NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: ok, this is just a kind of “First thread” on some real turmoil that’ll be kicking up in Midlonia over the next week or so, then hopefully a full blown civil war. ^_^

Greater Empire of Midlonia Citadel, dungeon 3C

‘I don’t believe he passed it… I honestly don’t.’ a pair of grey caterpillars frowned.
‘I know… doesn’t he realise what he has done?’ the voice shot back, exasperated.
‘Dunno…’ the caterpillars mused.
‘Are you sure he cut all state job payments?’
‘Not all , just the University support, the Mills… and the mines.’
The two men talked in hushed voices, the room was plain in appearance, a few file cabinets sat sentinel behind them, and a single table lamp hummed contently, one of the men took the paper from the table, and studied it scrupulously
‘This can’t be right surely? These people will be furious, and there are a lot of them…’ Daniel Fibes looked frustrated, at forty five [45] he had been in the service of the GEM bureratic divisions for over twenty years, no piece of legislation had ever caused such hubbub within the GEMBD’s especially as this one effected nearly a quarter of the population.
‘He signed it, and it’s already law, pay day is tomorrow, they’ll be up in arms about this, literally. The Mill and Mining Unions are the strongest, and both industries are Government owned!’
‘Sit and wait to see what happens that is the best thing to do…’ Lord John Wittick, head of the GEMBD mused, his voice now barely above a whisper, as if there was no-one else in the room. Fibes nodded, the lord was wise, he always knew what to do.


Next day, Pay station #3, Slathwaite Mill

Fifty-five year old Harry Freeman looked at his pay check and frowned, his brow was furrowed as he ran his fingers through his hair, he turned his short, stocky frame back to the small object (http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v160/Midlonia/paymachine.png) on the wall and tapped a few buttons, the result was not pleasing
Payed in full, K1500. Subject Harry Freeman, worker ID #3250
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
He tried again; the line behind him grew slowly longer.
The paint was slowly peeling off the walls and the smell was musty, it burned in Harry’s throat as he waited for the machine to work.
Payed in full, K1500. Subject Harry Freeman, work...
Harry huffed and stormed towards the exit, his steel toe capped boots hammering on the wooden floor.
A tall younger, blond haired man stood near the doorway.
“Hey Bill!” Harry called, “What the hell is with the pay check machine?”
“They’ve cut our salaries Harry.” Replied Bill gruffly shrugging his shoulders, a steam whistle blared, sounding off the start of the evening shift, the dull clack of machinery echoed outside.
“Why?”
Bill Trinder merely shrugged again.
“Look, fat Jack’s called a meeting over it, big do down at the “Beer Mansion.”’ Bill nodded at the poster on the wall.
A group of people were now amassing in the small square outside the pay building, the thong on the conversation threatened to drown out the continuous roar of the machinery.

‘Right! Let’s get going shall we?’ A deep throaty voice called from somewhere within the crowd, and as if as one the men and women turned and began to walk down the cobbled street, their steel toe capped boots rolling like thunder as they passed the various tall dark mill buildings, then out into the, normally quieter, streets.

The ocean of people were headed to a large house towards the outskirts of the town, this large ornate looking house was turned over to the people a few decades ago, since then it had served as a stable meeting point for most of the government-paid workers.

better version bump.

tag it bag it

The Beer Mansion
The corridors were packed.
The main hall was packed.
There were hundreds of bodies, chatting, sweating and moving in the hall and its corridors, many carried beer mugs and swigged them as they waited.
The crowd in the main hall mysteriously parted, then swallowed up again like the sea.
In the middle of the main hall was a small podium, the spot of space in the parting crowd seemed to be headed in that direction.
The small, very rotund figure clambered up the stairs, which groaned under his weight. He was dabbing his bald head with one hand and a handkerchief, the other held a large glass mug of beer, the crowd gave a loud raucous cheer as the man stood on the podium, took a swig of his frothing beer, then cleared his throat, the crowd immediately silenced.
Now he had them.
“Fat Jack” as he was known was the head honcho; he was in charge of the Mills and mining unions of Midlonia, he coughed again and took another small swig.
‘My friends, I believe today, that, like I you were very shocked when you opened your pay check…’
There was a murmur of agreement, Jack mopped his brow.
‘Now I don’t think we can get by to easily on this, if at all.’
A few cries of “aye” went up from the crowd.
‘Now, we have a few options here.’
He paused and took another draught from the mug.
‘One, we shut up go home, come back the next day and keep working for a measly amount. Two we write a nice little letter, for a nice little burecrat to put in a nice little shredding machine because they don’t give a crap. Three we go on strike and march to the king’s front door and demand our pay.’
The last option got a huge cheer.
‘That I guess would mean option three is agreed upon?’
Another huge cheer nearly caused Jack to fall off of the podium; he quickly regained his balance and mopped his brow again.
‘Well then my friends! Tomorrow we march!’

