"Ready to go?"
"Yeah, let's move."
Two figures sprint full tilt, adorned in black long sleeved sweaters, black wool face masks, black denim jeans, black athletic shoes. Like spirits with the dogs of hell on their heels they run. Abruptly, sirens pierce the night to ring their discovery. If possible they move even faster, adrenaline pumping through their veins, lighting their nerves on fire and leaving them breathless. Two grotesque characters play their part in the evening's scheduled destruction.
------------
Four miles away, at the center of the city's financial district, a full squadron of figures race to their assigned posts, eagerly awaiting the command they know will soon come. Each one carries a backpack laden with enough explosives to create chaos aplenty. Each backpack a signal to the resistance forces that all wait crouched and silent as the night in their homes, their cars, their ditches and holes, their shanties and cardboard boxes. This evening will be glorious.
------------
Six shots ring out and the lead runner tumbles to the ground, no longer aware of the plan, the pain, the passion, as the second runner leaps the new obstacle and continues on without missing a beat. Death was planned for, that's why there was two. The steady drone of the heli-flier provides a metronome for the steady hailstorm of bullets. The last runner knows his end is soon and triggers the dirty bomb.
------------
Eight explosions sound throughout the city. It has begun. The oppressed are rising up. Win or lose, the ruling party will know they can be bloodied. They spring from their positions with the ferocity of feral dogs and descend upon the special police headquarters with brutal efficiency. Thousands have taken up arms, maybe tens of thousands. The streets are soon flooded with a dense flow of bodies trying to move into this building and other political centers. The police and military forces are taken aback. The faces attacking them are their neighbors, their friends, their servants. The shock passes. New orders arrive.
------------
Ten hours later the massacre is over. The streets are choked with the smoke of countless charred corpses, both military and rebel. Firebomb, the fastest and most efficient way to put down rabid dogs. Losses are minimal. Structures remain largely intact. Vital personnel come out of their bunkers, all accounted for. Transmissions sent out to all major posts in every city and suburb for hundreds of miles to be ready for possible attack and to suppress any mention of the events that transpired here. It is over. Final count: 24,910 dead, 2,166 wounded and taken prisoner for processing and interrogation.
"Yeah, let's move."
Two figures sprint full tilt, adorned in black long sleeved sweaters, black wool face masks, black denim jeans, black athletic shoes. Like spirits with the dogs of hell on their heels they run. Abruptly, sirens pierce the night to ring their discovery. If possible they move even faster, adrenaline pumping through their veins, lighting their nerves on fire and leaving them breathless. Two grotesque characters play their part in the evening's scheduled destruction.
------------
Four miles away, at the center of the city's financial district, a full squadron of figures race to their assigned posts, eagerly awaiting the command they know will soon come. Each one carries a backpack laden with enough explosives to create chaos aplenty. Each backpack a signal to the resistance forces that all wait crouched and silent as the night in their homes, their cars, their ditches and holes, their shanties and cardboard boxes. This evening will be glorious.
------------
Six shots ring out and the lead runner tumbles to the ground, no longer aware of the plan, the pain, the passion, as the second runner leaps the new obstacle and continues on without missing a beat. Death was planned for, that's why there was two. The steady drone of the heli-flier provides a metronome for the steady hailstorm of bullets. The last runner knows his end is soon and triggers the dirty bomb.
------------
Eight explosions sound throughout the city. It has begun. The oppressed are rising up. Win or lose, the ruling party will know they can be bloodied. They spring from their positions with the ferocity of feral dogs and descend upon the special police headquarters with brutal efficiency. Thousands have taken up arms, maybe tens of thousands. The streets are soon flooded with a dense flow of bodies trying to move into this building and other political centers. The police and military forces are taken aback. The faces attacking them are their neighbors, their friends, their servants. The shock passes. New orders arrive.
------------
Ten hours later the massacre is over. The streets are choked with the smoke of countless charred corpses, both military and rebel. Firebomb, the fastest and most efficient way to put down rabid dogs. Losses are minimal. Structures remain largely intact. Vital personnel come out of their bunkers, all accounted for. Transmissions sent out to all major posts in every city and suburb for hundreds of miles to be ready for possible attack and to suppress any mention of the events that transpired here. It is over. Final count: 24,910 dead, 2,166 wounded and taken prisoner for processing and interrogation.
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