illphated
The rain hissed like static across the neon-soaked plaza. In the shadow of the Alamo—its ancient stones glowing pink under a thousand LED billboards—stood a figure carved from myth and metal. A crusader reborn, armored in black chrome and circuit-threaded steel, his tattered American flag cloak snapping in the wind like a ghost from 1776.
They called him Sentinel 1836.
He didn’t speak much. Didn’t need to. His sword—plasma-forged and etched with Scripture—spoke loud enough when it cut through the air. And now, under the violet sky of New San Antonio, he raised that sword to the heavens.
Lightning answered.
Crackling bolts ripped through the polluted clouds, channeling into the blade. It shimmered with raw voltage, humming like the chorus of a million lost patriots. Behind him, the last militia of the free world—veterans, outlaws, coders, cowboys, and choir singers—stood in awe. The AI hordes of the Great Federation were closing in. Drones circled. Sirens wailed.
But Sentinel 1836 only stood taller.
With the shield of Rome, the cross of the crusaders, and the flag of rebels, he shouted a phrase no machine could decode:
> “REMEMBER THE ALAMO!”
The ground shook. Neon flags were raised. Rockets ignited from rooftops. This was no longer just a battle for Texas. It was a battle for memory—one last stand in the pixelated heart of America.
They would never forget.