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theredhavendelegate · 2 months

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Iss. 4:

Rising Tension And Blood In The Gutters!

As the situation in Redhaven proper begins to simmer down, other tensions bubble up: a riot broke out on Broad Street in front of the Frontline Confederation recruitment center last night. Occupation soldiers reportedly initiated a scuffle with citizens protesting their presence in Gerhardt square, Redhaven's historical city center.

One civilian participant, injured during the brawl, elaborated, "Redhaven doesn't belong to The Confederation or to the Covenant. Redhaveners have always decided our own fate, and we'll fight for that."

By contrast, General Harrison made an announcement decrying the violence this morning: "The Frontline Confederation," he said, "have come as liberators, to protect Redhaven from the lingering tyranny of religious dogmatists and violent anarchists alike. There is no cause for this aggression, and those involved will be punished justly."

Stirring words from both sides. The Redhaven Delegate, though impartial, wishes to remind all our readers that there are three sides to every story: Our side, their side, and the Truth. ---

Dark. There isn't a moon or a sun, just an empty sky that waltzes sluggishly between dun grey and black with a faint and uneven purple tint. The gas lamps at night are the only real source of light along Broad Street, and they over-watch an increasingly ominous scene.

The road turns off in the middle to a large square, forming a sort of wide, chunky T. Orange banners marked with wings and stars hang on every building and from every post. People with hard eyes, rifles, and red-brown uniforms, line the edge of the square and face off against a disorderly group in common clothes.

One of the soldiers steps forward from the line and shouts, "You are to disperse immediately, this gathering has not been properly permitted by the--"

"Fuck you, you orange confederate shithead!" someone calls from the crowd, their face shrouded by the mass of bodies. A cry goes up in support, and a different voice shouts, "If we need your permission, then what's the point? You'll just tell us to fuck off!"

A mousy boy, small and swift, darts around behind the soldiers. He wears a red-brown canvas coat one size too large and a newsboy cap with a gleaming brass pin in the shape of a wing on it. He clutches an envelope tightly in both hands.

The lead soldier starts to shout again, ignoring the cries of the crowd. "Disperse immediately! By order of General Bradley Harrison and The Frontline Confederation, you are to disperse!"

A young man with a blue arm band steps to the head of the crowd. He brushes a calloused hand over short, dark hair and straightens out his coat, a military jacket of a different kind than that of his interlocutor. He speaks with a slight smirk. "Gerhardt square is the property of the citizens of Redhaven, outlined in its laws and governed by them. As of yet, no agreement has been reached allowing your occupation of it. If anybody should disperse, it should be you!"

There is a rolling cheer as the crowd presses forward a few steps, and the soldiers retreat an equal distance, backing towards the buildings to their rear.

The mousy boy jumps out of the shadows and to the side of the lead soldier, who addresses him curtly and quietly, "Michael, what's this you've got?"

Michael hands off the letter and the soldier tears it open. His eyes scan it, then his expression goes slightly grey. He waves the messenger off, sending him back into the darkness, then nods to the other officers nearest to him.

Turning back to the crowd, he shouts, "Disperse immediately! Use of force has been authorized to clear the square! This is your last chance to disperse and return peacefully to your homes!"

The pause is hideous. It is grave and twisted. Not everyone present was prepared for this ultimatum, and it can be felt as the uncertainty reverberates through the crowd in the form of shuffling and murmurs.

The young man with the blue armband has lost his smugness, and half raises an arm to calm the people at his back.

Then another voice, faceless and full of anger, emits from the crowd. "If you want us to go, you'll have to force us out!" A moment later, a cobblestone comes sailing through the air, catching the lead soldier in the chest and sending him stumbling back onto the ground.

The surface tension breaks in an instant and the built-up rage escapes, liquid fury pouring out over the square in a flood of color and sound, lit dimly by the gas street lamps as it mixes with the scent of spent gunpowder and spilt blood.

Bodies fall and gunshots ring out, people from all around peer out of their windows or lumber into the street to get a better view. Michael watches from an alleyway. A dozen more soldiers come pouring out from the largest building in the square, equipped with steel armor and shields. A wave of hurled stones fall on them, but they press through in their iron shells.

Michael flees down the side street and into the darkness until the sound of the fray has faded to a distant thrum, and a triangular building emerges around the corner. He charges onto the stoop and knocks heavily a few times, then waits.

