The BlackSmith nation, a rusty structure held up by old steel and sheer grit. It has stayed up, growing higher and higher, becoming less of a mess of welds. But its foundation is still rusty, still weak, still fragile. The slightest breeze could break the structure. Now imagine what a strong breeze could do... Trantor is the administrative capital of the BlackSmiths. Take Trantor, you control the nation. Three blinding white flashes tear across the horizon, stunning millions as a bubble of hot light swallows the city whole. In a heartbeat, hundreds of thousands are gone, vaporized before they can even scream. The shockwave hits next, ripping through the streets, sending buildings collapsing one after another, immense steel towers falling like dominoes. Three mushroom clouds rise into the stratosphere, looming over the world like the towering trunks of some impossible forest. On the ground, everything descends into chaos. Gunfire erupts across the shattered streets. On half-broken rooftop balconies, anarchists crouch low, picking off civilians with cold, practiced shots. People grab whatever they can, anything with weight or a blade or reach. They run, trip, shove, scatter, only to be torn down in the open. The BlackSmith Republican army moves fast, flooding the streets with soldiers trying to choke off the attack. The fighting turns savage, bloody, and close. Civilians push into buildings for cover, the tight halls and stairwells quickly smeared with red, the walls taking on patterns that look like roses. Red-hot debris begins raining down as the fallout settles. It starts as flecks, then grows heavier, larger, full pieces of burning metal and concrete crashing from above. Grey radioactive sand begins drifting down after it, falling slowly and constantly, each grain spitting radiation in violent doses. BlackSmith soldiers try to hold the line as the anarchists tighten their encirclement around the capital building. A machine gunner steps out of a collapsed storefront and cuts down a squad in seconds. More fighters rise from the rubble, hurling explosives, adding to the slaughter. The anarchists finally punch through the last line of defense. The capital doors crack, then give. And the violence pours in. And as the dust settles from the battle, out comes the A, plastered on the wall with blood. Holding this nation together is near impossible, and it took over 24 years to collapse. When the last body falls, it marks the end of a BlackSmith chapter: Organization.
