Hrstrovokia
12-04-2005, 12:02
[OOC: Background - this takes place in the former Republic of Ukraine on Earth III, which was occupied by the Federated Socialist Republic of Hrstrovokia about two months ago. Resistance sprung up against Hrstrovokian forces despite the fall of the Government, which resulted in a bloddy war claiming about 3,000 Hrstrovokians and 55,000 Ukrainians.]
The end is coming. It’s going to be abrupt, apocalyptic and horrific. I’ve seen it stalk the streets; gather in the shadows, waiting for the moment. It’s in our hearts, the seeds of our own destruction sown inside us all.
It’s only human nature.
When I think about it, I don’t feel too pissed off. I’m not sad. I’m glad. This is truly a moment to be alive! This whole fucking joke is finally over. Yesterday soldiers, riding on armored personnel carriers drove down our street and declared martial law in the City. They said they’d shoot anyone out in the open, day or night. Mikhail lobbed a Molotov cocktail from the balcony; it splashed across the roof of the moving vehicle. The turret was open, pure luck I guess. Stupid bastards. In seconds the Soldiers had been reduced to screaming fireballs, leaping wildly from the truck onto the ground, rolling about desperately and in agony. The APC sped up and zoomed down the street as flames spewed forth from inside accompanied by the howls of burning men, but it exploded and turned over before it could navigate one of our makeshift barricades. The fire is still going. There’s a column of thick dark smoke hanging over the street now. Soldiers are dead though. We’d better move out before reinforcements arrive.
I’m happy.
We’ve kept them at bay long enough. Sapped the best of their resources. Mind you, if they’d stopped sending teenage conscripts they might stand a chance. Mikhail says if we hold out for another week then we will be relieved, his full of shit though. The Hrstrovokians are preparing to launch their final offensive. Petrov, our messenger, saw the shitheads stockpiling supplies in an ammo depot that used to be the old post office. It makes sense. They’ve pretty much conquered all of our, once glorious Republic now, and the last kick in the face is coming hard and fast. Mikhail says Petrov is a pessimist, a fear-monger. His watching him like a hawk, bless him the die-hard, he reckons Petrov is going to desert us. Mikhail can’t see the woods through the trees. The Republic of Ukraine, the United Resistance Front, its all fucked, doomed. It’s all in vain.
I try to forget about all of this. It doesn’t do you good to think about it, but the Ministry of Love’s propaganda finds my ears, even here, below in the dark, damp sanctity of the bunkers. It’s designed to keep you awake, they have this poster, the mixture of red and blue somehow flashes in my mind, like its been burned onto my minds eye with their slogan – Peace is now! I try to sleep, but its impossible with all these people here anyway, its like an anthill. People cracking away on antiquated typewriters, collecting and storing data for a future that doesn’t exist. There’s young girls shouting into phones and switching lines, our makeshift signals department. Then there’s the dead and the dying, all lumped together, for they share a common fate, mass dumping in some unused Tunnel somewhere in the sewers. The thin, bloody veil supposedly separates them, and us where the Doctors perform without anesthetic or proper tools. I can hear them moan, hear them pray and beg, for relief, for food and water, for death or life or for their mothers. The smell of amputated legs and arms is interesting, but you never quite get used to it. Someday, if I am lucky, I will get to hangout there.
We usually move back to the Bunkers at night. We sneak through the twisted wrecks of our former city of Kiev, amid the collapsed concrete, shell craters and burnt-out Tanks and then through the Sewers. The Hrstrovokians usually bombard the city centre with a creeping barrage at night, hemming us back with their High Explosive shells like we were weeds. Then they send in the patrols, Crimson Guard troopers plus Canine units. The Ceegies are armed with Flamethrowers. The Dogs have proximity explosives attached to their backs. They go off if they get close to you.
This isn’t a War anymore, it’s Extermination.
This City is all we have left. They drove everybody into the major Cities last month. The countryside is a barren wasteland now, a land of death. The Hrstrovokian Aerial Forces regularly spray farmland with chemical defoliants from the air, and Mi-24s kill anything that moves. This area is the Kill box. Anyone caught there can be killed without hesitation. It used to be the heart of the resistance; we had widespread support from the locals. Then the Hrstrovokians changed their approach after their death toll topped 3,000 personnel. Then began directly targeting our support base. I remember reading somewhere in the URF paper Premier Miroslav saying, “If you cannot catch the fish, drain the ocean.”
