Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 199: Dealing with the Rabble

Chapter 199: Dealing with the Rabble

"Sir, if everything’s good to go, I’ll take them out for patrol duty now," Lyra said, exuding confidence.

As she spoke, Norman noticed the desperate, almost pitiful looks from the young troublemakers. He fidgeted nervously, rubbing his hands together. "W-Wait, you’re putting them to work already? Shouldn’t you get a little time to adjust first?"

"No need," Lyra replied, her gaze sharp as a blade. "I’ve got it under control."

Her eyes said what her lips didn’t: ’I’ll bring every last one of them back... even if they don’t want to.’

Norman caught the underlying threat and quickly waved his hand. "Alright, then, off you go."

He had Lyra here for precisely this reason—to put these entitled brats in their place. As long as things didn’t go too far, he wasn’t losing any sleep over it.

Yawning, he strolled back to his office, leaving Lyra to handle the rest.

The second the door closed behind him, Lyra dropped her formal salute and faced the lined-up recruits, who stood frozen like pale statues.

"Move out," she ordered.

Instantly, the ice crystals that had formed around their feet and throats dissolved, setting them free. The group of young men collapsed to the floor in a messy heap.

A blond guy, clearly the ringleader, sneered as he pointed a finger at Lyra. "You’re Lyra, huh? Go tell Benedict to apologize to me right now, or I’ll make you regret it!"

Before he could finish, a glowing whip of energy lashed out from Lyra’s hand, striking his face with a sharp crack. The air around her grew thick with tension, her powers putting everyone on high alert.

Without sparing a glance at the others, Lyra grabbed the boy by his collar, easily lifting his 90-kilogram body off the ground with a single hand like he was nothing more than a rag doll.

"Rubens Laberry," she said coolly. "And just how do you plan to make me regret? Gonna run home and cry to mommy and daddy?"

His face flushed with anger and humiliation as she tossed him aside like trash. "Go on, give it a shot, you spineless waste of space."

The insult landed harder than any punch, leaving Rubens’ face an embarrassing mix of pale and blush. Everyone knew the truth: if they had any real talent, they wouldn’t be stuck here, wasting time in this second-rate squad. But hearing her call them out for being whiny children—that stung more than anything.

Lyra adjusted her hat, the black braid running down her back swinging like a scorpion’s tail. Unlike the standard half-skirt uniform, she wore long trousers tucked into sleek, straight-cut boots, highlighting her tall, lean frame.

"Move. Now."

When no one budged, Lyra’s eyes narrowed. Behind her, dozens of glowing tendrils began to unfurl, twisting ominously like serpents ready to strike. "Or do I have to drag you out myself?"

Faces twisted in frustration. They wanted to resist, to fight back, but the memory of Rubens being manhandled so easily kept them in check.

Still sitting on the floor, Rubens decided to switch tactics. "We’re all injured! That freezing trick you pulled? Gave us frostbite. I need to go home and rest."

Just as the words left his mouth, a warm glow surrounded the group. Lyra’s healing abilities kicked in, erasing every bruise, scrape, and ache—even tiny paper cuts vanished in an instant. There was no room left for excuses.

But Rubens wasn’t ready to give up. He crossed his arms and leaned back like he was the victim. "Fine, but I’ve been traumatized—psychologically. I’m too messed up to move."

Lyra’s fingers twitched, and one of the glowing tendrils shot forward, wrapping around him like a constricting snake. "A nice long walk should do wonders for that," she quipped dryly.

The sight of Rubens bound and helpless finally shattered the last bit of defiance in the others. Without a word, they exchanged glances and stood up all at once, pale but resolute.

They knew there was no point in resisting. Fighting back would only end in humiliation, and complaining? That’d just dig them into a deeper hole. The sooner they followed along with Lyra’s plan, the sooner they could salvage whatever scraps of dignity they had left on Elden Prime.

With that, Lyra reached out to the patrol division, informing them that her squad was ready to join the city patrols.

She requested a route map, and, hearing the surprise in the officer’s voice on the other end of the line, she led her thirty-one recruits out the door and into the streets, ready for their first patrol.

Norman stood just behind his office curtains, peeking out with a smirk on his face.

Clicking his tongue in amusement, he muttered to himself, "Well, this is about to get interesting."

The gap between the nobility and the commoners had always been a favorite topic for the media, a juicy bit of drama waiting to be exploited.

And now, with the Reserved Corps—famously the army’s dumping ground for rich kids and misfits—suddenly thrust into the public eye, the situation was anything but ordinary.

Throw in Lyra, a rising star fresh out of the academy, and you had a recipe for headlines. Everyone would be buzzing about this.

