged, rallying her team. With renewed vigor, the Flying Column pushed back against the Special Unit, forcing them to regroup. But just as victory seemed within reach, Schey caught sight of Cheka’s Cyeton X retreating toward the treeline.

“Don’t let her escape!” Schey shouted, her heart pounding in her chest as she surged forward, her Cherry Red Iskra ignited with energy. “We can’t let her slip away again!”

But Cheka, ever the tactician, activated her escape pod. “Fall back! Activate the escape protocols!” she commanded, her voice cold and resolute.

The pod jettisoned from the Cyeton X, its sleek dark form launching into the night sky, a stark contrast against the stars. “Until next time, Black Magnolia!” Cheka’s taunting voice echoed over the comms, her figure disappearing into the vastness above.

“No!” Schey shouted in frustration, her fists clenching around the controls. “She’s getting away!”

The chaos of battle began to settle, the remaining members of the Special Unit retreating into the darkness as the Flying Column regrouped. Breathing heavily, Julio, Jackie, and Ana looked to Schey, their expressions a mix of frustration and fatigue.

“We may have lost this round, but we’ll get her next time,” Schey said, her voice steady, determination burning in her eyes. “This fight isn’t over. For every comrade we’ve lost, we will rise again. Together.”

As the last remnants of the Special Unit faded into the shadows, Schey gazed out over the now turbulent waters of Laguna. The stars twinkled above, a silent witness to the battles fought and those yet to come. With resolve swelling in her chest, she knew they would be ready to confront the darkness once more.

The aftermath of the battle left Laguna’s evening sky quiet, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. The once-pristine landscape bore scars from the fierce combat—the ground was scorched, and fragments of metal lay scattered in the grass like shattered stars. The Flying Column hovered silently, catching their breath as they surveyed the devastation below.

Schey, or as her comrades called her, Black Magnolia, remained tense in the cockpit of the Cherry Red Iskra, her gaze fixed in the direction of Cheka’s escape pod’s trajectory. Frustration simmered under her calm exterior; Cheka had managed to slip away yet again, leaving more questions than answers.

“Black Magnolia,” Julio’s voice crackled over the comm, his tone tired but resolute. “Cheka might’ve escaped, but we put a dent in her Special Unit tonight.”

“Yeah,” Ana chimed in, her voice weary yet defiant. “They won’t be so quick to come at us next time.”

Schey took a steadying breath. “We did well, all of us. But don’t underestimate her. Cheka’s resourceful. We may have bruised her unit, but she’ll regroup—and next time, she’ll come at us even harder.”

She opened a channel to her whole team. “We’ll return to base. Julio, Ana, Jackie—good work tonight. Get some rest. We’ll need our strength for what’s coming.”

The Cherry Red Iskra led the formation as they turned back toward their base, a solitary silhouette against the dimming night. As they flew over the lake, Schey couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret for the battle that had stained this peaceful place.

Back at their hidden base, nestled deep within the forested hills, the team disembarked from their mobile weapons, exhausted but alive. Mechanics and engineers quickly swarmed the mechs, assessing damage, patching up armor, and reloading ammunition. Despite the fatigue etched on their faces, there was an undercurrent of pride. The Flying Column had held its ground against Cheka’s elite Special Unit—and emerged with minimal casualties.

Schey, still in her black Jacket and Jeans, gathered her team in the dimly lit hangar. As they gathered around her, she looked each of them in the eye—Julio, Gardo, Ana, Jackie, and the rest of the column who had been ready to lay down their lives.

“Tonight was a victory, but it’s just the beginning,” she began, her voice steady. “Cheka won’t rest. Her Special Unit will come back, and they’ll come back with a vengeance. But they don’t know who they’re dealing with. We’ll be ready, and next time, we’re taking her down for good.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the group, the fatigue fading as their resolve strengthened.

Jackie stepped forward, a small grin playing on his face. “You’re right, Black Magnolia. We’ve faced worse odds before, and we’ve always come out stronger.”

Ana nodded, her eyes flashing with determination. “Whatever it takes, we’ll be there.”

As Schey looked around at her comrades, she felt a surge of pride. They weren’t just soldiers; they were family, bonded by shared struggle and a relentless pursuit of justice. No matter what Cheka threw at them next, the Flying Column would stand firm, united.

“Get some rest,” she said, giving them a nod of encouragement. “And keep your gear ready. Tomorrow, we start preparing for whatever comes next.”

The group dispersed, but Julio lingered, looking at Schey thoughtfully. “Cheka’s not just any enemy, is she?” he asked quietly. “There’s history between you two.”

Schey’s gaze hardened. “Cheka and I go back further than most people realize. She’s crossed lines—lines that can’t be forgiven.”

Julio nodded slowly, sensing the weight behind her words. “Then we’ll make sure she pays for it.”

She gave him a slight nod, a wordless acknowledgment of his loyalty, before turning away to the hangar doors. As she stepped outside, she took a long breath, her gaze drifting back toward the now-hidden waters of Laguna.

The night stretched out before her, deep and silent, but she knew the peace wouldn’t last. Cheka was still out there, watching, waiting, planning her next move. And when that day came, Schey would be ready.

The moon hung high above as Black Magnolia stood there, a lone figure in the dark, her eyes narrowed in silent defiance.

“This isn’t over, Cheka,” she murmured to herself. “You may have escaped tonight, but next time—next time, there won’t be anywhere left for you to run.”

Far from the battlefield, Cheka’s escape pod streaked through the night sky, gliding over mountains and forests, silent and sleek against the vast darkness. Inside, Cheka sat rigid, her grip tight on the controls, her jaw clenched. Her mind was racing, not with fear, but with cold, simmering anger. Tonight hadn’t gone as planned—Black Magnolia and her Flying Column had put up more resistance than she had anticipated.

She pressed a button on her console, opening a secured comm channel. After a brief moment, a voice crackled to life. “Commander Cheka, we’re ready to receive you at the extraction point. Your orders?”

“Stand by,” she replied, her tone clipped. “Have the remaining units rendezvous at Base Theta. We need full damage assessments and intel on the Column’s current position.”

“Yes, Commander.”

The pod coasted down toward a hidden clearing on a mountainside, where a small team waited by a darkened transport vehicle. As Cheka disembarked, her lieutenants stood at attention, but she brushed past them, her boots crunching on the gravel as she headed toward the tent they’d set up for debriefing. The glow from the camp’s minimal lighting cast an eerie glow across her hardened features.

One of her aides, a young officer named Mira, fell into step beside her, holding a tablet loaded with battle data. “Commander, we’ve compiled the preliminary reports. The Special Unit sustained heavy losses—five mechs destroyed, two beyond repair, and we lost contact with Lieutenant Brax.”

Cheka’s lips pressed into a thin line. Brax was one of her more promising pilots. The idea of him lost—or worse, taken down by Black Magnolia’s team—twisted her gut. She stopped abruptly, gripping the tablet as she scanned the screen.

“Black Magnolia’s column fought harder than anticipated,” she muttered, scanning through the details of each encounter. Images of Julio’s relentless onslaught, Jackie's clever maneuvers, and Ana’s calculated strikes flickered across the display. But it was Black Magnolia’s Cherry Red Iskra that held her attention, each recorded move a stark reminder of her rival’s resilience.

Mira noticed her commander’s tension. “The Flying Column’s tactics were more coordinated than in previous encounters, Commander. Black Magnolia herself seems to have grown more… strategic.”

Cheka’s gaze darkened. “She’s relentless. Every time we meet, she’s stronger. More calculated.” She clenched her fists, remembering the fierce clash of their blades, the flash of crimson and silver as the two mechs had collided. Black Magnolia was more than a mere thorn in her side—she was an obstacle, a force that defied her every effort to crush the rebellion.

Mira cleared her throat cautiously. “Perhaps we could… reconsider our approach? Adapt our strategy to counter her more effectively?”

Cheka turned, pinning her with a fierce glare. “No. We don’t adapt to her. She adapts to us.” She set the tablet down with a hard click. “But you’re right. Black Magnolia’s making a habit of slipping through my fingers, and that ends now.”

She turned to her gathered officers, her voice steely. “Mobilize every resource we have. I want surveillance drones patrolling all sectors surrounding Laguna. Every possible escape route, every inch of terrain mapped and monitored. And call in reinforcements. We’re deploying every last reserve to hunt her down.”

One of her lieutenants shifted uncomfortably. “Commander, the High Command might question the additional resources—”

“They’ll do as I say,” Cheka snapped, her eyes flashing. “If they want victory, they’ll back this operation.” She took a steadying breath, tempering her anger with cold calculation. “We’re not just hunting Black Magnolia anymore. We’re going to dismantle her Flying Column piece by piece.”

She glanced back toward the mountains, where the battle’s distant echoes still seemed to resonate in her mind. Cheka knew Black Magnolia would return, bolstered by her comrades, ready to fight her again with newfound fury. But this time, she would be prepared.

A plan was already forming in her mind—one that would not only counter the Flying Column’s tactics but break them completely. If Black Magnolia wanted to defend her people, she would soon find herself surrounded, fighting an enemy that anticipated her every move.

Cheka allowed herself a brief, chilling smile. “Run all you want, Black Magnolia. Soon, you’ll have nowhere left to hide.”

XXVIII

The hum of the Cherry Red Iskra’s engines filled the cockpit, slowly rising into a deep roar as Schey activated the thrusters. The cockpit lights flickered briefly before settling into their usual cool blue hue, casting an ethereal glow on her face. As the controls responded to her touch, she leaned back slightly in the pilot seat, her fingers moving automatically, checking systems, securing armor, calibrating weapons. But despite the precision of her motions, her mind wandered for a brief moment.

A low sigh escaped her lips as she glanced down at the console, where the playlist still displayed the track she’d been listening to earlier: Dua Lipa’s “Hallucinate.” The pulsating rhythm of the song felt like an echo of another life, a reminder of a time before all of this—the days when she would dance at underground rave parties, letting the music carry her through the night, without a care in the world.

The melody was intoxicating, almost irresistible. For a moment, her fingers hovered over the buttons, her thoughts drifting back to those moments of freedom. The bass hit hard, and she almost smiled at the memory of the flashing lights, the pounding beats, and the sense of unity with strangers who didn’t care about their pasts, just the raw, shared experience of the music.

But that life—her old life—was behind her now.

The buzzing of the comms brought her back to reality. Her thoughts snapped back to the present as Julio’s voice crackled over the radio.

“Black Magnolia, this is Julio. Ready when you are. The column’s set for the next phase. You got your head in the game, or are you still lost in the past?”

Schey smirked faintly, a dry chuckle escaping her lips. She toggled the comms to reply.

“Just checking my playlist, Julio. Don’t worry, I’m still all in,” she said, her voice firm with purpose.

