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SCL Chapter 117: Broadcast from the Shadows
🕑 Added 2025-06-13 20:10:42 +0000 UTCWhen the digital clock ticked to 00:55, Mike finally finished processing the last of his files. Reports about Korhal IV were now taking up nearly a third of the news segment, and more and more people were beginning to realize that what had happened on that planet wasn’t just a riot.
While worrying over the fate of the people on Korhal IV, Mike also knew he was powerless to change any of it. He shook his head, took a sip of coffee to stay alert, then stood and stepped out of his cubicle, heading for the restroom.
At that moment, a few editors and assistant editors coming off their shift were heading toward the office area. Mike greeted a few familiar faces.
“Old Vormirian, I heard your son got into Tarsonis University. I’m looking forward to the day that kid follows in your footsteps,” Mike said.
“Yeah, that boy… he really makes me proud!”
Mike stayed in the restroom for nearly fifteen minutes. It wasn’t until 01:15 that he finally came out. After splashing some water on his face, he leisurely strolled back to his workstation—firm in his belief that not even the destruction of Tarsonis could stop him from slacking off.
But then Mike keenly noticed something off about the hallway. Usually, there would be at least one guard in a black uniform stationed there.
These brawny, broad-shouldered men were all retired soldiers, more than capable of handling any shady individual trying to sneak into the headquarters building. Every corridor, elevator, and stairwell was guarded day and night by security personnel armed with magnetic restraint nets, stun guns, and batons. By corporate board standards, this counted as fairly tight security.
After all, this was a news agency’s headquarters, not a bank or a military fortress—and certainly not guarded by Marines in powered armor.
Granted, Mike often referred to the Marine Corps as a criminal detention center, believing it to be a dumping ground for the Federation’s most infamous criminals and irredeemable thugs. Still, even they wouldn’t abandon their posts during work hours.
In the last fifty years, no one had ever successfully broken into the headquarters. That said, there were always some unemployed drifters from the slums or petty thieves trying to sneak in and steal something.
Besides, the UNN Headquarters was located at the very heart of Tarsonis City, right next to Bennett Tower and the Terra Skyspire. Riots and demonstrations never reached this far.
Back during the Guild Wars, a group of angry Tarsonis citizens once tried to storm the building in protest of UNN’s false reporting. But before they could even gather, the Tarsonis police dispersed them—one of their rare moments of efficiency and reliability. Not, of course, because they were dutiful—but because the police department received a hefty bonus from UNN every year.
Just two steps later, Mike froze. A security guard was lying on the floor in the hallway.
He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, and was about to call out or do something when a dose of sleep-inducing nerve gas entered his bloodstream with a single breath.
Overwhelmed by fear, Mike collapsed to the ground.
…
When Mike finally regained consciousness, he found himself surrounded by a group of strangers wielding compact electromagnetic pistols. There were about twelve of them in total, all wearing the same type of gas mask he now realized he also had on.
Mike’s first instinct was to play dead. But he immediately understood—this was an unprecedented terrorist attack.
What were these people here for? Rumor had it that Chief Editor Anderson kept a stash of blackmail material in the basement—enough dirt on the elite to wrap around Tarsonis twice—
“Mr. Mike Liberty,” said a masked man holding a sleek electromagnetic rifle. His voice rasped like an old bellows, like jagged metal scraping along a wall—grating and unnatural.
“Our leader is grateful for the compassion you showed the people of Korhal IV in your reports.”
“You’d better open your eyes. I know you’re awake.”
Mike had no choice but to sit up. Even though his hands and feet weren’t bound, he didn’t dare make any sudden moves. Looking around at the group, a possibility flashed through his mind—but he didn’t get a chance to speak before he was interrupted.
“We are the Revolutionary Army. More accurately—we’re agents.”
“Oh—so you’re a psionic,” Mike said. He was still terrified, but he wasn’t the type to cower when facing danger.
As he looked around the room, he was stunned to realize he was inside the UNN broadcast studio. Notes and post-its about various news segments were stuck all over the walls, while cameras and flickering screens filled the space. Papers were scattered across the floor like snowflakes.
Normally, employees like Mike worked on the fourth floor of the UNN building.
The people who were supposed to be working here now were slumped on the ground, dragged to a corner and piled together by the agents.
“Are they dead?” Mike asked, his voice trembling.
“They’re just unconscious,” the ghost agent replied. “The paralyzing gas we released through the ventilation system isn’t lethal.”
“We woke you up because someone should remember what happened today,” he continued. “I know that in the end, you’ll stand with us. If you write a thorough report, the entire galaxy will know what took place today.”
