Morning in Tortilla was a performance.
Trumpets blared from the towers, banners snapped in the wind, and the city's pigeons launched into synchronized panic. The people called it "the dawn salute." Vector called it "an unnecessary alarm clock invented by sadists."
He stood before the Imperial Barracks, arms crossed, watching his soldiers scramble into formation like a bucket of ants dumped on a drum. His armor glinted in the sunlight cleaned, polished, and dramatically dented from actual combat. He preferred it that way; perfection looked suspicious.
"By the gods…" Vector muttered. "Did someone rehearse chaos and call it discipline?"
From behind him, a voice answered with the dry tone of someone who had long accepted his captain's nonsense.
"That's what happens, sir, when the soldiers drink before sunrise."
Vector turned slightly.
Lieutenant Brentford tall, neat, and built like a marble statue of disappointment, stood at attention with a clipboard in hand. His expression carried the permanent weight of someone allergic to jokes.
"Brentford," Vector said, "your soldiers move like drunk toddlers. Is there a particular reason for this,what's the word shithole of coordination?"
Brentford didn't flinch. "You gave them the day off yesterday, sir."
"Ah." Vector tapped his chin. "Then I take full responsibility. I forgot they can't handle joy."
From across the yard, two soldiers tripped over each other, collapsing into the mud.
Brentford's eye twitched.
Vector smiled. "See? That's team bonding."
The lieutenant sighed through his nose. "Permission to scream internally, sir."
"Denied. I need you sane for at least another hour."
The morning continued with clanking armor, shouted orders, and the occasional thud of someone falling over. It was a perfect day for military inspection if your definition of "inspection" included mild comedy and existential dread.
As the drills continued, Vector's eyes scanned the lines not lazily, but with that calculating calm that earned him the name Stratamorph Cal'culus. Behind his grin, gears were turning. Every stance, every hesitation, every unspoken fear he was reading it all.
His mind saw patterns. Weak points. Potential chaos.
And potential greatness.
He exhaled slowly. "They'll do," he murmured. "They just need a little… strategic bullying."
"Did you say something, sir?" Brentford asked.
"Nothing," Vector said with a grin. "Just planning how to traumatize them into competence."
Brentford opened his mouth to respond and then came the sound of feet slapping against stone. Rapidly.
A small figure sprinted across the courtyard, cloak fluttering behind him, nearly tripping over his own boots.
"C-Captain Vector!" he wheezed. "Urgent report! From central command!"
Vector blinked. "Ah. That would be the messenger. Judging by the lack of grace, I assume that's Marvy."
Marvy stumbled to a stop, panting like a man who had personally run from a war. "Captain, sir! Urgent! Important! Catastrophic!"
Vector raised an eyebrow. "Is the empire on fire, or did the cook burn breakfast again?"
Marvy blinked. "Uh… the second one. But also… something worse."
"Damn. Not the soup again."
Brentford stepped forward. "Messenger, compose yourself. Speak clearly."
Marvy stood straight, saluted with too much energy, and nearly hit himself in the forehead. "Sir! Message from General Vorn. A rebellion rumor's spreading in the southern quarters. The lower towns are restless. Shops are closing early, soldiers are being mocked, and...uh...someone drew a moustache on Lady Vallery's statue."
Brentford groaned. "Gahhh… not again."
Vector's grin faded slightly, replaced by the cold glint of calculation. "Rebellion, you say? That's… inconvenient."
Marvy nodded, sweating. "It's… bad, sir. Real bad."
For a few seconds, Vector said nothing. He looked past the courtyard, toward the horizon the city's edge, where sunlight met smog. His eyes narrowed.
And then, with the air of a man who couldn't stand tension for too long, he smirked.
"Alright, then. We'll handle it like professionals."
Brentford relaxed slightly. "Meaning, sir?"
Vector stretched, cracking his neck. "Meaning we'll sit, drink tea, and pretend we know what we're doing while I come up with a brilliant plan."
"...sir."
"Don't question the process, Brentford."
Marvy blinked, unsure if this was brilliance or madness. "Uh, should I… tell the General you're on it?"
"Tell him," Vector said, "that Stratamorph Cal'culus has it under control. And also tell the kitchen to stop adding onions to the stew. We're losing more morale to food than to war."
Marvy scribbled furiously in his notebook, then tripped on his way out twice.
Brentford rubbed his temples. "You encourage him."
"I inspire chaos," Vector corrected. "It's more productive."
Before Brentford could respond, another voice called out from the training line. A young female recruit, helmet slightly too large for her head, had accidentally dropped her spear and was now trying to pick it up without anyone noticing.
Vector squinted. "Who's the nervous one?"
Brentford checked the list. "Recruit Tobara, sir. Joined last week. Brilliant with tactics, awful with motor control."
"Sounds promising," Vector said. "Bring her over."
Brentford barked an order, and Tobara nervously marched forward nearly stabbing her own boot in the process. She saluted awkwardly, cheeks red.
"S-sir! Reporting for...ah...training!"
Vector smiled faintly. "At ease, Tobara. You're shaking like a fish in a thunderstorm."
"S-sorry, sir! I'm just..uh..nervous. You're kind of… famous."
"Famous?" Vector tilted his head. "Or infamous?"
Tobara hesitated. "Both?"
Vector laughed, loud and genuine. "Good answer. You'll do fine here. Just remember rule number one in the Imperial Army."
She blinked. "Which is?"
He leaned closer. "Never drop your spear in front of a superior officer. We make terrible first impressions."
Brentford sighed. "Sir, you're supposed to discipline them, not amuse them."
Vector grinned. "Brentford, I'm building loyalty through humor. It's a tactical maneuver."
Tobara tried not to laug, failed and giggled nervously instead. Vector winked at her. "See? Works every time."
A horn sounded from the inner gates the signal for officers' council.
Brentford straightened. "Meeting time, sir."
Vector gave one last look around the barracks his soldiers half-prepared, his lieutenant exasperated, his messenger probably lost somewhere again, and his new recruit smiling despite her nerves.
He sighed not in frustration, but in affection.
"This," he muttered, "is my army. A glorious shithole of potential."
Brentford blinked. "What was that, sir?"
"Nothing," Vector said, pulling on his gloves. "Let's go pretend we're serious men for a few hours."
As he walked toward the council hall, the morning wind carried the faint laughter of soldiers behind him the kind of laughter that belonged to people who still believed the world wasn't about to break.
But Vector knew better.
Underneath the humor and the drills, something was shifting.
The empire was trembling.
And if rebellion was indeed whispering, then it was time for the God of Strategy to start listening.