A middle-aged woman opens the door. She is dressed in a simple green vestment with a brass hourglass hanging about her neck, and she raises a brow at the messenger. "Michael, what brings you to the temple? Won't they be missing you at the barracks at this hour, the other cadets?"

Michael mutters for a moment, his voice skipping and stuttering, then he stops and starts again, "I-I don't wanna...go to th-the barracks now, Sister B-berns."

The Sister eyes him for a moment, then sighs and pushes a stray brown lock back over her ear. "Well, the foster hall is empty, but I keep the beds made. I'm sure you can find yours still. Go on."

---

Night turns into morning, then to noon. Nobody comes by the temple looking for Michael, so there he remains, ambling about an empty room full of bunk beds and cots, familiar but for their emptiness.

The building only has four rooms. The temple hall, where religious services are held, the bathrooms, which are public, the Sister's chambers, where she lives and sleeps, and the foster hall, where Michael currently resides.

He occasionally hears the squeak and thunk of the main doors, but not often. There is shuffling occasionally as well, Sister Berns sweeping the floors and altars, wiping windows and polishing candle holders.

Michael shuffles across the floor and pries gently on a loose board, revealing an old wooden box. The word 'Foundations' is painted on it in flaking gold lettering. He removes it from the hole and opens it up.

Inside, there is a deck of yellowing cards and a collection of strange brass instruments. There is a manual as well, a set of instructions, but it has never been used and Michael has no intention of doing starting to use it now. He draws a random card from the deck.

There is an image of an hourglass printed on the back, as is true of every card. On the face-side, there is a detailed image of a wooden building with an open roof, a graveyard on one side and a vineyard on the other. Bold letters at the bottom read, "THE COURTHOUSE". Michael stares at it and whispers, "Justice, j-judgement, honor, p-punishment." His mind lurches back to the night prior.

He draws another card. This one depicts a mountain with a storm blowing on its left side and a waterfall pouring off of its right.

Michael whispers, "D-desolation, plenty, h-hubris, accomplishment."

The door to the foster hall creaks and Michael freezes up as Sister Berns voice calls warmly, "Michael? Are you hungry?"

Before the door is fully open, there is a bellowing knock on the temple door. Sister Berns startles and says instead, "Well, someone's here. I'll leave the soup by the door, on the little table. You can get it if you like." Her footsteps start up and fade as she walks away from the door.

Michael relaxes a moment, then puts the cards away, burying them beneath the floorboards again. His stomach growls and he hurries over to the doorway, but stops himself just short of opening it. He listens, instead, to what is happening on the other side.

The heavy temple door swings open, and there is a slight gasp on the other side. A new voice cuts the air, though softly. It's a little on the low side. "Relax, you're not in trouble. I didn't get sent by Bradley or anyone else. I just...I didn't know where else to go."

There is a quiet moment, shuffling of feet, and then the door closes. Two pairs of footsteps work their way across the floor of the temple hall, then stop. Chairs scrape and creak, and Sister berns breaks the quiet. "Soldiers from your faction aren't allowed to practice the covenant faith, even coming here is a strange risk to take. It's my duty to listen though, regardless of creed. What's troubling you?"

There is a pause, then a sigh. "I know I don't need to tell you my name, you didn't ask, but I'd like you to know me if you're going to give me advice. I'm Eric Sanders, I joined the Frontline Confederation because I believed in what they were doing, and last night, I helped stop a protest that...that...well...it shouldn't have gone like that."

There is a quiet moment, then the Sister says, "You aren't the first person to come here today with troubles over the riot. Do you feel responsible for what happened?"

"I don't know if I do. I didn't shoot anyone, or hit anyone. They gave me a gun but I just shot the ground. I don't know if I can do that every time though, and there's another thing--see, this message runner, I know him, he moved paper for the recruitment office, he was there that night and I can't find him now."

The Sister keeps a silent composure. Michael can imagine her now, closing her eyes and nodding gently. She finally speaks, "Did you know his name, or what he looked like?"

"Michael Ashling, twelve years old maybe, messy blond hair. You'd know him if you saw him."

Sister Berns clicks her tongue and replies, "I can't promise that he'll turn up, many are still grieving from their losses during The Transit, let alone recent events. I can still look though." There is a pause, then she continues, "As for your guilt: can you split yourself in two? One who is a soldier and one who is not?"

