Snippet #2772285

In the far sector of Camp 91, in a slum of two-story fabricated structures and tarpaulin enclosures, a group of burly Hykans pushed their way through the throngs of women and their children as they directed their children home from the day spent at one of the hundreds of primary schools set up across the camp. As they marched, the crowds parted for the men while they shouted and chanted over their victory; to the east, smoke rose from a crater left by the retreating Aschen that scarred the planet, six hundred and thirty dead, only eight of them Aschen, were left in the wake of the Reverence. A man rose a large megaphone to his mouth as they neared an intersection of the camp; he shouted through the electronic piece and his voice carried through the avenue.

"Whe zin getopt met de tirannie vwan de Onderdanen, die wilien profiteren van onze verdriet en ellende!" He called, the Hykan pumping his fist through the air violently as the mob carried the broken tatters of an Aschen uniform and pieces of a powered-armor suit along with them. They marched their way down the slop and muck of the road before coming to a stand still just in front of a small tarpaulin complete with a counter made from broken driftwood and a nd an elderly man seated at a chair.

"Ouderelin, hebben whe getrovffen de zielige Ratten van hun kostbare 'loterij'. Gebroken zijn hun botten!" The man remarked as he lowered the megaphone, and the bloodied helmet of an Aschen marine came spilling out from the crowd, rolling on its side to the old man before coming to a stop at his feet.
"Whe hebben gedrod dezehr fout ellendelingen als ze komen ons volk te slaan!" He boasted, arms raised to the sky as the mob behind him chanted, howled and bellowed their support. A few of the men, strong in body and heart by their appearance, waved firearms and close-assault weapons in the air, while others of the group were equipped with nothing better than swords, or other melee weapons.

"Miln Kot, what have you believe you've accomplished? Murdering the fake military of the Sovrak, human beings no differen from us or anything other struggling life in this camp -- heb je zelf opgeofferd om de infectie?" The old man raised a withered hand to his mouth, while the other grabbed for the bloodied helmet at his feet; he inspected a brutal weapon strike that had broken the helmet open wide, the evidence of a pickaxe being used.
"'Tryanny' and 'profit' -- the Aschen are motivated and enforced by these, yet you use violence against them. What use does fire have against fire? It is only us, good people, who end up burned!"

"Je begrijpt het niet, they set foot on our land like they are entitled to our existence! They respond to us with a turned nose, they believe they are better than us!" The Hykan yelled, the aged man in front of him frowning, causing the old skin to prickle and the man began to weep.
"What do you cry for?! Had it been the Coalition they would have surely slaughtered us all -- we are lucky to have just been faced with pathetic children and cowards like the Aschen!"

"And what do you now have to show for it? Bloody rags and a few scraps of their pathetic antser ... What happens when the Militia comes for reparations? Who is to say those wretched Kindured won't demand from us the toll you have taken?"



Standing atop the plated armoring of a bunker out beside the checkpoint, 23-year old militamen Private Jakkins checked the magazine well of his MR-18 before turning around and watching a line of 6x6 trucks roll on through the checkpoint. By now, the Provincial Guard was hardly equipped to oppose the other types of militias and free-forces that had sprung up over the planet; while the civilian population would lend its weight at whatever kept them from a death of pain, there were numerous factions across the planet that maintained the influence, either through violence or wealth, beyond the recognized territories of the Provisional Government. One of those areas was on the Pavon continent, with the Camp sitting just 60 kilometers from the border of the Provisional Government’s southernmost territory on the continent.

Standing on the reinforced bunker above the roadway that came through the valley, the militia outpost sat near the mouth of the same valley; through the highway beyond the pavement stretched through a desolate, squat badlands.
“Sure miss the pastures back home, ‘eh? Or maybe the parks.” The Private turned while a Lieutenant came out with the frame of a small radar antenna, when Jakkins turned back around, he saw the large storm clouds kilometers away over the horizon.

“Season is turning, Private. Sooner or later there’ll be storms coming in from the coast too.”