She turned off the song with a final click, the trance-like beats fading into the background as she refocused. The Cherry Red Iskra’s systems were now fully online, and the mission lay ahead. No more distractions. No more raves. The call of resistance was stronger now than any song, and it was a call that couldn’t be ignored.

The cockpit dimmed to a professional red glow, signaling the final countdown. Her fingers gripped the controls firmly, her thoughts sharpened into the focused clarity of a commander.

“Julio, get ready,” she said, eyes narrowing as she surveyed the sky beyond the cockpit. “Cheka’s Special Unit isn’t done yet. We’re going to hit them harder this time.”

“Roger that,” Julio responded, his voice steady. “We’re with you, Black Magnolia. You lead, we follow.”

Schey’s lips pressed into a tight line as she initiated the final sequence, sending the Cherry Red Iskra into the air with a surge of power. The mobile weapon shot forward, leaving the base behind, its engines glowing like a comet streaking across the twilight sky over Laguna.

As the columns of the Flying Column followed in formation behind her, Schey allowed herself one final moment of reflection. The beats of her former life, now distant, were nothing compared to the thumping pulse of the resistance. And with every passing battle, with every new victory, she felt the weight of that responsibility grow heavier—and she knew it was a weight she could never put down.

Tonight, the Flying Column would strike again. Cheka’s Special Unit had no idea what was coming.

Schey’s hand moved to the throttle, her heart thumping in time with the Iskra’s engines.

“Let’s dance, Cheka,” she muttered under her breath, her voice as cold and determined as the wind cutting through her cockpit. “This time, I’m leading the beat.”

The Cherry Red Iskra soared through the Laguna evening sky, the dark waters below reflecting faint glimmers of moonlight. The Flying Column followed closely, their formation tight, engines rumbling like a symphony of defiance. Inside her cockpit, Schey—Black Magnolia—felt the familiar rush of adrenaline as they approached the coordinates where Cheka’s Special Unit had last been detected.

“Stay sharp,” she said into the comms. “Cheka won’t let us take her by surprise again.”

“Copy that, Black Magnolia,” Ana replied, her tone clipped but calm. “Weapons primed and ready.”

“Same here,” Julio chimed in, the faint trace of a grin in his voice. “I’ve got your back, as always.”

“Good. Jackie, keep the rear secure,” Schey continued. “If Cheka’s learned anything, she’ll try to flank us this time.”

“Understood, Cherry Red,” Jackie responded with a slight chuckle, using her other nickname. “But if anyone sneaks up on us, they won’t live to regret it.”

Schey allowed herself a small smile at Jackie’s confidence. But the smile faded as her radar pinged—a cluster of signals ahead. She brought the Cherry Red Iskra to a steady hover, raising her hand to signal the column to hold formation.

“Contacts at two o’clock,” she said, her tone shifting to full focus. “Cheka’s waiting for us.”

Ahead, the horizon lit up as Cheka’s Special Unit broke their cover. Their mobile weapons moved with precision, stepping into formation as they emerged from the forested slopes surrounding the lake. Cheka’s Cyeton X stood at the center, its dark armor glinting like a predator stalking in the moonlight.

“Welcome, Black Magnolia,” Cheka’s voice purred over the comms, cutting through the air like a blade. “I see you couldn’t resist showing up for another dance.”

“Cheka,” Schey replied, her voice cold and even. “You’re running out of moves. Tonight, we finish this.”

Cheka’s laugh was sharp, almost mocking. “Bold words, as always. Let’s see if you can back them up this time.”

With that, the Special Unit surged forward, weapons blazing. The battle erupted in an instant—a storm of light and sound that shattered the tranquility of the Laguna night.

Schey pushed the Iskra into action, weaving through the hail of enemy fire with practiced ease. The Cherry Red’s thrusters flared as she closed the distance to Cheka’s forces, her beam sabers igniting in twin streaks of crimson light.

“Julio, Ana—take the left flank!” she barked into the comms. “Jackie, cover our six!”

“On it!” Julio replied, already unleashing a volley of missiles that streaked toward the enemy. Explosions lit up the sky as the projectiles found their marks, forcing several of Cheka’s units to break formation.

Ana’s mech darted to the side, her precision rifle picking off targets with deadly accuracy. “That’s two down,” she reported, her voice calm despite the chaos.

Meanwhile, Jackie held the rear, his heavy artillery firing relentless suppressive rounds. The ground trembled with each impact, forcing the Special Unit to keep their distance.

Schey zeroed in on Cheka’s Cyeton X, her beam sabers slicing through the air as she charged. Cheka met her head-on, her weapon glowing with an eerie blue light. Their blades clashed with a deafening crackle, sending sparks flying as the two mechs grappled for dominance.

“You’ve improved,” Cheka admitted, her tone almost grudging. “But it won’t be enough.”

“We’ll see about that,” Schey shot back, forcing the Iskra’s engines to full power. She shoved Cheka back, spinning the Iskra into a quick follow-up strike. The sabers cut deep, grazing the Cyeton X’s armor.

Cheka hissed in frustration but recovered quickly, launching a counterattack with her mech’s twin plasma cannons. Schey dodged narrowly, the energy blasts scorching the ground behind her.

“Black Magnolia, on your left!” Ana warned.

Schey reacted instantly, pivoting to block an incoming strike from another enemy unit. Her beam sabers flashed, cutting through the attacker’s weapon before delivering a decisive blow to its core. The enemy mech crumpled, sparks flying as it collapsed.

Despite the Flying Column’s efforts, Cheka’s Special Unit continued to press hard. The battle raged on, the air thick with the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and the whir of thrusters. Each side refused to give an inch.

But as the fight wore on, it became clear that the Flying Column had the upper hand. Schey’s leadership, combined with her team’s unshakable resolve, began to break the Special Unit’s formation.

“Cheka, it’s over,” Schey declared, her voice cutting through the comms. “Call off your forces, or I’ll end this here and now.”

Cheka’s response was sharp and defiant. “You think you’ve won? You’ve barely scratched the surface of what I’m capable of.”

But even as she spoke, Cheka’s mech staggered under the weight of the Iskra’s relentless assault. Her remaining forces were in disarray, their numbers dwindling rapidly.

Sensing her position was untenable, Cheka made a calculated decision. “This isn’t the end, Black Magnolia,” she said, her tone icy. “Enjoy your hollow victory while it lasts.”

Before Schey could respond, Cheka activated the Cyeton X’s emergency protocols. The mech fired a blinding flare, momentarily disorienting the Flying Column. When the light cleared, the Cyeton X was gone—its escape pod streaking toward the horizon.

Schey slammed her fist against the console, frustration etched across her face. “Damn it,” she muttered.

Julio’s voice crackled over the comms. “Black Magnolia, she’s gone. We’ve won the field.”

Schey took a deep breath, her gaze hardening. “We’ve won this battle,” she said quietly. “But Cheka will be back. And next time, there won’t be anywhere for her to run.”

As the Flying Column regrouped after their encounter with Cheka’s Special Unit, Schey—Black Magnolia—sat in the Cherry Red Iskra’s cockpit, monitoring updates through the encrypted comms channel. The evening over Laguna was quiet again, save for the occasional hum of distant engines and the chirping of crickets.

A news alert caught her attention, relayed by one of their informants: “Philippine Army’s 61st Infantry Battalion discovers rebel arms cache in Antique.” The message detailed the cache’s contents—five M16 rifles, live ammunition, and magazines—recovered in Sitio Danao, Barangay Busog. The report framed the discovery as a significant victory for government forces, but Schey saw it differently.

She leaned back in her seat, her expression neutral but her mind sharp. Pressing a button, she opened the Flying Column’s comms channel. Julio, Ana, and Jackie, still in their mechs, appeared on her screen.

“We just got word about a lost arms cache in Antique,” she began, her voice calm but firm. “The military’s flaunting it as a win.”

Julio frowned. “That’s a blow, no doubt. But it’s not exactly a game-changer.”

“It’s inconvenient,” Ana added, crossing her arms in her cockpit feed. “But they can’t spin that into a decisive victory. It’s just a cache.”

Jackie chuckled dryly. “Typical propaganda. They win a skirmish and act like they’ve won the war.”

Schey nodded, her gaze steady. “Those cases are isolated,” she said, her tone resolute. “But regardless of that loss, this doesn’t diminish the fact that the military and security forces have failed to avert the growing resistance. For every cache they find, five more remain hidden. And for every squad they disband, ten more rise from the shadows.”

The others listened intently as she continued. “Their victories are superficial. They’re fighting symptoms, not the cause. As long as they refuse to address the injustices and oppression fueling this movement, their efforts are just a slow bleed of resources and morale.”

Julio grinned faintly. “Spoken like the Black Magnolia we know.”

“Cherry Red never misses,” Jackie added with a smirk. “They may recover a few guns, but they’ll never recover the ground we’ve gained.”

Schey allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. “We focus on the bigger picture,” she said, her voice steady. “The resistance isn’t about stockpiles or single battles. It’s about the people—what they believe, what they’re willing to fight for. And that, comrades, is something the military can never seize.”

The comms fell quiet for a moment as her words sank in. Then Ana broke the silence. “So what’s the plan, Black Magnolia? What’s our next move?”

Schey’s expression hardened. “We keep the pressure on. Cheka escaped tonight, but she’ll be back—and so will her Special Unit. We need to be ready. Gather intel, reinforce our positions, and remind the people why they’re fighting. Every action we take strengthens the movement.”

The Flying Column acknowledged her orders, their voices a chorus of determination. As the comms channel closed, Schey leaned back in her seat, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The battle might have ended for now, but the war for freedom continued—and Black Magnolia would be at the forefront, leading the charge.

As the Cherry Red Iskra powered down for the night, Schey emerged from the cockpit, her boots landing softly on the ground near their temporary base—a secluded clearing hidden among the dense forests near Laguna. The air smelled of damp earth and foliage, a stark contrast to the chaos they had just left behind.

Julio, Ana, and Jackie were already gathered around a small portable table set up under the cover of trees, reviewing the latest intelligence reports. Maps, notes, and a few scattered holo-displays illuminated their faces in the dim light of a portable lamp.

Schey approached the group, her presence commanding attention without a word. Julio handed her a datapad as she joined them. “We’ve received updates from the southern cells,” he said. “It looks like the military’s been ramping up operations in Antique and neighboring provinces. That arms cache they found isn’t an isolated incident—it’s part of a larger sweep.”

Ana nodded. “They’re trying to starve out the resistance in the Visayas. Cut off our supplies and force us into smaller, disconnected units.”

Jackie leaned forward, his arms crossed over his chest. “But here’s the thing—they’re overstretched. Reports say they’re pulling troops from Luzon to support these operations. That leaves gaps we can exploit.”

Schey scanned the datapad, her eyes narrowing as she processed the information. “They’re chasing shadows,” she said, her voice even. “Burning resources and manpower for short-term victories while leaving themselves exposed elsewhere.”