As Lyra’s squad marched through the bustling streets of Central City, commuters heading to work or school couldn’t help but stop and stare.

A squad in full uniform was rare enough, but spotting HER? The crowd was buzzing in seconds.

"Yo, is that... Lyra?"

"Wait, no way... Oh, damn, it really IS her! What’s she doing here in Central City?"

"Hold up, aren’t those guys behind her from the Reserved Corps?"

Phones were out in a flash, and people started recording the scene. It didn’t take long for word to spread, and soon enough, the city’s ever-eager reporters came rushing in, looking to catch the next big story.

"Miss Shedd! Can you tell us why you’re working with the Reserved Corps?" one shouted, shoving a camera toward her.

Lyra stopped, her expression as serious as ever. She pushed the camera aside gently but firmly. "I’m on duty right now," she said, her tone leaving no room for debate. "No private interviews, please."

The whispers spread like wildfire: "She’s in the Reserved Corps?"

"Wait, weren’t you an Ensign when you graduated? Why’d they put you in the Reserved Corps? Is this some kind of punishment?" another reporter pressed, trying to bait her into a response.

Lyra kept it professional. "I can’t answer that. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re on patrol. Please step aside," she said, her voice steady.

But the reporters weren’t backing down. ’There’s definitely something juicy here,’ they thought. Lyra was headline gold, and they knew it.

When they couldn’t get any answers from her, the cameras and microphones quickly turned to the squad members—those spoiled noble kids who usually spent more time dodging responsibilities than embracing them.

"Why is Miss Shedd working with you?"

"What made the Reserved Corps start taking missions all of a sudden?"

Rubens was the most notorious of the bunch. He was known more for his escapades with actresses than for anything remotely military, and he became the main target.

He’d barely been freed from the glowing tendrils binding him when the cameras started closing in. Sensing the spotlight on him, he tried to stand tall, though it seemed more like Lyra had allowed him this mercy.

Annoyed, he rolled his eyes. "You think we WANTED this? It’s all because—" He trailed off when he caught Lyra’s gaze. Her eyes locked onto his, and with just a subtle tilt of her head, she sent a clear message: ’Watch yourself.’

Ruben’s arm still ached from where she had restrained him, and he wasn’t eager for a repeat. Grinding his teeth, he forced himself to speak. "It’s because Lyra is our new special ops squad leader," he mumbled reluctantly.

In that moment, it clicked for Rubens: Lyra wasn’t just managing them—she was using them. She was building her own reputation, and they were just the stepping stones.

Suddenly, the attention was back on her. Reporters swarmed with renewed energy, sensing a story bigger than Rubens’ gripes.

"Ensign Shedd, are you planning to reform the Reserved Corps? How do you plan to accomplish that?"

"How’s the dynamic between you and the squad so far?"

"With most of your team being from noble families, are you trying to change how the public views the Reserved Corps?"

Realizing they’d found a loophole—Lyra wasn’t taking personal questions, but work-related ones? Fair game—they piled on.

Lyra didn’t miss a beat. She gave a calm, collected smile. "Whether it’s the active military or the Reserved Corps, we’re all paid by the taxes of Alliance citizens. It’s our duty, no matter which unit we serve in, to protect and contribute to the well-being of the people."

Her voice was steady, clear, and full of purpose. "The Reserved Corps may not have the best reputation right now, but starting today, we’ll be working to change that. Our goal is to protect the citizens of the Alliance, and I encourage you all to hold us accountable."

Her words hit hard, her sincerity shining through. Within minutes, clips of her speech were all over social media, sparking debates and conversations throughout the city.

"That’s my girl! She can do no wrong!"

"Pfft, are you kidding? The Reserved Corps is just a bunch of spoiled brats in uniform. No way they’re going to change anything."

"Yeah, yeah, but I’ll be keeping an eye on this one. Let’s see if she can back it up."

Not all nobles were as useless as the members of the Reserved Corps. Yet, because of this particular group of slackers, all the nobles had become a symbol of incompetence in the eyes of the public.

In contrast, the military had long been seen as the embodiment of sacrifice and dedication, thanks to its efforts in expanding territories and surviving fierce battles.

This growing divide was one of the reasons why the nobility, once dominant, was increasingly marginalized and pushed into a shrinking space of influence.

For an entire day, Lyra led her squad around the city, doing nothing more than simple patrols.

They handled small tasks like maintaining traffic order, retrieving malfunctioning cleaning robots, and settling minor disputes between citizens.

These were hardly the heroic feats expected of a military unit, but every moment was caught on camera by the reporters trailing behind them, turning even these mundane actions into newsworthy stories.