Tyranny (ongoing project)

It was slowly moving along a street, constantly scanning. The software driving it constantly toward its destructive goal. Two camouflaged figures, standing in a doorway, were swept away. Fire started to rain down from an apartment building ahead of the mechanical monster. Shadowy figures darted from behind windows as the weapons spun up with a tell-tale electronic whine and the almost painful grinding of weapon systems moving into place.

The ballistic calculations took only seconds, the projectiles crossed the distance from their origin to their target in a flash, screaming messages of death and destruction towards their target.

The world seemed to release a collective breath as the rounds hit. And as the dust cleared, the bodies of the shadowy figures were revealed. Crushed beneath the debris of what minutes ago had been their refuge.

Inner mechanical workings shifted again to move ordinance from stores deep inside the mechanical monster. While yet other pieces shifted to eject the casing of spent rounds.

An incoming Anti-Tank round seems to stun the great machine, but only for a moment. In a series of blisteringly fast calculations, the machine triangulated the location of the shell’s origin. What had shortly beforehand been an armored military vehicle, a triumph of military engineering, was now a smoking hulk, adding to the others that were casting a grey smear across a metropolis at war.

At an unheard signal, the weary defenders detonated explosives attached to the bridges connecting the east and west sides of the city. As the bridges sank into the water below, groans from the burning, twisting metal shook the air. The defenders moved east, hoping that the armored monster that pursued them would be slowed. The machine finally hesitated at the banks of the river, watching the opposite bank with an almost anticipatory intensity.

2/19/2068

Hello my dear Angela,

I cannot tell you from where I write at the moment. The fighting is fierce, however for the moment I am doing well.I am bunking with the platoon sergeant in order to make sure that any messages that I receive over the radio can be relayed instantly. The sergeant is the acting platoon commander as we lost contact with Lt. Sife. The enemy is stopped at a river crossing for now. But they’re still very much a threat; we heard an explosion and small weapons fire about an hour before the writing of this letter. The other men in the platoon have been talking and the general consensus is that the explosion was a failed attempt to destroy their mechanized sentinel. I do not think it will be long before the machine finds a way between the banks. However, the engineers have been hard at work preparing for its arrival and I think we have a fair chance of destroying it in the coming days. The fascists are over confident in this offensive.

I pray that you, John, and Terry are doing well. In response to your previous letter, I am unsure as to when I will be able to return. I do eat well, and I will of course remain as safe as possible.

Yours,

Connor

The early morning peace was shattered by the muted sounds of a series of impacts along the eastern bank. Slowly, clouds of dust rose above each of the impact sites and for a couple seconds, the entire city was still. But all at once, the city began to burn once again. The sharp cracks of rifle rounds tearing through homes and lives reverberated through the city’s streets while the groans of a behemoth waking began once again, striking fear into those forced into conflict with such a monster of war.

And forced into this conflict they were, For those fighting to save the city from those who would destroy it, did all they could to avoid to avoid such a conflict; Although, both sides would profess to be trying to save the city from those who would oppress it.

On June 6th, 2055, Frederick Hart declared the free and independent state of “Hartland” on the western coast of territories belonging to “The People’s Unified Republic of Sussex” with no apparent backing. The URS ridiculed his announcement during senatorial sessions and began legal proceedings to move him into a mental health facility. Four hours after the initial announcement to the local media, Hart’s Shock troops began executing all members of URS government down to the municipal level while simultaneously cutting off all unsanctioned communication with the outside world in his newly claimed territories. Footage of the members of the URS government being executed were intentionally broadcast to the outside world which gained Frederick his first nickname, “Hart-less” as entire families were executed on live television.

The world was shocked at both Hart’s actions, and that he had gained such a massive following in such a short amount of time to be capable of taking and sustaining control of land from a well-organized and powerful country. As TV anchors and personalities discussed what this could mean for the future, the URS legions mobilized, and began massing on Hartland’s borders. The global community condemned Hart’s actions and promised any and all support the URS would request, but the common thought was that Frederick Hart and his followers would soon be a footnote in history alongside other minor figures of interest.