Her gaze shifted to the map projected on the table. “What about Cheka’s Special Unit? Any signs of their movements after tonight’s battle?”

Ana shook her head. “No confirmed sightings yet, but we know how she operates. She’ll regroup, consolidate her forces, and strike back where she thinks we’re weakest.”

“She’s predictable,” Jackie said with a smirk. “And arrogant. That’ll be her downfall.”

Schey didn’t share his confidence just yet. “We can’t underestimate her,” she said. “Cheka is a tactician. Her retreat wasn’t just about survival—it was calculated. She’ll come back stronger, and we need to be ready.”

Julio leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “So what’s the play, Black Magnolia? Do we hit them before they hit us?”

Schey considered his question, her mind racing through possibilities. “Not yet,” she said finally. “For now, we focus on consolidation. Strengthen our alliances, secure supply lines, and prepare for a sustained campaign. We need to keep Cheka and the military off balance, but without overextending ourselves.”

Ana glanced at the map. “The Laguna region has been quiet lately. We could use that to our advantage—set up a few decoy operations to draw their attention while we focus on shoring up resources.”

Schey nodded. “Good. Let’s make it look like we’re planning something big here. Meanwhile, I’ll contact our northern allies and see if we can coordinate a larger offensive. If we’re going to strike, it needs to be decisive.”

Jackie grinned. “I like the sound of that. Let’s make them regret ever crossing the Flying Column.”

As they finalized their plans, the team’s resolve grew stronger. Each member understood the stakes—they weren’t just fighting a military force; they were fighting for the future of the people who depended on them.

Before they dispersed, Schey paused to address her team. “Remember this,” she said, her voice steady and firm. “Every battle we win, every strike we make—it’s not just for us. It’s for the farmers who’ve been displaced, the workers who’ve been silenced, and the families who’ve lost everything. That’s who we’re fighting for. And that’s why we can’t fail.”

The words hung in the air as her comrades nodded, their expressions hardened with determination.

Meanwhile, far from the Flying Column’s camp, Cheka stood inside a hidden military hangar, the Cyeton X undergoing repairs after its narrow escape. Technicians swarmed the damaged mech, their tools sparking as they worked to restore its systems.

Cheka watched in silence, her mind racing with plans for her next move. Black Magnolia’s words during the battle echoed in her head—taunting, defiant, unyielding. She clenched her fists, her eyes narrowing.

“Black Magnolia,” she muttered under her breath. “You’ve become a thorn in my side for too long.”

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Commander Cheka,” one of her officers said, approaching with a salute. “The Special Unit is regrouping. We’ve identified several targets for our next operation.”

Cheka turned to face him, her expression cold and calculating. “Good. I want detailed reports on every potential target. And this time, we don’t stop until the Flying Column is crushed.”

As the officer departed, Cheka glanced back at the Cyeton X, her resolve hardening.

The battle in Laguna was over, but the war between the Special Unit and the Flying Column had only just begun.

***

In the dimly lit room of a secret hideout, Schey, known to the public as Black Magnolia, sat at a makeshift desk littered with maps, intelligence reports, and digital devices. The rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the keyboard was the only sound that broke the silence. Her mind was racing, not just with strategies and tactics, but with a personal revelation that had come to light. The leader of the DDS’s special unit, Cheka Arce, was none other than her old college rival.

Schey’s gaze fixed on the image of Cheka Arce, which had been extracted from a series of covert surveillance photos. Cheka, in her imposing attire, was seen attending high-level meetings with DDS officials, discussing military strategies and counterinsurgency operations. This new information hit Schey with a mixture of shock and nostalgia.

As Schey stared at a photograph of Cheka Arce, her mind drifted back to their days at San Sebastian College. The campus, with its ivy-covered walls and bustling corridors, was a world away from the gritty realities of her current fight. Yet, the echoes of their shared past reverberated with unsettling clarity.

Flashback to college days

San Sebastian College had been a battleground of its own—a place where academic prowess and social maneuvering collided in a high-stakes competition. Schey and Cheka were two stars in this constellation, their rivalry a constant undercurrent of campus life.

Schey, with her bright red hair and dynamic personality, was the embodiment of enthusiasm. Her debates were lively, her speeches impassioned, and her presence at social events commanding. She was celebrated for her charisma and advocacy. In stark contrast, Cheka was known for her quiet, calculating demeanor. She was academically brilliant and meticulously organized, yet there was an air of envy that simmered beneath her composed exterior. Cheka’s envy towards Schey was palpable, not just for her popularity but also for the effortless way she seemed to succeed.

At one particularly grueling debate, the tension between them reached a boiling point. The topic was societal reform, and both were at the forefront, each representing their own vision.

“To bring real change, we must challenge the status quo directly." Schey said. "Our society needs bold reforms that address the root causes of inequality!”

“Schey, your proposals sound idealistic but lack practical application." Cheka replied. "We need structured, realistic strategies to ensure sustainable progress.”

Their arguments were sharp, but the real heat came from their personal animosity. The audience was torn, but the animosity between the two was undeniable.

Outside the classroom, their rivalry continued to brew. Social gatherings, particularly the college’s infamous rave parties, were a common battleground. Schey thrived in these environments, her energy and vivacity making her the center of attention.

At one such rave, Schey was in her element, dancing with abandon and drawing the admiration of her peers. Cheka, however, stood at the periphery, her jealousy simmering as she watched Schey’s effortless charm.

“It’s always the same with Schey." said Sharmaine. "She just has to be the center of attention, doesn’t she?”

“She’s just being herself, Cheka. Maybe you should join in, too.” her friend said.

“I’d rather not." Cheka said. "I’m here to enjoy the party, not to compete for attention.”

Later, they found themselves at a beer pong table, a common site for their competitive nature to clash. Cheka, clearly annoyed by the evening’s events, tried to win back some semblance of control.

“You think you can beat me at beer pong after all that? Good luck!” Schey said. 

“Just watch me.” Cheka replied.

The game was intense, and Cheka’s frustration was evident as Schey’s team emerged victorious once again.

“You always seem to have everything under control, don’t you?” Cheka asked.

“It’s just a game, Cheka." Schey said. "Maybe if you didn’t take everything so seriously, you’d enjoy yourself more.”

The comment stung, but the evening ended with their rivalry as fierce as ever, with Cheka’s resentment and Schey’s disdain fueling their interactions.

As their final year approached, the rivalry became more pronounced. The “Future Leaders Forum” was set to be the stage for their ultimate confrontation. Both were selected as keynote speakers, and the anticipation was palpable.

Schey’s speech was a call for radical transformation. Her eyes shone with determination as she spoke to the audience. “We cannot afford to be passive. The world needs a new order—a revolution in how we address injustice and inequality. It’s time for us to act boldly and decisively.”

The audience was captivated, and Schey’s supporters cheered loudly. Cheka, in the wings, watched with a mixture of envy and disdain.

When Cheka took the stage, her approach was methodical and analytical. “While Schey’s passion is admirable, real progress requires a more measured approach. We need to address issues incrementally and systematically to avoid unnecessary upheaval.”

Her response was met with thoughtful nods and respectful applause. The forum underscored their different philosophies but also highlighted the personal enmity that fueled their competition.

Post-graduation, the lives of Schey and Cheka diverged sharply, their paths taking them in vastly different directions.

Schey, driven by the ideals she had grown up with and the memory of her late father, embraced activism with a fervor that left no room for compromise. Her father's legacy, marked by his staunch advocacy for social justice and reform, became her guiding light. After the tragic loss of her father, President Andre Sebastian, Schey’s resolve only strengthened. The pain of his death fueled her commitment to the cause, propelling her into the heart of revolutionary movements. Her speeches, impassioned and filled with a deep-seated belief in transformative change, rallied many to her side. In contrast, Cheka's trajectory was one of political ascendancy. Her sharp intellect and strategic prowess earned her a coveted position within the regime’s security apparatus. She played a crucial role in maintaining the stability of Gadon's government, a role that put her directly at odds with Schey's revolutionary ideals. Cheka’s rise was marked by a calculated approach, one that leveraged her deep understanding of political dynamics to navigate the treacherous waters of power.

The death of President Sebastian was a turning point that irrevocably altered Schey’s life. The hospital room where she and her mother stood was filled with grief and disbelief. They had watched, helpless, as the life of the man who had been a beacon of hope was extinguished. The funeral, held at the historic San Agustin Church, was a somber affair, marked by the silent but powerful presence of those who had once been close to the president.

“We’ll make sure his legacy lives on. We can’t let this end here.” Schey whispered to her mother as the casket was lowered.

“We have to be careful, Schey." Her mother whispered as she saw Gadon. "Gadon will be relentless. We need to find a way out, and quickly.”

As the casket was placed in the tomb, a solemn salute was offered by those in attendance. The ceremony was a poignant reminder of the loss and the uncertain future that lay ahead.

In the aftermath of the funeral, the threat posed by Gadon’s regime became increasingly clear. With the regime cracking down on any dissent, Schey and her mother were forced to take drastic measures. They knew that staying would mean certain danger, not only for themselves but for anyone who might be sympathetic to their cause.

With the assistance of loyal intelligence operatives who had been close to President Sebastian, Schey and her mother embarked on a covert escape. The journey was fraught with peril, as they navigated through hidden routes and secret safe houses to evade detection leading to their final escape through plane. Their departure was a carefully orchestrated operation, meant to ensure their safety while preserving the fragile network of support that remained.

As they escaped into relative safety, Schey looked back with a mix of sorrow and determination. The world she had known was slipping away, but the fight for her father’s legacy and the cause of justice was just beginning.

One evening, while sorting through a new set of classified dossiers in her office, Cheka came across a file labeled “Black Magnolia.” The file was marked top secret, and her curiosity was piqued. She opened it, expecting to find routine information about a rebel leader.

“Let’s see what makes you tick.” Cheka muttered to herself.

The dossier contained detailed intelligence on Black Magnolia's activities, including her leadership of a radical faction and her ongoing efforts to undermine the current regime. But what really caught Cheka’s attention were the sections discussing Black Magnolia’s background and connections.

The dossier revealed that Black Magnolia was actively involved in supporting the loyalists of the late President Sebastian, who had been a formidable rival of the current President Gadon. 

“Sebastian’s supporters...” Cheka said with eyes widened with the dossier.

As Cheka scanned through the dossier, she came across a photograph of the late President Sebastian with his family—his eldest daughter Schey prominently featured. The family photo was accompanied by brief biographical details about each member. The realization hit Cheka like a jolt.

“I know Schey happened to be the President's daughter," Cheka said. "But with all the encounters during my college days with her I wouldn't be surprised if Black Magnolia is also Schey?”

Cheka’s investigation took on a new urgency as she sought to confirm her suspicions. The rivalry from their college days had transformed into a profound professional and personal conflict. The possibility that Schey was Black Magnolia made every piece of intelligence a potential link to her old rival.