The end is coming. It’s going to be abrupt, apocalyptic and horrific. I’ve seen it stalk the streets; gather in the shadows, waiting for the moment. It’s in our hearts, the seeds of our own destruction sown inside us all.
It’s only human nature.
When I think about it, I don’t feel too pissed off. I’m not sad. I’m glad. This is truly a moment to be alive! This whole fucking joke is finally over. Yesterday soldiers, riding on armored personnel carriers drove down our street and declared martial law in the City. They said they’d shoot anyone out in the open, day or night. Mikhail lobbed a Molotov cocktail from the balcony; it splashed across the roof of the moving vehicle. The turret was open, pure luck I guess. Stupid bastards. In seconds the Soldiers had been reduced to screaming fireballs, leaping wildly from the truck onto the ground, rolling about desperately and in agony. The APC sped up and zoomed down the street as flames spewed forth from inside accompanied by the howls of burning men, but it exploded and turned over before it could navigate one of our makeshift barricades. The fire is still going. There’s a column of thick dark smoke hanging over the street now. Soldiers are dead though. We’d better move out before reinforcements arrive.
I’m happy.
We’ve kept them at bay long enough. Sapped the best of their resources. Mind you, if they’d stopped sending teenage conscripts they might stand a chance. Mikhail says if we hold out for another week then we will be relieved, his full of shit though. The Hrstrovokians are preparing to launch their final offensive. Petrov, our messenger, saw the shitheads stockpiling supplies in an ammo depot that used to be the old post office. It makes sense. They’ve pretty much conquered all of our, once glorious Republic now, and the last kick in the face is coming hard and fast. Mikhail says Petrov is a pessimist, a fear-monger. His watching him like a hawk, bless him the die-hard, he reckons Petrov is going to desert us. Mikhail can’t see the woods through the trees. The Republic of Ukraine, the United Resistance Front, its all fucked, doomed. It’s all in vain.
I try to forget about all of this. It doesn’t do you good to think about it, but the Ministry of Love’s propaganda finds my ears, even here, below in the dark, damp sanctity of the bunkers. It’s designed to keep you awake, they have this poster, the mixture of red and blue somehow flashes in my mind, like its been burned onto my minds eye with their slogan – Peace is now! I try to sleep, but its impossible with all these people here anyway, its like an anthill. People cracking away on antiquated typewriters, collecting and storing data for a future that doesn’t exist. There’s young girls shouting into phones and switching lines, our makeshift signals department. Then there’s the dead and the dying, all lumped together, for they share a common fate, mass dumping in some unused Tunnel somewhere in the sewers. The thin, bloody veil supposedly separates them, and us where the Doctors perform without anesthetic or proper tools. I can hear them moan, hear them pray and beg, for relief, for food and water, for death or life or for their mothers. The smell of amputated legs and arms is interesting, but you never quite get used to it. Someday, if I am lucky, I will get to hangout there.
We usually move back to the Bunkers at night. We sneak through the twisted wrecks of our former city of Kiev, amid the collapsed concrete, shell craters and burnt-out Tanks and then through the Sewers. The Hrstrovokians usually bombard the city centre with a creeping barrage at night, hemming us back with their High Explosive shells like we were weeds. Then they send in the patrols, Crimson Guard troopers plus Canine units. The Ceegies are armed with Flamethrowers. The Dogs have proximity explosives attached to their backs. They go off if they get close to you.
This isn’t a War anymore, it’s Extermination.
This City is all we have left. They drove everybody into the major Cities last month. The countryside is a barren wasteland now, a land of death. The Hrstrovokian Aerial Forces regularly spray farmland with chemical defoliants from the air, and Mi-24s kill anything that moves. This area is the Kill box. Anyone caught there can be killed without hesitation. It used to be the heart of the resistance; we had widespread support from the locals. Then the Hrstrovokians changed their approach after their death toll topped 3,000 personnel. Then began directly targeting our support base. I remember reading somewhere in the URF paper Premier Miroslav saying, “If you cannot catch the fish, drain the ocean.”