Eric doesn't answer for a long while, then he groans. "I don't know. I don't think I can stay, but I don't know if I can desert now either, we're not in Eudax anymore. If we were, I could grab a truck or a horse and disappear into the countryside, but here? There's just Redhaven." He stops, and his chair creaks heavily for a moment. "Is it better to die myself than hurt someone who doesn't deserve it?"

"Is that what your heart says?"

There is quiet on the other side of the door, a long, uneasy quiet. There is another creak, more shuffling, and Eric clears his throat. "I don't know. I got a lot more to think about though...thank you, Sister."

A set of footsteps make their way over to the exit. It creaks open, then thuds shut again.

Michael waits a moment, then opens the door to the temple hall. There is a bowl of room temperature soup on a small table nearby, and he takes a couple of uneasy steps towards it, looking pointedly away from the Sister. She sits in an old wooden chair and stares at him, head cocked gently to one side. She doesn't stop him.

He returns to the foster hall silently. Noon turns into afternoon, and afternoon turns into evening.

Michael removes the wooden box from its hiding place and squirrels it away into his ruck. He creeps towards the door and opens it just a crack. Nobody is in the temple hall.

He scampers back to his bedside and gathers up his bowl and spoon, then slips through the door into the gloomy chapel. He sets his dishes on the small table, then slinks to the temple's main doors. He does his best to open them quietly, but the old hinges still squeal and whine. Michael slips out anyway, and the heavy wooden panels thunk as they fall back together.

Sister Berns listens from her quarters, peering around the door frame and into the empty space. She sighs and whispers a prayer.

---

A mousy boy, small and swift, darts through the shadows just beyond the gaze of the street lamps. He passes down the roads on memory now: Landry, Coulton, First, Second, then onto Broad Street.

He rounds onto Gerhardt square and stops suddenly, catching himself on the corner of an old brick building.

There are more protesters here, more than a hundred packed onto the plaza. Soldiers wait in the windows and in front of the buildings, weapons at the ready. One soldier steps forward and shouts, "This is an illegal gathering, violating restrictions on space and curfew! Disperse immediately and you will not be harmed!"

Michael starts to slip around the side, his backpack bouncing with each stride.

The young man with the blue armband is at the front of the group again, barely visible until he steps up onto a box. He has a bruise on the side of his head and his jacket is slightly torn. He shouts, "Redhaven has always been a victim in Eudax. It has always sought to be free, and because of The Great Transit, it finally has a chance to become free!"

There is a change in the air and Michael stops.

The man continues, "Part of Eudax, hateful and cruel, still clings to Redhaven like a leech. Today is our day to cut. It. Off!"

The lead soldier calls again, "Disperse at once or--"

There is a gunshot. The man with the blue armband has drawn a pistol. The lead soldier drops dead. Someone shouts, "Open fire!" though their identity remains unknown. Chaos erupts again in the square, though this time it is markedly louder.

There is gunfire on both sides now, there is bludgeoning, and somebody has brought explosives to the mix. Burning bottles of alcohol and grenades fly through the air and explode, bursting and lighting up the square.

Something collides with Michael, the invisible force of a shock wave. His ears ring and his whole body throbs as he is thrown to the ground. His vision blurs and darkens.

---

The bed is warm, though most of Michael's sense of feeling is numb now.

"Boy, boy? Are you awake?"

Michael blinks hard a few times, then turns his head, squinting, towards the voice. A soldier wearing a red-brown uniform, rail-thin and gaunt, stairs at him with worry. Sister Berns stands behind the man, expression hard-but-gentle.

Michael groans and turns over to find something clutched in hand, a wooden box with faded gold lettering on its cover.

He glances up at Eric, who answers, "You were holding onto it tight. Couldn't even pry it out of your grip while we were treating you."

Sister Berns shrugs. "It's an old deck, a tool for Brothers and Sisters of the faith. I don't know where you got it, but you should hold onto it now."

Michael goes to nod, but the pain suddenly sets in, all over his body, and he's taken into darkness again.

---

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#trd #the redhaven delegate #writing #writblr #unreality #unrest #riot #injured child #near death experience #violence #gun violence #TRD: Mabel Berns #TRD: Michael Ashling #TRD: Eric Sanders

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