In a quiet moment of reflection, Cheka again reviewed old photographs and documents from her college days. The memories of Schey—her charisma, her drive—seemed to align eerily with the traits of Black Magnolia. The investigation becomes personal as it was a profound connection that tied together years of personal rivalry with the current political turmoil. Cheka’s mind raced back to their college days. The debates, the social gatherings, and Schey’s unmistakable presence all began to make sense in a new light.

“It all fits... Schey’s ideals, her drive—it’s all rooted in her family’s legacy. I should have seen it.” Cheka said to herself, with a mix of anger and disbelief.

The realization was not purely coincidental but a culmination of Cheka’s awareness of Schey’s past and present actions. Black Magnolia’s fervent opposition to Gadon’s regime and her appeal using the late President Sebastian made Cheka grapple the belief that that Schey was indeed Black Magnolia.. The rivalry that had once been confined to academic debates and social events had now expanded into a high-stakes political conflict.

“I am not surprised that this battle is nothing but a vendetta against the president and the government. And that means I’m up against not just a political adversary, but someone with a deep personal stake in this.” Cheka said. 

During a clandestine meeting with her team, Cheka then conveyed her heightened sense of urgency.

“Our intelligence indicates that Black Magnolia’s movements are closely tied to someone with a personal vendetta against the president and not just this government." Cheka said. "The patterns, the rhetoric... it all points to someone interesting." 

then she showed the picture of Schey Sebastian. "This is Schey Dominique Sebastian. We need to act quickly to either confirm or dispel this connection.” Cheka said.

“We’re closing in. If she is Black Magnolia, we’ll have the evidence soon.” the DDS agent said. 

The personal nature of their rivalry now influenced Cheka’s approach to the investigation. Her professional duties were interwoven with a deeply personal vendetta, fueled by the years of rivalry and resentment.

The clash between Schey and Cheka was no longer just about political ideology but a deeply personal confrontation rooted in their shared history.

As Black Magnolia, Schey prepared for the inevitable showdown. In a secret meeting with her closest allies, she reflected on the profound nature of her conflict with Cheka.

“Cheka and I have always had a history." Schey said. "Our debates, our social rivalries—they were just the beginning. Now, we’re facing each other on a much larger stage.”

Her Uncle Nick then understood the gravity of her words.
“It’s more than just ideology now. It’s becoming a personal grudge, a history that’s come full circle.” Uncle Nick said. 

The confrontation was as much about settling old scores as it was about the future of the country. The memories flooded back with a vivid clarity that was both jarring and familiar. Schey and Cheka had been classmates during college days, their paths crossing in a swirl of academic competition and social engagements. Both were bright, driven students, but their rivalry was palpable. They had competed fiercely for top grades, accolades, and the attention of their professors, and their personal animosities were only heightened by their mutual social circles.

Despite their shared network of friends and the occasional overlap in social gatherings—like the raucous rave parties they both attended—there was an undeniable tension between them. Cheka’s disdain for Schey was well-known; she saw Schey as a pretentious rival, and their confrontations in and out of the classroom were legendary.

Schey had always been acutely aware of Cheka’s competitive edge, but it was only recently that she had realized how her former rival had ascended to a position of considerable power. The thought of Cheka now serving as a key player in the government’s crackdown against her own movement as a bitter irony. It wasn’t just a matter of political and military strategy anymore; it becomes personal.

In the middle of one of her late-night strategizing sessions, Schey paused and let out a sigh. She couldn’t shake the thought of Cheka and their unresolved conflicts. The revelation that Cheka was leading operations against her was more than just a tactical concern—it was a deeply personal affront. She wondered how Cheka had changed, or if she had changed at all, and how their shared history would influence their impending confrontation.

I

While looking at the map, Melchor recalled his actions as an engineer. During his time under the DDS. He remembered the agency’s promise of “freeing” him after his contributions in the creation of the armedroid, what more of the foreign scientists’s encouragement in improving the project. 

“The Institute for Precision Production is greatly acknowledged the contributions of Dr. Miguel Melchor in the designing of precision equipment and the application of much needed technology in this project.” Said Dr. Heinz Kleinmann. “His research on the use of lithium/solar powered batteries provides a better alternative to its earlier proposal by the team to use spent uranium fuel to run engines. According to his work, that when it comes to effective energy to power, solar energy is feasible- and lithium solar batteries perform better as it last significantly longer, effective, charge faster, and requires less or no maintenance.” 

 “Thank you Dr. Kleinmann.” Melchor said. “I just improved Dr. Frank’s work on the use of Solar power through Lithium-Ion batteries on the basis of practicality than that of spent uranium as fuel to run this project. To be honest having Spent Uranium to power engines for this time is considered costly and therefore on the basis of practicality having solar powered engines would be likely even for a time being in running this project.”
“I have cited the examples of solar powered  from abroad as a basis of this kind of idea, and during those times this becomes a likely sustainable source of power alongside hydro, wind, geothermal, and tidal energy. For sure we all remember how Elon Musk popularised the use of electric powered vehicles and this used lithium batteries to generate its engines.” Melchor added.

After the lecture, Director Coronel sarcastically asked Melchor:

“Why for a time being?” 

“For now the cost of uranium as fuel remains expensive as opposed to the use of solar power and the creation of lithium batteries to power this project.” Melchor said. “I do acknowledge the immediate need for nuclear energy. Even Musk advocated nuclear power as a better energy source but since this project is itself deemed urgent in a time we need focus on improving our basic industries I and the team admitted that we need to set aside for a time being in favour of mediums to support sustainable energy sources.”

“Besides, we have lack of trained personnel to rehabilitate and run the laboratory reactor in Diliman, what more the Bataan Nuclear Power Plant.” Melchor added.

Coronel got irritated by the young engineer’s message. He wanted to speak but Gadon interrupted and said to the team: “Well, in that case, I apologise to the team for this problem. We all wanted immense development to happen but I guess we forgot to focus on something aside from matters of defence. I am just doing the ‘Lord’s work’.”

Then he looked at Coronel and asked:

“I see your face you want to chide him in the middle of a citation recognising his contribution.”

“It doesn’t matter whether he’s now been given a citation.” Flatly said Director Coronel. “He is a prisoner first then an Engineer.”

Melchor stared at Director Coronel, a mix of frustration and resignation etched on his face. The sting of Coronel’s words cut deeper now that he understood their full implications. He glanced over at Gadon, who seemed to sense the tension and attempted to defuse it.

“I appreciate your apology,” Melchor said quietly, though his voice carried a tone of bitterness. “But I’m not sure if that changes much.”

Gadon, looking uncomfortable, cleared his throat. “Melchor, perhaps we should focus on the immediate steps we need to take. We have other pressing matters to address.”

Director Coronel's eyes narrowed, but he remained silent, clearly displeased. He folded his arms, his expression a mix of disdain and control. The atmosphere in the room grew colder as the weight of his words settled over the team.

Melchor couldn’t shake the memory of Coronel’s earlier dismissal. It echoed in his mind, amplifying his sense of entrapment and disillusionment. He had been hoping for recognition and a chance to contribute meaningfully, but it seemed that his position as a prisoner overshadowed any professional achievements.

“Do you really think this is what’s best for us?” Melchor finally asked, his voice steady but laced with underlying frustration. “Is this how we move forward, by constantly undermining each other’s efforts?”

Gadon looked uncomfortable but tried to offer a supportive nod. “We all have our roles to play, Melchor. The situation is complex, and sometimes, compromises are necessary.”

Melchor’s eyes met Gadon’s, searching for a glimmer of solidarity or understanding. “I suppose. But it’s hard to accept when it feels like we’re just pawns in a larger game.”

Director Coronel’s lips curled into a smirk, though he kept his silence. He watched Melchor with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction, clearly enjoying the young engineer’s discomfort.

The conversation seemed to stall, with no clear resolution in sight. Melchor felt the weight of his situation more acutely than ever. The promise of freedom seemed distant and increasingly unattainable, overshadowed by the political machinations and personal grudges that dictated his reality.

Finally, Coronel broke the silence, his tone dismissive. “Enough of this. We have work to do. Let’s focus on what’s immediately necessary and leave the philosophical debates for another time.”

Melchor nodded curtly, his mind still reeling from the confrontation. He knew that whatever progress he made now would be overshadowed by the harsh reality of his imprisonment. The path to freedom, it seemed, was more convoluted and fraught with obstacles than he had ever imagined.

As the meeting concluded and the team began to disperse, Melchor found himself grappling with his next steps. The words of Director Coronel and the reality of his situation weighed heavily on him, leaving him to navigate the precarious balance between his professional aspirations and the harsh confines of his current existence.

With such invalidating words that were overheard by that young scientist this forced him to rethink about his actions, especially that he himself as a prisoner arrested by the DDS for being a suspected "subversive" whilst working as a professor in the University. His expertise in the sciences made the directorate find him "useful", but given his invalidation by the authorities made realise the futility of his role, forcing him to escape with the “help” of the rival NISA officer. He couldn’t forget the words Coronel said to him:

“Do you think your work will grant you freedom? I can guarantee it will not. After all, it is the work of the directorate not you.”

As he recalled his “work”, Alipato suddenly interrupted his map looking and asked:

“Do I disturb you?”

“No.” Melchor said. “I am just remembering something in that place. I cannot forget how that DDS pretending to be defending that peace.”

“But look at you now.” Alipato replied. “You did escape from their clutch and fighting against them. What else are you wondering about?”

“A desire.” Melchor said. “A desire for freedom against that pretentious order.”

“No need to worry Miguel.” Said Alipato. “You are not alone here. Everyone wanted to fight back against the government. Look at you, you did escape and lead an armedroid unit here in the mountains. This venture may be difficult, but at least we’re surviving.”

Melchor simply nod on Alipato’s words. “At least I did train pilots out of rebels.” 

“By the way,” Alipato said. “Do you still have the dossier regarding Project Rosa?”

“Yes.” Melchor replied. “Why?”

“Will send your copy to a colleague.” Said Alipato. “This colleague is strongly supportive of our cause.”

“What do you mean?” Melchor asked.

“To be honest,” Alipato said “Project Rosa deserves to be a project of the ordinance unit of the movement. This unit happens to be under one of our supporters in the ‘white area’.”

“White area?” Melchor said. “Do you mean the enemy-controlled zone? The city?”

Alipato simply nod on the engineer’s question.

“But there are DDS agents swarming over! How can I go safely there?” Melchor asked. “Some would even knew me too!”

“There are closet supporters in the city. They can guarantee your safety not just your works.”

Although hesitant at first, Melchor had to obey the old professor as he disguised himself as an ordinary employee to go back to Manila and made contacts with Nick Bersa’s Quintrix. 

As Melchor prepared for his mission back into the heart of enemy territory, he couldn’t shake off the unease gnawing at him. The city, now a dangerous labyrinth of surveillance, agents, and informants, was no longer the place he once knew. Returning under the guise of a lowly employee was risky, but Project Rosa’s importance outweighed his fears. If Alipato trusted these contacts, then perhaps he could too—though he knew better than to let his guard down.

