Shots rang out through the streets of Detroit, Michigan.
They were scattered at first, isolated cracks echoing down alleys and between brick facades.
but they carried far in the open spaces left by abandoned industry. Banners of the Midwest Republic hung from the upper stories of a tenement building overlooking the street, their fabric frayed and sun-bleached, stitched together from whatever colors could be found.
Below them, an armored column rolled forward at a steady pace, engines humming with mechanical indifference.
Old Glory flew from the lead tank's antenna, its cloth stiff with grime and exhaust. The symbol meant different things to different men now.
To some, it was continuity, to others it was a banner of occupation. To the column itself, it was little more than a marker, something to be raised, photographed, and replaced when torn away.
Detroit was not empty, despite appearances.
