There’s something about propaganda. It’s often a twist of the truth, perhaps even lies spun by the ones in charge, manipulating the common citizen to align with their purposes. It provides the inflated glory after a victory, the preservation of morale after a defeat; the love directed at “us”, the hate towards “them”, whoever “they” may be. Propaganda is, for some, merely a specific tool, for others, a spontaneous work of art, a catalyst to provide a nudge in the “correct” direction.

The Assembly sits in silence, looking at the screen depicting the battlefield in full, the smoking ruins retreating further and further away from their sights. The reports from the battle are flooding in, reminding them yet again of their crushing defeat. These raw images are not propaganda, at least not in their current form. Soon, the screen switches to an image of several dead soldiers, their helmets concealing their faces, their armor sinking into the mud. Nearby, a boulder shields them from the rising light, casting its shadow and covering further gore. This is their grave, their bodies unable to be retrieved from the battlefield. The image is but one of many showing similar horrors, punching each Assembly member time and time again for the New Rule’s failure in holding out in the Pass. There is no caption, only the identity of the soldier who had sent the image and the report.

Another image, this one only part of a larger image taken by a fighter as it retreated away from the battlefield. It is rather bland, containing only the ashes of what should’ve been a fort. The dust fogs up the image, still not settled into the ground. A steel bar sticks up from the ground, lonely and isolated. The pilot had decided to only report this little detail to his superiors, this little scrap from the big picture, with only a short report behind it stating, “Fighter deployed too late.”

“To think they actually fired the voidal cannon…” one of them mutters.

The images don’t stop coming. Images of bright fires fueled by the fat of corpses, dark shadows covering the humiliated ruins, and everything in between: grey, lonely, dead. Is this what the soldiers have decided to present to them?

Not a proclamation of individual heroics or the coordinated effort to capture some enemy unit, but a grim picture of their defeat, brutally announcing to the Assembly that they have, in effect, lost the war. The protestors continue to shout outside, demanding an end to the war that, after the Battle of the Pass, seems to be already over.

“They’re back,” an Assembly member notes as the doors open, letting all those insults in for a brief moment as the President, Rasu, and his closest soldiers enter. They take their eyes off the painful reports for a while, instead looking at the unofficially appointed and only surviving general from the battle, the bandages covering his left eye. There is no applause or even a note of appreciation from the Assembly, their necks only slightly bowed and solemn like a funeral.

“So the reports have begun flowing in, haven’t they?” Rasu says tiredly as he sits on a vacant seat. “What, am I going to be blamed for our defeat again?”

It all feels familiar. The same seat as a year ago, seeing similar reports. The Assembly’s eyes accusatory, his fellow generals ready to betray their comrade. The weak-minded President allowed him to be removed from office, to start over as a lowly soldier. He recognizes most of the members. The New Rule was stronger then, where a single defeat can cause the end of an otherwise illustrious career if he did not have political backing. A year later, he returns, the only one responsible for such a catastrophic defeat… as everyone else who can, who should be held responsible are dead.

Yet there’s something different about this defeat. Their lives on the line, they no longer care about who to blame. The anti-war sentiments have reached a crucial point. The nervousness from the Assembly, in charge of the war yet so often far away from it, is quite the unnerving atmosphere.

The Assembly is far more at risk than they were a year ago. They know that. But they mustn’t so obviously show their weakness.

“Is our defeat unavoidable?” an official asks Rasu, his voice shaking. “Will the New Rule soon be swept up by the guns and swords of our enemies?”

“Are you going to pack your belongings and leave if I answer with ‘yes’?” Rasu responds.

“Answer us,” another official demands. “Are we going to lose this war?”

Rasu sighs, his one eye staring at the table. “Even now, your attitudes don’t change. But if it’s an answer you want, then I will give. Yes, we are going to lose. Yes, we are going to die. Yes, we cannot escape from this fate… at the current state we are in.”

“How many soldiers that have returned are still fit for battle?”

“About ten thousand.”

“How many soldiers does the enemy currently possess?”

“Around the millions, many of them pouring out from the Pass as we speak.”