Alipato handed him a small dossier, encrypted and disguised as harmless documents. "These will be your ticket in. Study them, memorize the key players. Bersa’s Quintrix is well-positioned to help you, but be careful. Not all who claim to support us are genuine."

Melchor scanned the pages, absorbing the names, addresses, and coded instructions. Quintrix was not just a business, but also a covert network of rebel sympathizers embedded within the city’s white-collar establishments. Nick Bersa, the man behind it all, had long since played a dangerous game of double-dealing, operating right under the nose of the Government especially the DDS. His network was pivotal to smuggling arms and information for the resistance, but Melchor couldn’t help but wonder how someone like Bersa managed to keep himself alive for so long in such a high-stakes game.

Before departing, Alipato placed a hand on his shoulder. "Remember, the city may be hostile, but it’s not monolithic. There are cracks in the regime’s armor—people who hate it as much as we do but have learned to survive within it. If anyone asks, you’re Miguel Salcedo, a technician hired by Quintrix."

Melchor nodded, the weight of the mission settling on him. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the next phase of his journey. As he made his way down the mountain toward the city, he thought back to the words of Coronel:

“Do you think your work will grant you freedom?”

Perhaps it wouldn’t, but the work he was doing now—fighting back, training rebels, and infiltrating enemy zones—might give others the chance at it. And for now, that was enough.

Days later, in Manila, Melchor—now Miguel—navigated the crowded streets, blending in with the populace, his eyes scanning every corner for signs of danger. When he finally arrived at the nondescript Quintrix office, a man with sharp eyes and a calculating gaze greeted him at the door.

"You must be Miguel Salcedo," the old man said, extending his hand. "Nick Bersa. We've been expecting you." 

Melchor shook his hand, concealing his nerves beneath a calm exterior.

"Let’s get to work," Melchor said, now as Miguel Salcedo, steeling himself for what lay ahead.

II

The safe house was quiet, its dimly lit interior offering a stark contrast to the chaos that often surrounded their operations. Black Magnolia, having just returned from a successful but grueling mission, called for a private meeting with her core team. The atmosphere in the room was subdued, the fighters' faces reflecting both exhaustion and anticipation.

Maggie, dressed in her Black Magnolia outfit, stood before her team, her demeanor more serious than usual. Her helmet and shades were set aside on a nearby table, and she had removed her balaclava, revealing her face. The team members exchanged curious glances, sensing that something important was about to happen.

“Gather around,” Maggie said, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of emotion. Her team complied, forming a semi-circle in front of her. She took a deep breath, searching for the right words.

“Before we begin, I need to share something with you all,” Maggie said, her tone serious. “Something very personal.”

The room fell silent, the fighters listening intently. Maggie glanced around at the faces that had become like a second family to her. Each one had fought alongside her, shared in the victories and losses, and she knew this moment was crucial for their unity and trust.

“I’ve been leading you as Black Magnolia,” she began, “I am also known as Magnolia San Miguel, but that’s not who I am in the end. The name you know me by, the mask I wear—it’s a symbol of our fight, but it’s not my true self.”

She paused, letting the weight of her words settle. The team members exchanged uneasy looks, their curiosity piqued. Maggie reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. She held it up, showing it to the group. The photo depicted a younger woman with familiar features, standing beside a man. It was a glimpse into her past.

“This is me, Schey,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “And this is my father. He was a known politician who believed in justice and freedom, but he was taken from us by this oppressive regime.”

She put the photograph down and looked directly at her team. “I returned to this country to honor his memory and fight against the tyranny that took him from us. I’ve fought alongside you not just as a symbol but as someone with a deeply personal reason for this struggle.”

The room was filled with a tense silence. The fighters absorbed the revelation, their expressions shifting from surprise to understanding. One of the team members, a grizzled veteran named Marco, spoke up, breaking the silence.

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Marco asked, his voice soft but inquisitive.

Schey took a deep breath, her gaze steady. “I kept my identity hidden to protect not just myself but also those I care about. Revealing who I am could put them in danger, and it could compromise our mission. But now, I believe it’s time for you to know the truth. We’re fighting for more than just a cause; we’re fighting for our futures and for the people we’ve lost.”

Another member, a young recruit named Elena, spoke up. “It changes nothing for us. You’ve led us with courage and honor. Knowing who you are doesn’t change the fact that we believe in this fight and in you.”

Schey felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Thank you. Your support means everything to me. I wanted you to know the person behind the mask, the reasons for my commitment. We’re in this together, and I wanted you to understand that.”

The team members nodded, their expressions softening with renewed respect and camaraderie. The bond between them deepened, and the shared knowledge of Schey’s true identity only strengthened their resolve.

“We’ve come a long way,” Schey continued. “And there’s still much to be done. I’m proud to fight alongside each of you. Together, we’ll continue this struggle and build the future we’ve been fighting for.”

As the meeting concluded, the team dispersed, their spirits uplifted by the newfound intimacy and trust. Schey remained behind for a moment, reflecting on the significance of the confession. The road ahead would be challenging, but with her team’s support and their shared commitment to justice, she felt more prepared than ever to face whatever came next.

In the quiet of the safe house, the sense of unity and purpose was stronger than ever. Black Magnolia, now fully revealed as Schey, was ready to lead her team with both her true self and the symbol of resistance she had become. The atmosphere in the safe house had grown more relaxed after Schey’s revelation. The team members, now fully aware of her true identity, were processing the depth of her personal commitment to the cause. The conversation had shifted to practical matters when Marco, the grizzled veteran, spoke up again.

“There’s something that’s been on my mind,” Marco said, his tone cautious yet curious. “You mentioned your father was taken from you by the regime. Is it true that you’re the daughter of President Sebastian?”

The room fell silent as everyone turned to Schey. Her father’s legacy had been a topic of speculation among the team, though no one had ever asked her directly. The question carried weight, given the historical and political implications.

Schey took a deep breath, her expression contemplative. “Yes, it’s true,” she said quietly. “I am the daughter of President Sebastian.”

A murmur of surprise rippled through the group. Elena, the young recruit, looked at Schey with a mix of awe and concern. “I had heard rumors, but I didn’t want to assume…”

Schey nodded, acknowledging the unspoken questions and the weight of her father’s legacy. “It’s true. My father, President Sebastian, was a leader who sought to bring positive change to this country. But his vision was distorted by those who came to power after his death. They twisted his ideals to serve their own purposes.”

Marco’s expression softened as he processed this information. “That must have been a heavy burden to bear.”

“It was,” Schey admitted. “Growing up, I saw the impact of the regime’s corruption firsthand. My father’s work was meant to uplift the people, but after his death, the regime turned everything he stood for into a tool for their own control. I left the country to escape their grasp, but I returned to fight against the very system that betrayed his vision.”

Elena spoke up again, her voice filled with empathy. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like. But it makes sense why you’ve been so driven. It’s more than just a personal fight for you—it’s a legacy you’re trying to honor.”

Schey nodded, her eyes reflecting a mixture of determination and sadness. “Yes, it is. And it’s why I’ve kept my identity a secret. I needed to fight this battle on my own terms, without the weight of my father’s name overshadowing the cause. I wanted our fight to be about justice and freedom, not about political lineage.”

Marco placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We understand now. Your father’s legacy—and your fight—mean a lot to us. We’re here because we believe in the same cause. Knowing this just makes us more committed.”

The team’s support and understanding were palpable. The revelation had added a new layer of depth to their shared struggle, but it had also strengthened their unity. Schey felt a sense of relief and solidarity, knowing that her team stood by her not just because of who she was, but because of what they were fighting for together.

As the conversation continued, the team discussed their next steps with renewed resolve. Schey’s confession had brought them closer, and their shared commitment to the cause was now intertwined with the legacy of President Sebastian and the personal sacrifices of his daughter.

In the quiet moments that followed, Schey felt a renewed sense of purpose. Her father’s vision was not just a distant memory but a living, breathing part of their resistance. Together, they would honor that legacy by continuing their fight for justice and freedom, driven by the shared hope of a better future.

But, Schey knew that her struggle cannot be done by herself and her column alone- in disguise she told Gardo to continue resisting while going to Bicol where a message uged her to meet with that contact. From there she had to go "down from the hill", evade checkpoints as much as possible until she reach her destination. 

III

After days of travel, Schey reached the outskirts of the Red Territory, the hills of Bicol rising like a fortress on the horizon. Here, the Directorate’s grip was weaker, their forces unable to navigate the dense forests and mountainous terrain. The local militia greeted her cautiously, their weapons raised until she gave the agreed-upon passphrase.

While waiting, Schey saw an old man wearing a rugged getup and on horseback. The latter then stopped, and asked:
"Are you looking for someone?"
Then Schey, looking at the familiar face of that old man, asked:
"Are you Alipato Diaz?"
"Yes, I am Alipato Diaz." Said Alipato. "And welcome to Red Territory, Schey Sebastian."
"How do you know my name?" Schey asked.
"Everybody knows you." Alipato said. "I need not to explain further but the presidential daughter who wish to avenge her father's death is here."

Schey then followed Alipato down the winding, narrow path that led deeper into the heart of Red Territory. The dense forest around them seemed to pulse with life, every rustle of leaves and distant bird call adding to the sense of isolation. The farther they walked, the more Schey realized that this was a world far removed from the city streets of Metro Manila, a place governed by different rules.

"How long have you been leading this rebellion?" Schey asked, breaking the silence as they walked.
Alipato kept his gaze forward. "Long enough to see the rise and fall of more tyrants than I can count. But leading a rebellion isn’t about the time you’ve spent in it, it’s about knowing when to strike and when to wait."
"And now, you’re waiting," Schey said, her tone edged with impatience. "For what?"
Alipato stopped, turning to face her with a piercing gaze. "For people like you to understand what’s at stake. This isn’t just about vengeance, or restoring a lost name. The world you’re fighting to protect—your father’s world—was built on fragile foundations. If you want to rebuild it, you have to accept that it won’t ever look the same again."
Schey clenched her jaw. "What do you suggest, then? That I abandon my fight?"
Alipato shook his head. "No. But you need to understand what you’re fighting for. If it’s only revenge, then you’ll lose yourself along the way. You’re here because you have the resources and the potential to lead, but you need to learn what it means to lead without losing your soul in the process."
Schey’s expression softened, her anger momentarily replaced by uncertainty. "And how do I do that?"
"By walking this path with us. Not as the presidential daughter, but as someone willing to understand the struggle of those who have nothing to lose. You'll fight for more than yourself as Black Magnolia- or should I say, Schey. The moment you realize that is when you’ll truly be ready."

They continued walking, and soon, they approached a hidden encampment. Tents were scattered around, and people moved about—fighters, civilians, and even children—all living under the shadow of the Red Territory's banner.

