Date: May 14, 2165
Location: Astoria Colony
The bombing was meant to send a message.
It sent limbs instead.
Shards of storefront glass were still embedded in the walls of Astoria's central plaza, the once-bustling civilian market now reduced to smoke and bleeding bodies. Emergency crews dragged survivors from rubble piles. Sobbing echoed between the fire-gutted kiosks. Power was down. Food lines were gone. Order had collapsed in a matter of seconds.
Local security forces had no doubt who was responsible. Not pirates. Not rebels. But one of the ATLAS splinter cells—rogue, radicalized, and increasingly brutal.
Their symbol had been painted on the broken fountain at the square's center.
"Only Fire Cleanses" —scrawled in synthetic blood.
The name "Grayson" still rang through their propaganda, but it was hollow now. These weren't soldiers, they were fanatics. And the people knew it.
Location: Shelter Nine, beneath Astoria Plaza
Juno Carrel held her daughter tight, both wrapped in a singed blanket. The emergency shelter smelled like scorched steel and burnt plastic. A week ago, she'd defended ATLAS in an argument with her neighbor, claimed they were fighting for the colonies, for the forgotten. She had believed in the dream—believed in Grayson.
But now?
"They set off the charge during school rush," someone whispered, voice cracking. "Who does that? What the hell are they fighting for?"
Juno didn't have an answer. All she had was her daughter's shaking frame and the burning taste of ash in her lungs.
"Grayson wouldn't have allowed this," she muttered, as much to herself as to the crowd around her.
But even that reassurance felt thin now.
Location: Io, Outer Ring Network—Encrypted Broadcast, ATLAS Safe Node
The message was raw and furious.
Commander Ryse slammed her fist against the table. The holoscreen flickered with shaky footage of the Astoria attack—grainy but unmistakable.
"Who gave the order?" she demanded.
No one answered.
"These weren't UEG assets. These were civilians. We don't terrorize the people we claim to defend!"
The room was silent. Eventually, a field operative spoke.
"It wasn't us, Commander. We believe it was Cell Keres. They've stopped responding to central relay channels. Went dark a month ago."
Ryse's jaw tightened.
ATLAS had always known decentralization was a double-edged sword. Without Grayson's central leadership, cells had begun interpreting the cause differently. Some still operated by his code—precision, protection, and principle.
Others? Not so much.
"We find them," Ryse ordered coldly. "And we shut them down. They don't wear our name while staining it with blood."
Location: ONI Central Command, Luna
"Let them eat themselves alive," murmured Director Sula Min, watching the feeds.
She didn't even need to authorize a counter-campaign. The damage was self-inflicted. The more fractured ATLAS became, the easier it was to turn public sentiment. News outlets ran looped footage of grieving mothers, devastated cities, and increasingly deranged ATLAS manifestos.
A new generation would grow up fearing the word "rig."
A few cells still posed threats—sure. But they'd lost something more valuable than gear or ground.
They were losing the hearts and minds.
"Grayson's legacy is cracking," she said to no one. "And all we had to do… was wait."
Location: Callisto Ridge, Hidden ATLAS Outpost
Rhia Solen sat in a narrow bunk, helmet at her side, staring at the darkened screen where once they'd streamed Grayson's old speeches.
The Astoria footage kept replaying in her mind.
This wasn't why she signed up. This wasn't what ATLAS had meant to her.
She remembered the early days—liberating mining colonies from extortionate UEG taxes, distributing food and water where the Council had failed. Grayson had promised better. Not burned children and broken faith.
She turned to the young recruits gathered nearby. "We do not follow radicals. We hold the line. Even if we stand alone."
Because if they became monsters to fight monsters…
…then the war had already been lost.
Date: June 9, 2165
Location: Enceladus Orbit, Refugee Freighter Rook's Light
The freighter wasn't designed for passengers. It reeked of coolant, sweat, and desperation. Families were crammed into cargo holds converted into sleeping bays. Children played silently with cracked datapads, their parents watching the sealed bulkhead doors like they expected them to burst open.
Juno Carrel had no weapons, no armor, no formal training. But what she did have—what many now shared—was rage.
ATLAS had promised protection. The UEG had promised stability. Both had failed in spectacular fashion. After the Astoria bombing, Juno hadn't gone home. There was no home. Just ruins and questions.
She looked across the bay at the faces gathered—technicians, former medics, disillusioned colony workers. Many had once supported ATLAS. Some still did.
But none supported the carnage.
"We can't wait for someone to save us," Juno said aloud. "We fight back. Our way. No rigs. No VIs. Just people."
A silence settled in the bay. Then slowly, one by one, heads began to nod.
A resistance was forming—not of soldiers, but survivors.
Location: Io, Blacksite Echelon-7 — Loyalist ATLAS Cell
Commander Ryse paced the room, the old rig schematic glowing on the holotable in front of her.
Reports had confirmed it: another cell, Cell Lamia, had hijacked a supply convoy and executed the crew on live broadcast. They called it justice. Ryse called it suicide.
"We're being framed by our own," muttered Tech-Officer Niran, eyes scanning the chatter net.
"They're not ours," Ryse snapped. "Not anymore. They're just cowards wearing our skin."
The line between ATLAS and its radicals had blurred in the eyes of the public. Grayson's vision, once sharp and defiant, now looked monstrous through the lens of broken cities and orphaned children.
"We need to make contact with the civilian cells," Ryse said. "Coordinate aid. Help clean up the mess."
"You think they'll work with us?"
"We don't give them a reason to not."
Location: ONI Listening Station Theta-22, Titan Orbit
The feed was fragmented, but the message was clear. Civilians were mobilizing.
Director Min watched as a technician displayed the sigil—an open hand holding a cracked helmet. No faction colors. No weapons displayed. Just a declaration of independence.
"New faction?" Min asked.
"Unofficial. Calling themselves The Line. Civilian-led. Mostly ex-ATLAS sympathizers and displaced colonists. They're distributing water and gear to abandoned sites. Some even fought off a rogue rig team last week."
Min frowned. This wasn't part of the calculus. UEG-backed control depended on desperation—on people begging for structure.
A well-organized civilian movement? That was a threat.
"Flag them," she said. "Surveil. Infiltrate if possible. If they go militant, we break them."
She turned from the screen, already thinking ten steps ahead.
"They've seen what unchecked power looks like. That makes them dangerous."
Location: Titan — Abandoned ATLAS Relay Outpost
Rain hammered the metallic platform as a small group approached under makeshift cloaks. Rhia Solen waited near the shattered comms array, rifle slung low, her rig powered down.
They weren't soldiers. Not anymore. But they still had something to fight for.
"Civilians from Eris sector want coordination," said one of her scouts. "They're building safe routes for evac. Food lines. Comm relays."
Rhia nodded. "Then we support them. Quietly. No weapons, no tech drops. Just eyes and ears."
"But… we could do more. We could—"
"No," she said firmly. "We're done playing gods. If they want peace, we help them find it."
For the first time in months, the rage in her chest dimmed. Not gone—but redirected.
ATLAS loyalists, civilians, and survivors were no longer just surviving. They were finding each other.