The next day

‘Ready?’
They had all arrived earlier and had been making signs out of pieces of board and bits of 2x4, on each was daubed “Give us our money” and “Pay us what we deserve”

‘Right then! Of we go!’

Fat Jack in an old, frayed tweed suit lead the huge morass of people, they had linked arms and wound up stopping the traffic for miles around…
But they had forgotten about one key element.
The Sturm Police.

Sturm leader David Fleckwate’s boots cracked on the tarmac, he and his patrol had been sent to block off the key route to the local, government run, gold deposit.
This was the place they would come, it had to be, it was the only place where a worker could get his pay check errors sorted. Apparently this “mob” was going to do just that.
But they would use force.
His mission was simple; disperse the crowd using all force necessary.
Checking the black and electric blue shock baton in his right hand and the pistol in his left David sighed.
‘Bloody peasants.’ He muttered to himself.

‘Sir here they come!’ the cadet pointed to the huge crowd of people moving steadily on his six man patrol.
‘Oh shit… how the hell are we supposed to stop that many?’ said another cadet nervously.
‘Simple…’ use all force necessary. the brief swam in his head.
‘Sir they’re almost on us!’
All force necessary
David thought, panicked, then two words he never thought he would shout, against a crowd of unarmed people blurted out.
‘Open Fire!’
His pistol kicked and roared, a man in a tweed suit fell, and another stockily built man fell, blood seeping from his forehead.
His cadets opened fire too; another twenty or so bodies fell.
Then the crowd broke.
Panicking and screaming they ran for their lives, their picket posters falling like the bodies had done.

Lying, bleeding from a hole in the head, Harry Freeman lay dead, the bullet had taken 0.0035 seconds to pass from the barrel of the gun to his skull, he was dead before he even hit the floor.

The Next Day, MBC news.

‘Reports of Sturm officers opening fire on dissenters were confirmed today, the body count has totalled to around thirty bodies, we have video footage of the moments leading up to, and after the shots being fired, some scenes you may find disturbing.’

The footage rolls, a shaky, home camera is obviously the tool behind this, the person holds the camera up high above the miners and mill workers.
A few seconds later the camera cuts out, then the next image we see is off our budding Cameraman running for his life, people are screaming and gunshots can be heard. The camera stops and focuses on a body, its eyes forlorn and empty, before the cameraman snaps out of it and keeps running.

‘From what we have seen today was the glorious action on the part of the Sturm police in crushing these peasants who obviously think they are better than the common man.’

The newsreader shuffles her notes and then moves onto the next story, a picture of the King appears in the top right hand corner of the screen.

‘Our great leader, Hykar the Second has called for tougher measures on the dissentient mining and mills union, so. Searches across the city may be conducted by Sturm officers; people who resist may be arrested and tried for treason, maximum sentence. Death.’
She turned again to another camera, and flashes a smile.
‘Now for a weather report…’
The TV died.
‘This is a total violation of decency!’ Jack coughed a patch still over his open chest.
‘He wants to take it to the next step then so shall we!’
‘What are you proposing… exactly?’ Bill Trinder asked warily.
‘We fight them.’ There was certain finality in Jack’s words; his life had obviously changed in the moment he was shot, he was... tougher and moodier.
‘But… that would be as if defying God! He is our leader by Divine Right!’
‘Then defy God we shall, he cannot get away with suppressing us in the name of a Lord that is “Merciful and Forgiving”’ Jack pawed the remote.
‘Do we have firearms?’ He asked after musing for over a minute, still pawing the remote.

‘Umm, some might have a few shooting rifles, and a few handguns… but not much.’
‘Tell them to bring them with them tomorrow, we’ll also add some plating to some of the plant construction machinery, I have a few ideas how to use them.’
‘Umm, yes Jack.’ Bill took a few steps back, then turned and left, Jack was left alone and in near darkness, thinking about what would happen.

A lone figure sat in a back room of the Beer Mansion, it was a man of no more than twenty, his hair was brown and his eyes were green, he was grieving for his father, and cursing the Monarchy.
His name was Thaddeus Freeman, and he had learnt that his father was dead, and it was the King’s fault.