Alipato gestured toward the camp. "This is what we fight for. Not power, not titles—but survival. And if you want our help, you’ll have to prove you understand that."
Schey surveyed the camp, the faces of those around her etched with determination and weariness. She realized that her world of privilege had insulated her from the reality these people lived with every day. She wasn’t just in the midst of a rebellion; she was at the heart of a struggle for life itself.

"So, what’s my first task?" she asked, her voice steadier than before.
Alipato smiled faintly. "Your first task is to survive. But beyond that, we have intel that one of the DDS strongholds is holding prisoners—people who are vital to our cause. You'll lead a  unit to infiltrate it. If you can succeed, you'll have proven your worth to this movement."
Schey nodded, determination settling in her chest. This was her chance to prove herself, not just to Alipato and the rebels, but to herself as well. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow at dawn," Alipato said, turning to leave. "Rest tonight. You’ll need it." 

As Schey watched him disappear into the camp, she knew that her journey had just become more dangerous. But the stakes were clearer now. She wasn’t just fighting for revenge anymore—she was fighting for something much bigger than herself.

III

The morning air was cool and crisp as Schey tightened the straps of her gear. She was ready. The team had already assembled, a diverse group of hardened fighters who had seen their share of combat. Alipato’s voice cut through the quiet of the camp as he approached, his gaze steady.

"Listen up," he said, addressing the group. "The stronghold is heavily guarded. We’ll have to move swiftly and quietly. No mistakes. The prisoners we’re after are being held in the lower levels—if we’re going to get them out, we’ll need to bypass the outer defenses and disable the internal security."

Schey’s pulse quickened. The stakes were high, but she had no room for hesitation. She glanced around at her team. They all seemed to share the same look of quiet resolve, their eyes focused, waiting for the plan to unfold.

"You’ll lead the first team," Alipato continued, pointing at Schey. "Once you breach the outer perimeter, signal us. We’ll be right behind you."

Schey nodded, her heart hammering, but her resolve unwavering. Today, she would prove that she was more than just a soldier. She was the future of the resistance.

"Let's move out," Alipato ordered.

The team set off into the dense jungle, their footsteps light and their movements deliberate. The sound of the leaves crunching beneath their boots seemed deafening in the stillness. But every step was bringing them closer to the stronghold—and closer to the chance that could change everything.

The dense jungle seemed to swallow them whole as they moved, the canopy overhead casting long, shadowed streaks on the ground. Schey led the way, her senses heightened as she adjusted to the silence of the mission. Her every step felt deliberate, calculated. She had trained for this, but now it was real. Now, the pressure of her task felt like a weight on her shoulders, but she refused to let it show.

The other members of her team flanked her, moving with quiet precision. There was Kiran, a former engineer turned tactical expert, his face grim but his eyes sharp. Rhi, the team's sniper, walked slightly ahead, her eyes scanning the area, always looking for threats. Then there was Jax, the heavy-hitter, whose quiet strength made him a formidable presence despite his calm demeanor.

They reached the edge of the stronghold's perimeter just as the first rays of sunlight cut through the treetops. Schey motioned for them to stop. Her heart was pounding now, the adrenaline surging through her veins.

“We’re close,” she whispered, crouching low to observe the outpost ahead. The stronghold loomed in the distance, a hulking fortress of metal and stone, its walls fortified with layers of fencing and watchtowers. She could see the occasional guard patrolling the area—too many to take head-on.

Kiran stepped forward, pulling a small device from his pack. “I’ll disable the outer fence,” he murmured, already moving toward a control panel embedded in the base of a nearby guard tower. His fingers flew over the keys with practiced precision, his focus absolute.

The team stayed still, barely breathing, watching as the seconds ticked by. Finally, Kiran stepped back, giving a subtle nod. The hum of the electric fence powering down was the only sound that broke the silence.

"Clear," Kiran said, voice barely audible.

Schey signaled, and the team moved forward, slipping through the gap in the perimeter fence with a fluidity born of years of practice. They hugged the shadows, using the terrain to their advantage as they made their way toward the stronghold’s entrance.

Rhi stopped at the base of a wall, her scope already up, her gaze sweeping across the guard patrols. “Two on the east wall, one in the tower,” she whispered. “We’ll have a small window to move when they change shifts in three minutes.”

Schey nodded, her focus narrowing on the task at hand. Every movement had to be calculated. Every second counted. As the minutes passed, she watched the guards, calculating their patrol routes, memorizing the shifts. It felt like time was stretching, and the tension was almost unbearable.

Then, as the guards on the east wall turned to leave, Schey made her move, leading the team swiftly but silently across the open ground, ducking behind a row of supply crates. They made it to the side entrance without incident.

“This is it,” Schey muttered, pulling out a small explosive charge from her pack. Kiran had already hacked the security system to disable most of the cameras, but the main door was still reinforced with heavy metal and a locking mechanism.

With a soft click, the charge was set.

Schey nodded, then quickly stepped back. The explosion was quick, efficient—just the way she liked it. The door groaned as it cracked open, revealing a narrow, dimly lit corridor.

"We’re in," she said, and without waiting for a response, she led the charge down the hallway, her pulse pounding in her ears.

As they moved deeper into the stronghold, the faint sounds of distant voices echoed through the walls. Schey’s mind raced—time was running out, and she had to reach the prisoners before they were discovered. Every corner, every door, was a potential danger. But she pushed the fear aside, focusing on the mission.

“First checkpoint ahead,” Kiran whispered, pointing to a door on the right.

Schey motioned for them to stop. She approached the door cautiously, checking for any signs of security. When she was satisfied that it was clear, she gently turned the handle. The door creaked open to reveal a small, fortified room with a security terminal.

“This is it,” she murmured, glancing at the others. "We disable the internal security, then move to the cells."

Kiran was already at the terminal, his fingers flying over the keyboard. Seconds later, the lights in the corridor flickered before going out entirely, the hum of the alarms dying down to a faint echo.

"System’s down," Kiran confirmed. "We’ve got five minutes—no more."

Schey didn't need any more motivation. “Move,” she ordered.

They surged forward, moving faster now. Rhi was ahead, her sharp eyes scanning the hallway for any signs of movement. Schey could hear the faint shuffle of boots in the distance, but there was no turning back now.

They rounded a corner, and there, just ahead, was the door to the prison cells. Schey’s breath caught in her throat. Behind that door were the people who could change the tide of this war. Behind that door were lives worth saving.

She pushed the door open. The room was dim, the prisoners huddled in small, shackled groups. A man in the far corner looked up in shock, but Schey’s eyes were already scanning for the one they needed most—the leader of the faction who had once stood side-by-side with Alipato.

Her eyes locked onto him. "You're coming with us," she said, voice steady despite the chaos that was building in the background.

The man, weak but alive, gave a nod. "I knew someone would come."

Schey didn’t waste any time. She quickly moved toward the man, pulling a set of keys from a nearby table and unlocking his chains. As she worked, her mind raced, calculating the danger that was still lurking. The alarm could go off at any moment.

“Everyone, stay low,” she hissed to her team. “We’ve got five minutes at most.”

The prisoners were slowly beginning to stir, groggy from their confinement but alive. They were in bad shape, but there was no time for comfort. Schey motioned for them to move quickly. The leader, now freed, stood on shaky legs, his eyes searching the team with a mix of disbelief and gratitude.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"Doesn't matter," Schey replied sharply. "What matters is getting you out of here."

They moved toward the exit, but before they could make it through the door, a loud crash echoed from the hallway outside. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—approached at a fast pace.

"They've found us," Rhi said, her voice calm but tense, her rifle aimed down the hall. "We’ve got company."

Schey swore under her breath. “Kiran, get the doors shut. Now!” she barked.

Kiran moved swiftly, typing on his device to seal the cell doors, but as he did, another sound echoed from the hallway—the unmistakable beep of a security breach. The alarm was starting to sound. A shrill wail filled the corridors.

“We’re out of time,” Schey said, glancing at her team, their faces tight with readiness. “We move now. Stick to the plan.”

They dashed out into the hallway, guns drawn, eyes scanning every corner. Rhi took point, her sniper rifle ready, while Jax positioned himself at the rear, his massive frame blocking any pursuers. Schey led the way, staying close to the weakened prisoners and keeping her focus on their immediate escape route.

As they moved, the hallways became increasingly chaotic. Guards shouted in the distance, their hurried footsteps growing louder. But Schey’s mind was focused, unwavering. They were so close.

The stronghold’s exit was just ahead, but the path was no longer clear. A squad of DDS soldiers emerged at the far end of the hall, weapons raised.

Schey cursed under her breath. There was no way to avoid them.

“Rhi, cover us,” she commanded, dropping into a crouch. “Kiran, Jax, on me!”

Rhi took position behind a corner, setting up for the shot. Kiran and Jax moved forward, guns raised, covering the rest of the group. The tension in the air was thick, every second a countdown to what could be a deadly encounter.

The first soldier rounded the corner. Before he could react, Rhi’s shot rang out, precise and deadly. He crumpled to the floor. The others scattered, but it was too late. They were pinned down.

“Go, go!” Schey shouted, grabbing the lead prisoner by the arm and yanking him into motion.

They sprinted forward, pushing past the fallen soldier and into the courtyard outside. The sounds of gunfire and shouting rang out behind them, but Schey didn’t stop. They had to keep moving.

The jungle was waiting. The trees, dense and close together, provided cover as they pushed deeper into the foliage, away from the stronghold. She glanced behind her to make sure the prisoners were still with them, still moving despite their exhaustion.

Suddenly, a bullet whizzed past, narrowly missing Schey’s shoulder. Jax fired back, his gun’s recoil loud and forceful.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he muttered. “We’ve got a tail.”

“Keep moving!” Schey barked. “Kiran, disable the trackers. Now!”

Kiran dropped to one knee, pulling out another device and attaching it to his wrist. The faint hum of technology buzzed as he worked, blocking their location from the DDS surveillance systems. The shots kept coming, but the angle was harder for the soldiers to track now.

Schey’s heart raced, but she didn’t let the fear take over. Not now. They were so close. The trees ahead opened into a small clearing where a pickup vehicle waited, its engine idling. The escape was within reach.

“Almost there!” Schey called to the team, her voice strained but determined. She could see the panic in the prisoners' eyes, but they were still moving—fighting to keep up with the escape.

The sound of a helicopter overhead cut through the air, a reminder of how desperate the DDS was to recapture them. But Schey was not about to let them fail. Not today.

They reached the vehicle, and with one last burst of speed, they piled in. Jax slammed the door shut, and the engine roared to life.

“Go, go!” Schey yelled.

The vehicle lurched forward, tearing through the dense jungle at high speed. The chopper above began to circle, the searchlights sweeping the ground, but they were already too far away. The thick foliage and Kiran’s interference with their tracking devices were buying them the time they needed.