“Are there any soldiers still holding out in the forts near the Pass?”

“None. They will be blown apart if they stay, anyway.”

“Is there a way for us to turn the tide?”

“No, Not at this stage. We will be defeated.

“You are saying it is hopeless? As the sole surviving general from the battle?”

“Fight on the front lines and you shall see what it means to be hopeless,” Rasu growls, irritated by the Assembly’s questions. “You all right here are commanding, leading the entire faction, and you don’t know a thing about the workings of the military, the dire situation we have dug ourselves in. Ten thousand against millions. Do you know how absurd this is? Even if we conscript every single able-bodied person, we would only have just enough in numbers.” If they have the will to fight, then maybe they can at least hold out for a little longer, but they are not machines. They will be exhausted… that is, if they are not already so.

“We did not pool all of our resources into that single battle. If needed, we can redirect troops from other fronts for the defense of the west.”

“And cause our other fronts to collapse as well?”

“Enough bickering,” Ipela says, standing up to attract their attention. “If we look at it from the numbers alone, then we have already lost. Practically speaking, our outnumbered armies cannot stop the tides of the Confederation. We made a fatal blunder at the Pass, and if not for our relatively organized retreat, we would’ve been annihilated already. The soldiers are what keeps us going, and they, in turn, are fueled by the people’s will to fight. We are losing not just the external war, but the internal support.”

“You usually would not state such matters in its cruel simplicity without some glimpse of hope,” the President notes. “Perhaps you have a solution in mind?” Whatever was argued before is completely ignored now, the Assembly’s eyes instead focusing on Ipela.

“Not exactly a solution, but a change in perspective,” she explains. “Our military success is built upon the support of the people, or rather plainly, our control over the people’s minds. Do you not remember what these reports are for? We pick a few fitting to our narrative and release them to the public. They are misinformed, preoccupied with the notion that we are about to lose. Even if that is the truth, we cannot let them know. When the people’s support collapses or goes against our favor, that is when we have truly lost the war.”

“Ms. Ipela, your wisdom never ceases to amaze me,” Rasu says, barely hiding his cynicism. “Are we going to utilize those same images and remind the people just how much the war has cost us?”

Ipela smiles politely, unfazed by Rasu’s rather direct words, instead picking a random report and displaying it on the main screen. It is a gruesome image, one showing a bloodied hand. There is only an incomplete sentence accompanying the image: don’t want to fight anymore. An automated remark by the side indicates that the soldier had sent the report during the battle and is currently dead or missing.

“With this inconvenient caption, it sends a clear anti-war message, obviously,” she states, the slight upward arch of her lips still in place. “But if we edit out the words, make the colors all into a depressing grey, and add our own desired caption… We have something we can use.” Instead of the previous phrase, there is now a simple, direct imperative: Continue fighting for us.

“Technology is developed precisely for this purpose, is it not?” Ipela’s smile is a little off-putting, almost creepy in a sense it hasn’t budged much. It’s almost as if she’s merely taking on the image, the physical appearance of an elderly woman, her mind still active as a young adult in her prime. “I am only an amateur at things like this, but I’m sure the Ministry of Public Affairs, perhaps more well-named as the Ministry of Propaganda, is far more capable at handling this, no?”

“Ms. Ipela, we have always been rather honest with our depiction of the war to the people,” a woman stands, a small badge with the initials “MPA” pinned to her clothing. “Don’t you think we are regressing to the barbaric methods of the late Empire?”

“Look where that honesty has got us, Reia,” Ipela says, pointing to the muffled shouts of the protestors outside. “There are certain things the Empire has done right during its time. If it is all but a villainous kingdom, it cannot survive for a whole millennium, can it? One of such things is it’s miraculous control of the people through whatever media outlet is available. Their philosophy of ‘us’ and ‘them’, fueling the anger of the people to one outlet, is key to their success in the early decades. The protestors out there hold much potential in their emotions. We simply need to drive those emotions in the right direction.”

“You are suggesting we manipulate the people to our advantage!” Reia shouts in disbelief.

