Ofila: What to Do When the Opposition Smears You
On the afternoon of the third day, Jingxing found a good spot at the foot of the city wall.
It was a breach left by some forgotten bombing, its brickwork exposed. The wind rushed through the gap, carrying the fishy smell of the distant river. Weeds grew waist-high at the base of the wall.
But when he walked along the foot of the wall to the breach and instinctively looked up, a single glance made him freeze.
From here, the brickwork around the breach formed a frame around the outline of Central Square: a half-built temporary stage, the sound equipment already set up, and a sparse crowd gathered in the square.
Jingxing had originally planned to visit the star system that had lost two colors, gather inspiration, and paint his graduation exhibition piece. But since fate had brought him to Vesna IV, it was only natural that he should look for his subject here instead.
His mentor had said everything about his paintings was good, but they lacked a little "meaning" to make him a "master." Jingxing didn't understand what "meaning" meant. He thought a painting was good if the light and shadow were accurate and the composition was right.
That was until he looked up here and saw the ruined wall framing the sky, and the square beyond it.
Jingxing suddenly understood what he should paint.
He should paint the "angel" a person trapped by war saw when they looked up after hearing the sound of peace for the first time.
"Robin happens to be a Halovian, too. She looks quite a bit like the popular image of an 'angel' in my previous life," Jingxing joked quietly, lowering his head.
He crouched down and opened his sketchbook, his pencil scratching across the paper. No preliminary sketch, no planning the composition—he went straight to work with sweeping strokes.
The mortar lines in the ruined wall, the slanting light at the breach, and the tiny white figure on the stage.
Jingxing drew so quickly that even he was surprised. The lines seemed to have a will of their own, flowing from the tip of his pencil.
By the time he closed his sketchbook, the sky had gone dark.
Jingxing stood and rubbed his aching lower back. He had made up his mind: this would be the subject of his graduation piece.
Trouble arrived as quickly as the news spread.
On the evening of the third day, Jingxing, who had gone out for a walk, pressed two apparently identical flyers onto the table in front of Robin. Their edges were still covered in wall dust.
"I pulled these down next to a notice on the street corner. The ink is fresh. The other side put these flyers up to smear you."
Ofila picked one up. The writing was sloppy, but the gist was: "That so-called singer is nothing but a lackey of the government forces. Don't be fooled by their lies."
She sneered. "These ignorant natives are asking for death."
They had actually tried to tarnish the reputation of Interastral Peace Entertainment's top star. It seemed they really wanted a taste of the Interastral Peace Corporation's "iron fist."
Robin naturally took the other flyer from Jingxing's hand and glanced at it, her expression barely changing. "I could have guessed. With publicity on this scale, there was no way the rebels wouldn't hear about it."
"But this is their response?" Robin shook her head. "A little disappointing."
"I don't think they'll stop at talking." Jingxing stared at Robin. "I think they'll try to attack you. They won't let you finish that song, because they don't want the war to end before they secure the right to sign a contract with the corporation."
"I know." Robin folded the flyer and slipped it into her pocket. "But let them come. I won't back down. Besides—"
She glanced at Ofila, who was writing a report for the corporation beside her. "I don't imagine the corporation will turn a blind eye to this kind of slander either, will it?"
"Of course not!" Ofila replied loudly. "These natives have some nerve, daring to smear your reputation!"
Robin smiled and waved a hand. "In the end, it can only spread on this planet. It won't affect the corporation's interests, so there's no need to be so angry."
"Besides... as long as peace returns here, that'll be the best answer to them."
That same night, northeast of Rovini, the lights were still on at the rebels' frontline headquarters.
Inside the headquarters, formerly an office at an abandoned mine, a map was pinned to the wall, crisscrossed with red and blue arrows.
"She's going to perform in Central Square." A bald man in uniform slapped an intelligence report onto the table. "The government forces have handed over their entire broadcast system just to air the performance."
"She's just a singer. What can she possibly do?" the person across from him scoffed.
"You don't understand." The bald man lit a cigarette and took a deep drag. "She's with that corporation from beyond the sky. Supposedly, she's some kind of 'Pathstrider,' too. An informant told me that before she entered Rovini, she got a routed unit to put down their guns and follow her with just a few words."
The room erupted in discussion—
"Fuck, can she hypnotize people?"
"Then won't we be hypnotized into surrendering if we listen to her sing?"
"They can't beat us on the battlefield, so they're playing dirty like this? Those bastards in Rovini aren't real men!"
The bald man stared at the pin marking Rovini on the map and stubbed out his cigarette on the corner of the table.
"We've been fighting for a year. So many people have died. What are we fighting for?" he said slowly. "We want to void the procurement agreement the government forces signed. Who represents this planet and who signs the contract have to be decided all over again. That corporation doesn't care who sits behind the signing table, but I do—that chair has to belong to us."
He raised his head and looked around at everyone in the room.
"But now a singer says she can stand in the square, sing a song, and make people put down their guns. If we can't keep fighting, there won't be any need to reset the table—the government forces will still be the legitimate government, and the agreement will still be the same. What about us? Our blood will have been spilled for nothing!"
No one answered.
"Peace is a good thing." The bald man's voice was flat. "But it has to be our peace. There's no place for us in peace handed out by someone else."
"Then what do we do?"
"What do we do?" The bald man straightened, the last glowing ember of his cigarette reflected in his eyes. "We stop her from singing."
He paused, his voice dropping.
"Have our people lying low in the city make the arrangements. I want that performance to end without a single note being sung."
On the night before the performance, Jingxing returned to the breach in the city wall he had picked out earlier.
He sat for a long time in the spot where he had sketched. On the stage in Central Square, the people setting it up were still busy, and bursts of electrical static from the equipment they were testing drifted over on the wind.
And in the open space below the stage, some people had already brought tents or bedding to claim their spots.
The people here are so desperate to hear something other than war. Jingxing couldn't help thinking of what Robin had said while talking with him. I have a feeling that if I successfully accomplish the goal of this performance...
I'll have taken another step forward on my Path.