As they sped through the jungle, Schey allowed herself a brief moment to breathe. They had made it. The prisoners were safe—for now.

But deep in her gut, she knew that the fight was far from over. This was just the beginning. And proving her worth to the movement? She was only getting started.

The engine of the pickup roared, its tires screeching against the uneven terrain as they barreled through the jungle, the dense undergrowth whipping against the vehicle's sides. The sounds of gunfire and helicopter blades still echoed in the distance, but Schey refused to look back. She focused on the road ahead, her eyes scanning for any sign of an ambush.

The prisoners, exhausted but alive, clung to the sides of the vehicle, their faces pale but filled with the raw spark of hope that only freedom could bring. The leader, still shaky, was seated beside her. His name was Tarek, and though his body was frail, there was a fire in his eyes that told Schey they hadn’t just rescued another group of survivors—they had just brought back someone who could help turn the tide of the war.

"How far are we from the rendezvous point?" Tarek asked, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

Schey glanced at Kiran, who was hunched low in the back of the vehicle, his fingers still manipulating a small device that was keeping their trackers offline.

“Not far,” Kiran replied quickly, not looking up. “The backup is thirty minutes out, but we’ve got to stay ahead of that chopper. It won’t be long before they have ground troops in the area, and they’ll be fast.”

Schey tightened her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles white. They couldn’t afford to slow down. Every second counted. The adrenaline that had fueled them since their break-in was starting to wear thin, but she kept pushing forward, her mind calculating every possible threat, every potential escape route.

Behind them, Jax scanned the road through the rear window, rifle at the ready, alert for any signs of pursuit. He gave a grunt of frustration as he noticed something in the distance. “We’ve got movement,” he said, his voice calm but deadly serious. “They’re catching up.”

Schey’s heart skipped a beat. She glanced over her shoulder to see a group of DDS soldiers emerging from the treeline. They were coming fast, cutting through the jungle with all the precision of a trained unit. At the head of the pack was a heavily armored vehicle, its tires kicking up dirt as it charged after them.

“Dammit,” Schey muttered. “How long until we hit the rendezvous?”

“Ten minutes,” Kiran said, still focused on his device. “If we’re lucky.”

Schey gritted her teeth. They didn’t have that much time, and they were about to be boxed in.

“We need a distraction,” she said, her mind already racing. “Jax, Kiran, set up an ambush. We’re not letting them catch us.”

Kiran nodded without a word, already pulling out a couple of small explosive charges from his pack. Jax was already halfway out of the truck, his massive frame leaning over the side as he pulled a grenade from his belt.

“We’ll slow them down, but you’ll have to keep us moving,” Jax said, his tone a grim promise.

Schey slammed the accelerator down, and the vehicle surged forward, the roar of the engine drowning out the sound of their enemies’ pursuit. Up ahead, the jungle grew denser, the trees pressing in on both sides of the narrow path. Perfect. They could use the terrain to their advantage.

“Take cover, now!” Schey shouted.

The truck swerved to the side, into a narrow ravine that was hidden from view. Jax and Kiran dropped off the side of the truck, moving quickly to set up their traps. Jax carried a heavy crate of explosives, while Kiran was already laying down pressure mines in key locations.

“Five minutes,” Schey muttered under her breath. She pushed the truck into a small clearing ahead, stopping just enough to create a bottleneck. Then, she did what she did best—she used the environment to her advantage.

The DDS convoy was now only minutes behind them, their pursuit relentless. But the closer they got, the more Schey’s plan began to take shape. As the armored vehicle reached the edge of the clearing, the first explosion went off—loud, jarring, and disorienting. The force of it sent trees splintering into the air, smoke billowing in all directions. The convoy came to a screeching halt, their vehicles forced to swerve and stop as Kiran’s mines detonated, blowing apart the path ahead.

Schey didn’t hesitate. She floored the pedal again, cutting through the smoke, steering the truck through the wreckage, her heart pounding. The sound of gunfire erupted from behind them, but the jungle was thick enough to shield them for now.

“Stay low!” Schey barked to the prisoners, who had barely managed to hold on through the chaos. They were bouncing hard in the back of the truck, but they were still alive. That was what mattered.

Jax and Kiran scrambled back onto the truck, narrowly avoiding a barrage of enemy fire.

“We’ve got them temporarily stalled,” Jax grunted, rolling back into the truck bed.

Schey didn’t respond. She was too focused on keeping the truck on course, tearing through the jungle as fast as she could. The DDS convoy was behind them, but they hadn’t given up. The chopper above was still circling, trying to find a way to pinpoint their location.

"We've got to lose them in the next five minutes, or we'll be cornered," Rhi said, voice urgent from the rear window, her rifle still aimed at the distant chopper. "They're getting close again."

Schey’s mind raced. They needed to take the fight to them, to make sure they had enough time to get to the rendezvous point. She spotted an old logging trail up ahead—narrow but steep, cutting through a ridge that would make it nearly impossible for the DDS vehicles to follow. But it was dangerous. If they didn’t move fast enough, the cliffside could be their end.

“We take the ridge,” she said, her voice sharp with command.

The team reacted instantly, bracing themselves as Schey angled the truck toward the narrow path. The wheels skidded as they hit the incline, the truck lurching forward with a jarring motion.

The roar of the DDS vehicles behind them grew louder, but Schey didn’t look back. The ridge narrowed as they climbed higher, the terrain growing treacherous. A sharp drop on one side, thick underbrush on the other.

“Hold on!” Schey shouted, gunning the engine even harder as the truck crested the ridge.

For a heart-stopping moment, the vehicle teetered on the edge, the ground crumbling beneath the tires, but Schey willed the truck forward, sending it skidding safely onto the other side. The sound of pursuing vehicles faltered behind them.

“We lost them,” Jax muttered, his eyes scanning the rearview.

“Not yet,” Schey replied, her voice tight. "We’re not safe until we're at the rendezvous."

But as they continued through the dense jungle, the sounds of the chase slowly faded, replaced by the sound of the truck’s engine growling steadily beneath them. For the first time in what felt like forever, Schey allowed herself to believe they might just make it.

Ten minutes later, the clearing ahead opened up, and the unmistakable sight of their extraction point appeared. A small, reinforced camp with two vehicles ready for transport.

“We’re here,” Schey said, a relieved smile tugging at her lips.

The truck slid to a stop, and their comrades from the resistance rushed forward, weapons ready, eyes scanning the area for any signs of pursuit.

Schey jumped out of the truck, quickly turning to Tarek and the other prisoners. "You’re safe now," she said, her voice steady.

Tarek gave her a grateful look, his eyes glinting with the weight of everything he had yet to say. “You’ve done more than just rescue us,” he said softly. “You’ve given us a chance. A real chance to fight back.”

Schey didn’t say anything in response, but inside, she knew this wasn’t just a victory—it was the beginning of something bigger. Something they could all believe in.

And that was only the first step.

The heavy sound of the truck’s engine idling was slowly replaced by the quiet murmurs of the resistance team, and the clink of weapons being readied for their next move. As the last of the prisoners disembarked from the truck, their faces filled with the raw exhaustion and gratitude of those who had survived impossible odds, Schey took a moment to look around.

They were safe—for now. The camp was small, hidden deep within the jungle, camouflaged by the thick trees that surrounded them. In the distance, she could hear the soft crackle of radio communication, the murmurs of their comrades relaying updates from other parts of the operation. The chopper was no longer circling overhead, and for a brief moment, the world felt still.

But the sense of relief was fleeting. There was still work to do. Still a war to win.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Schey said, breaking the silence. She turned to Alipato, who had emerged from one of the tents, his usually calm expression tight with concern.

“You did well,” Alipato said, his voice low. He stepped forward, his gaze moving over the survivors, his eyes lingering on the freed prisoners. “This was a hard-won victory, but the battle is far from over.”

“I know,” Schey replied, her mind already moving past the immediate threat. “But we’ve got Tarek. The intel he has on the DDS—on their plans—could give us the leverage we need.”

Alipato nodded, his lips pressing together in a grim line. “That’s true. But we have to be careful. The DDS will know we’ve broken their perimeter. They won’t be slow to retaliate.”

Schey glanced back at Tarek, who was standing near the truck, talking quietly with one of the other prisoners. His eyes were sharp, even after everything he had endured. His presence here was more than just a symbol—it was a beacon of hope. But Schey could see the weariness in his movements. He had lived through hell, and now it was time to bring that knowledge to the fight.

“Have you had a chance to assess his intel?” Schey asked.

“We’re going through it now,” Alipato said. “But there’s one thing that concerns me.”

Schey raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“There’s a DDS facility—a research compound, to be exact. We know it’s located somewhere near the border, but the exact coordinates are still a mystery. Tarek’s data might have the key to finding it. And if we do…” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “If we can take that compound, we could cripple them. It would change everything.”

Schey’s stomach tightened. She knew exactly what a facility like that could mean: weapons, technology, and resources that could tip the balance in favor of the DDS. But at the same time, if they took it, it would not only deal a serious blow to the enemy—it would give the resistance the firepower they needed to turn the tide of the war.

“Do we have a plan?” Schey asked, already steeling herself for the next step.

Alipato’s expression softened just a touch. “We’re assembling a team now. I’ll need you to help lead the strike force.”

Schey nodded, her heart already racing at the thought of what lay ahead. This was it. The moment where everything they had fought for could either break them—or make them stronger.

"How long do we have?" she asked, already thinking of the risks and logistics.

"Two days," Alipato replied. "We need to move quickly. The DDS will likely be onto us soon, and if they discover our plans... We can't afford to let them react."

Schey’s mind was already racing through their options. Two days wasn’t a lot of time to prepare, but they had no choice. If they didn’t take action now, the DDS would only grow stronger. And if they didn’t move fast enough, their enemy would be the one calling the shots.

“Alright. Let’s get to work.” Schey turned to her team, gathering them quickly. “We’ve got our next target, and this time, we’re not just going in to disrupt. We’re going in to finish it.”

The soldiers and resistance fighters around her nodded in unison, their expressions filled with the same resolve that had carried them through the escape. They had been pushed to the brink, and now they were more determined than ever to see this fight through.

Tarek stepped forward, joining Schey as she took her place at the head of the team.

“I don’t know if you’re aware of just how important this is,” he said, his voice steady despite the visible toll of his captivity. “But taking that compound... it’s not just about the war. It’s about survival. The DDS is planning something big. Something catastrophic.”

Schey glanced at him, her heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean?”

Tarek hesitated, his gaze flickering to the others before settling back on Schey. “They’ve been developing a new kind of weapon. One that could change the course of this war—permanently. If we don’t stop it, they’ll use it on us... and the rest of the world.”

Schey felt a chill run down her spine. A weapon—something more dangerous than anything they had already faced. She had known the DDS was ruthless, but this? This was something else entirely.

"Then we stop them," Schey said, her voice hardening with resolve. "We stop them before they get the chance to use it."