“If we don’t, then we will destroy ourselves, the people sinking with us,” Ipela argues. “It is but a nudge in a favorable direction. The choice, or at least the illusion of it, is up to them to decide. Our current world is built upon propaganda. Our beliefs, our exaggerated beliefs about the Achien Empire are built upon propaganda. No matter how democratic or how free we make our faction to be, we are not an anarchy. The people must be led, unless, of course, you want to fall into despair and ignorant stupidity with them.”

“I could never imagine such words coming out of our eldest and wisest member of the Assembly–” Reia protests in dismay but is promptly interrupted by the President.

“If that is how you see propaganda, Ms. Ipela,” he says. “Then what specifically do you suggest to perhaps change the people’s hearts so we may have a will to fight again?”

“We simply have the messages surrounding a central theme or similar themes,” Ipela answers. “Once a theme is reached, a main protagonist must be established, preferably a leader or an easily controllable puppet of the leader. Simultaneously, a main antagonist must also be portrayed, preferably in unrealistically ugly pieces of artwork. These characters will unite the people in both love and hate, funneling all their individual emotions into one collective. An occasional sprinkling of what the people desire is a strong catalyst, but eventually, the goal is to shape the people into what we as an Assembly desire. Finally, with all preparations ready, we direct all the products as the driving force for the end goal, whether it be a political or military victory. This is what I have understood from my limited readings of the Empire and how it became so successful as an otherwise ugly tyranny. We have been too complacent. It is time to learn from our mistakes and grow.”

“Such a frightening formula should not be put into practice!” Reia exclaims. “If put into the wrong hands… we shall only have a rebirth of the Empire itself!”

“But it is our only way to survival and possibility of victory, is it not?” Ipela questions. “Or perhaps you have a stronger case to present?”

“Enough,” the President halts the argument for a second time. “We shall put this to a vote. As a democracy should. If the majority decides such a path is viable and needed, then we will take this path as a whole. Whoever still resists… I am very sorry but I will ask them to resign from their seat.”

Rasu lightly shakes his head. The civilian government has not changed a bit since he had last stepped foot in the Assembly. But it is already too late to change the tide. As a military officer, he is trained to only comply. As Rasu, he only desires to live, to fight. There is no other life.

Solemnly, a vote is collected, Reia clearly in a poor mood as Ipela calmly stares at the screen. The score gradually tallies up until the last vote is collected. Each member attempts to not betray their emotions, but from their expressions, it is already clear.

The result is obvious. Ipela earns an easy victory, the President nodding a little in approval. The wisest of them all, as they say of Ipela, but for her, she is merely the most pragmatic of them all.

Burning in frustration and emotion, Reia storms off the Assembly, leaving behind a singular note, scribbled with words they recognize all too well. She does not return.

“Perhaps we shall begin our plans now? The war does not wait,” Ipela suggests, ignoring the exit of Reia. She’ll soon be replaced by a more competent official, anyway.

“As we have reached a clear decision, we should follow it as soon as possible,” the President concurs as the reports begin filing in again. “It seems that I am seeing a frequent appearance of a great light from various distances.”

“That couldn’t possibly be an enemy explosion,” an official notes. “The light feels warm, maybe even… glorious, if we paint it correctly.”

“That is a barrier created by one of our soldiers, Avalel, as mentioned in a few of the reports,” Ipela states. She points to a sentence: he is our savior.

“I assume we have found our protagonist,” the President says in satisfaction. “Let’s build our message.”

“Even if he holds a weapon unlike our own and beyond our control?” an official asks.

“That uniqueness will make him stand apart,” Ipela answers. “Ideal for a ‘savior’ underneath our spotlights.”

She sits, unable to control her smile any longer. She may have uncovered too much of her true abilities and personality, but that does not matter. The President, the weak President, so trusting of her wisdom to the point where he has become a puppet at her disposal. The Assembly, the corrupt Assembly, swaying to the winds, aligning with what seems to be the superior side. The people, the stupid, stubborn people about to be hypnotized by the propaganda, tied to her strings.

Propaganda. The tool to gently bring all to their knees, voluntarily prostrating themselves before the puppet master.