“We don’t harm the innocent. We’re here today to expose the truth.”
Mike didn’t know how to respond. From the man’s words, he could tell these people were likely from the Korhal Revolutionary Army. And although Mike had once reported the truth about Korhal IV and gained the favor of these radicals, that didn’t mean he was completely safe.
It felt like he was standing at the center of a massive story. By tomorrow, the entire Federation would be in an uproar over the attack on UNN Headquarters. Just like any proper journalist, the excitement building in young Mike's chest was already starting to eclipse his fear.
“Why attack this place?” Mike asked.
“You’ll know soon enough,” the agent said.
Mike hated cryptic answers, but he didn’t dare press further.
At that moment, he noticed some of the agents working at the studio’s terminal computers—they were either downloading or uploading data.
Whatever the case, the executive board was going to lose its mind. Heads would roll among the leadership ranks outside the shareholders’ assembly, and more than a few people would lose their jobs.
Right now, aside from the occasional footsteps and the hum of ventilation fans, the entire UNN Headquarters was eerily silent. No matter how much time passed, it was clear that the Tarsonis Police Department, the Federation Security Bureau, and every authority responsible for this disaster were still comfortably asleep in their warm beds.
Everyone in the studio continued working in complete silence.
Until suddenly, the main broadcast screen flickered and changed. It now displayed a solemn hall, the flag of the Federation fluttering behind a podium. The live feed was being transmitted through Tarsonis’s signal towers to the nearest core worlds, then broadcast further out from those nodes.
Night still blanketed this hemisphere of Tarsonis, but the other side of the planet was already in daylight. In other words, at this very moment, hundreds of millions of Terrans on various colonial worlds across the Federation could be watching this broadcast.
Mike couldn’t help but turn to look. Over thirty holographic projection screens were playing the same footage. In just a glance, he recognized it—it was the Hall of Reason within the Council Chamber in Tarsonis City.
He was intimately familiar with the faces inside the Hall of Reason. Mike had memorized every politician’s appearance and political stance by heart. As for the patriarchs of the Old Families, most of them remained obscure to the public due to their deliberate low-profile behavior. These ancient lineages had never been fond of flaunting their power with flashy appearances.
A session of the Federal Parliament was underway—something that normally would never be allowed to be filmed. Judging by the angle, this footage had to be taken by one of the attendees; it clearly showed their personal point of view.
“The next agenda item,” announced a well-known figure, “is the proposal to deploy Apocalypse-class nuclear warheads to annihilate Korhal IV—”
The speaker was Westyn MacMasters, famous for spearheading the effective New Tarsonis Economic Policy and the namesake of the rural subsidy program for fringe star systems.
“What?” Mike froze.
“What did he just say?”
“…Launch the nukes! Reduce Korhal IV to scorched earth!”
“This can’t be real.” Mike was still paralyzed by shock.
“My God, does that old bastard even know what he’s saying?” Mike’s face turned pale. “This is mass murder. Genocide. This is the truth.”
“We can already foresee the protests erupting across the system. The Federal Parliament’s reputation will be in ruins—though frankly, it was already a mess to begin with.”
Mike thought back to those places where riots had erupted—only to be swiftly and brutally quelled. If the Federal Parliament was willing to deploy nuclear weapons, then there was nothing they wouldn’t use.
“Now the people of the Federation know just how monstrous their government can be,” said one of the agents calmly as the others had already begun to retreat, their data upload completed.
“Those bastards! Let’s see how they survive this now,” Mike spat angrily.
“Before I go, Mr. Liberty, I sincerely invite you to join the Revolutionary Army,” the agent said.
“The Revolutionary Army…” Mike seriously considered the offer. “But what could I possibly contribute? I can’t even carry a rifle.”
“Just do what you’re good at. Here, you’re just an invisible cog in the machine. But on the Revolutionary Army’s channel—you’d be the editor-in-chief of the new UNN,” said the ghost agent.
“A tempting offer,” Mike muttered. “To be honest, you’ve hit my soft spot with just one sentence.” He was still turning it over in his mind when the sky over Tarsonis City lit up with patrol airships and armed vessels.
Under normal circumstances, Mike wouldn’t be eligible for a promotion to editor until he was at least thirty. And even then, he wasn’t sure if he should abandon a stable job for one where a bullet could find him at any moment.
“All right. Take your time to decide and contact us later—if only for your own safety,” the ghost agent said before vanishing. “But for now, it’s better if you look like the others.”
Then, Mike felt a sharp blow strike him across the face.