Tarek nodded, his expression grim but resolute. "I’ll help you get in. I know the compound’s layout, the weak points. But you’ll need to be careful. They’ll be expecting an attack. If we move too fast, we’ll walk right into a trap."

Schey took a deep breath, her thoughts already shifting back to the plan. She knew this mission wasn’t going to be easy. They were going up against a powerful enemy with an unknown weapon. But they had no choice.

“This is the moment,” she said, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words. “We fight, or we die. No half-measures.”

Her team stood in silent agreement. This was no longer just about survival—it was about taking back the future.

And as Schey glanced at the jungle around them, she knew this was only the beginning. The real fight for their freedom had just begun.

The days after the escape from the DDS stronghold passed in a blur of planning and preparation. Schey’s mind rarely had a moment of rest. The mission ahead was all-consuming. But even in the midst of their rapid preparation for the next assault, Alipato had insisted on something—a brief respite, a journey through the countryside, away from the pressure of constant battle.

"We need to gather more intel. You need to clear your head," Alipato had said, his tone uncharacteristically soft. "There’s something you need to see. Something you’ll understand better if you witness it with your own eyes."

Schey hadn’t argued. In her heart, she knew the relentless grind of war had taken its toll on her focus. She hadn’t had the chance to think beyond the mission for what felt like forever. So, as dusk fell and the first stars began to blink into existence, Schey set off with Alipato and a small group of rebels toward the countryside—a region far enough from the DDS’s watchful eyes to offer them some semblance of peace.

The air was different here—cool and sharp with the scent of pine and earth. The hills undulated like the curve of a heartbeat, cradling small, hidden villages in their embrace. There were no signs of the violence they’d fought so hard to escape. No helicopters humming overhead, no gunfire cutting through the peace. Just silence, broken by the occasional chirp of a bird or the rustling of wind through the trees.

Schey felt a deep tension in her shoulders loosen slightly as the truck bounced down the narrow, dusty road. It was a strange feeling—like a momentary escape from the war that had been consuming her life. They stopped for the night at a small farmhouse, a place she never would have imagined would be a safehouse for resistance fighters. But it was—Alipato’s people had carefully cultivated relationships with local farmers, people who had long since turned against the DDS.

The farmhouse was humble, but the simple comfort of the place was undeniable. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm shadows on the walls. A small table set with bread, cheese, and fresh fruit sat waiting for them.

"This is more than I expected," Schey remarked, a rare smile touching her lips as she picked up a piece of bread. "I figured we’d be camping under the stars."

Alipato chuckled softly. "The countryside has its own ways of surprising you. Not every part of this war is fought on a battlefield. Sometimes, it’s in the quiet places—places you wouldn’t think to look."

That night, after they’d eaten and the fire had dwindled down to glowing embers, Alipato pulled Schey aside. “Come with me,” he said, motioning toward the door.

They stepped out into the cool night air, the sky overhead a mass of glittering stars. The crickets sang softly in the fields, and somewhere, a distant dog barked.

“What is it?” Schey asked, her curiosity piqued.

“You’ve been on the front lines for so long, Schey,” Alipato began, his voice quieter now, thoughtful. “But there’s something else we need to remember. Something bigger than just the battles we fight. It’s the people we’re fighting for."

Schey didn’t speak at first, sensing there was more coming. Alipato’s gaze turned upward, his eyes tracing the stars.

“Before the DDS, before the war, these people lived their lives in peace. They grew food, they raised families. They worked the land.” He motioned to the hills around them. “This was their world, their home.”

Schey’s eyes followed his, and she understood. The countryside was a reminder of what they were fighting to protect—what they had already lost.

"We get caught up in the struggle," Alipato continued. "We focus so much on what we’re fighting against, that we forget what we’re fighting for."

Schey glanced back at the farmhouse. It wasn’t much, but it was a place of refuge—of normalcy. She could almost forget for a moment the constant danger, the war, the desperation. Almost.

"You think this will end someday?" Schey asked quietly, her voice hesitant.

"I think it has to," Alipato said, turning back to her. "But we can’t just fight for an end. We have to fight for something that comes after—something worth living for."

Schey nodded slowly. She didn’t know if the world could ever go back to the way it was before, but she understood what Alipato meant. They weren’t just fighting for survival; they were fighting for a future—one where people could once again live like this. A future that wasn’t overshadowed by the DDS.

The next morning, they ventured out again. Alipato led them down small, forgotten trails that wound through the hills. They came across hidden fields of crops, where farmers worked quietly, their heads down as they tended to their plants. The resistance had set up subtle networks in places like these, creating lifelines for those who were still resisting the DDS in their own quiet ways.

They reached a small village nestled in the valley, and it felt like something from another time—a place untouched by the war. People moved about their daily routines, walking along the narrow streets, exchanging greetings. Children ran through the fields, their laughter drifting in the air. For a moment, it almost felt like Schey had stepped into another world entirely—one where the past wasn’t consumed by conflict, where the future wasn’t filled with fear.

“We’ve been working with these people for years,” Alipato said as they passed by a group of women sitting on a porch, chatting and sewing. “But it’s not just about supplies or information. It’s about the heart of the people. They might not all be soldiers, but they’re the ones who make sure we don’t lose ourselves in the fight. They remind us of what we’re working toward.”

Schey’s gaze followed a small child running after a chicken. A faint smile tugged at her lips. In that moment, she realized something. This was the part of the war that often went unnoticed—the people who, despite everything, still held on to a semblance of normal life. And it was for them that she fought, even when the battle seemed impossible.

“We can’t forget this,” Schey said, her voice quieter now. “We can’t let the fight consume us so much that we forget what we’re trying to protect.”

Alipato glanced at her, a slight smile on his face. "Exactly."

As they made their way back through the hills, Schey felt something inside her shift. The weight of the mission, of the war, still pressed on her, but it wasn’t all-consuming anymore. There was a reason they fought. There was a world they could still save, if they held on to the very thing that made it worth fighting for: the people, the land, the simple moments of peace.

They didn’t have to fight forever. But they had to fight for something better. Something real.

And as Schey and Alipato made their way back to camp, she knew that whatever came next, it was this understanding that would guide her forward—through the battlefield, and beyond.

IV

Her stay in the "Red Territory" stretched into weeks as Schey found herself grounded in the rugged mountains of Bicol. The towering peaks, shrouded in mist and ancient defiance, felt like guardians of an old secret—a sanctuary for freedom fighters resisting the oppressive grip of the Directorate. But for Schey, leader of the Flying Column, the hills were both refuge and prison. She couldn’t shake her growing unease about the comrades she had left behind.

She knew the Directorate would stop at nothing to crush her unit, to "put an end to the madness" caused by the legendary Black Magnolia and her guerrilla strikes. And it wasn’t just her Flying Column they wanted—it was Alipato, the enigmatic leader of this fledgling resistance network, and even Nazario, the disgraced officer who had defected to their cause.

Schey’s days in the Red Territory were spent strategizing and teaching. She worked closely with Alipato and his team, sharing her hard-earned knowledge of guerrilla tactics. At the same time, she absorbed their broader vision—a coalition that stretched across the Earth Sphere, linking scattered resistance cells into a united force. Together, they coordinated strikes that disrupted Directorate operations in the region: ambushing supply convoys, sabotaging fuel depots, and raiding armories.

Yet, every victory came with a pang of guilt. Her heart remained with her Flying Column, her thoughts always circling back to the team. She knew the DDS's reprisal efforts would be relentless.

One misty morning, standing at the edge of the camp, Schey made her decision. It was time to leave the Red Territory and return to her comrades. The weeks spent among Alipato’s forces had strengthened her resolve, but the fight she had started with her Flying Column needed her leadership now more than ever.

Alipato met her in the command tent, a faint smile on his face. "You’re really going back, then," he said.

"I am," Schey replied. "My place is with them. But what we’ve started here—it matters. I’ll carry it forward."

He handed her a small, encrypted data drive. "This contains the locations of other resistance cells and the communications protocols to reach them. Use it wisely. If the Directorate finds out about this network, they’ll stop at nothing to destroy us."

Schey tucked the drive into her jacket, her expression hardening with determination.

Before leaving, she saluted Alipato, a rare gesture of respect. "You’re building something important here. Don’t let it fall apart."

Alipato returned the salute. "And you, Commander. Keep the flame alive."

Schey’s journey back to her Flying Column was perilous. Disguised as a wandering merchant, she moved carefully, evading Directorate checkpoints and patrols. The Directorate’s grip tightened the further she traveled, forcing her to take long detours and spend nights hiding in abandoned structures or dense underbrush.

During one encounter, she narrowly avoided capture when a Directorate patrol stopped to inspect travelers on a main road. Pretending to be a peddler, she traded idle chatter with a local farmer to maintain her cover, all while her fingers hovered near the concealed weapon in her satchel. When the patrol moved on, she exhaled in relief and pressed forward.

Each quiet night brought her back to her memories of Alipato’s words:

"An army. Resources. Intelligence. There are others like us—like you—scattered across the sphere. But we’ve been fighting in isolation, fragmented. The Directorate thrives on our disunity."

Schey had challenged him at the time. "And what’s your solution? Alliance with disgruntled military officers who chose to go underground? Forces who supported my father before Gadon seized power?"

"Exactly," Alipato had said, his voice steady. "We don’t just gather—we coordinate. Nodes of resistance working as one organism, striking where the Directorate is weakest. But to make this work, we need leaders like you. People who can inspire and command."

Schey had leaned back, studying him. "And you think that’ll work? Gadon will crush us if we gather in one place."

"Not if we fight smarter," Alipato had countered. "We sabotage their supply lines, strike their factories, and bleed them dry. It’s not about standing in one place—it’s about being everywhere at once. Together, we can do that. But only together."

After a long pause, Schey had said, "I’ll help you. But I need to see results. My Flying Column is out there risking everything."

Alipato had nodded. "Fair enough. Welcome to the fight, Black Magnolia."

After days of careful navigation, Schey finally approached the edge of the forest that concealed her Flying Column’s encampment. The sight of their hidden base—camouflaged under thick canopies of trees—filled her with relief.

She climbed into her mobile suit, the Cherry Red Iskra, which had been hidden and maintained by her team in her absence. As its systems hummed to life, the cockpit’s familiar glow brought her a sense of comfort and purpose.

Activating the encrypted comms channel, Schey sent a message to her second-in-command.

"Flying Column, this is Black Magnolia. I’m coming back. Prepare for the next phase."

Gardo’s voice crackled over the channel. "We’ve been waiting for you, Commander. It’s good to hear your voice."

As she powered up the Valiant’s systems and prepared to rejoin her comrades, Schey felt the weight of the journey lift from her shoulders. The road ahead would be long and dangerous, but she wasn’t alone. The constellation of resistance was growing, and together, they would forge a new dawn.

TO BE CONTINUED