Vivian stood atop the tank like a conquering saint, boots planted against scorched metal, the compound's floodlights cutting her silhouette into something almost mythic. Below her, soldiers stood rigid with rifles raised, their formation tight but fragile—ants staring up at a boot suspended overhead.
One of her gunmen climbed up and pressed a microphone into her hand.
Vivian rolled it once in her palm, then tapped it lightly.
Thunk.
"Mic check," she said pleasantly. Another tap. "Mic check, mic check—one, two, three."
Confusion rippled through the line of soldiers. A few brows furrowed. One or two muzzles dipped before discipline snapped them back into place.
"Keep your aim on that woman," Callahan barked, his voice rough with grit and command.
Vivian smiled wider.