No one expected Hartland to strike first. As URS forces massed on the 200 Km border, Hartland struck the assembly areas. Completely unprepared for such a bold maneuver, the URS forces fell into disarray and suffered 450,000 casualties within two weeks as Hart’s Forces pushed deep into URS territory. The URS asked for aid from her allied nations who began combat operations against Hartland in support of the URS. Hartland’s response was to extend combat operations to these other nations without any discernible drawn down of troop levels in the URS theatre of operations to the shock of the URS High Command.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months stretched into years, and slowly, the conflict churned on. Men were thrown into the gaping maw of Hartland’s expanding borders never to return, cut down by the veil of tyranny slowly spreading across the earth. Eventually, the URS could no longer defend it’s borders. On February 25th, 2068, the forces of Frederick Hart, began the Ein Offensive. Striking deep into URS territory, and breaking the will of the defenders in every corner of the URS. It’s boroughs, it’s villages, and it’s towns and cities. Barring one, it’s capital, the city of Ein.

2/25/2068

Hello my dear Angela,

I fear this will be the last letter you will ever receive from me. I write to you under a time of extreme duress as a last resort to retain my sanity. We’ve been pushed from the banks of our river. The fighting was the worst I’ve seen it so far. The enemy has broken our lines and is marching with impunity. If I disappear, never to return, remember how much I cared for you my dear, and remember the happier times.

I love you dearly,

Connor

Connor ran through the destroyed streets of his home, bullets impacting all around him as a small radio in his hand sputtered to life.

“Easy 2, Easy 2, this is Home, status over!”

“Thirty seconds!” Connor screamed back into the device.

Thirty seconds to live or die as his goal came into view. A dead end created by the felling of several skyways and a skyscraper across the remnants of a six lane highway. An apparent mistake, and yet, a possible victory. A hole in the rubble provided a quick escape route, other holes prepared in the early morning hours provided fighting positions for those lying in wait. Connor sprinted towards the safety of the rubble through open ground, black armored Hartland shock troopers firing behind him. 200 meters from safety, the resistance opened fire. The shock troopers took several initial losses, the black armor shattered, the men inside lay exposed and broken. But this precious victory lasted only seconds as Hartland regulars began to pour into the ambush site. While the defenders fought hard, and stood strong, when the artillery fell, the resistance died. Connor was insulated from the earthshaking blasts, but after the rounds stopped falling, the screams and cries from the wounded on both sides echoed through the rubble.

Five hours later, Connor finally freed himself from the tomb of so many others. His fingers bloody, his body bruised, and his heart broken, he set himself to scavenging as much as he could from the bodies of his fallen comrades. John’s rifle, Ben’s boots, Sarah’s bandages, and Scott’s rangefinder. The last resort of The Last Division had ended in a slaughter. Ein was lost, and those who survived, were either being hunted down, or had bowed to a tyrant.

The clamor of combat faded, and Connor made his way from house to house, attempting to find a way out of the city. As he stepped from one house through a wall into another, two figures detached themselves from the wall behind him, and slammed him to the ground. Connor felt cold steel against the back of his head, and waited for the final blow. But a voice hissed from the darkness, “Wait, he’s not one of them!” Connor was violently turned onto his side, and a flashlight was shined into his face, and suddenly he was picked up and set back onto his feet. A young man in school clothes peered at him from behind spectacles and pistol sights, and demanded,

“Who do you fight for?"

"URS" Connor replyed.

The pistol erupted in gunfire, rounds tore through Connor's body, and Connor fell onto the shattered glass and remnants of the people of Ein. As Connors consciousness faded away, he remembered Ein in its prime. The gleaming towers, the billions of people living within its boundaries, the era when the city had a living breathing soul, when the death throes of the city weren’t felt by every citizen with every bomb released onto it. It seemed right that at the moment of the cities death, that Connor would die as well. His life given for the life of the city, his life lost with the life of the city’s. These thoughts filled the mind of Connor as he felt his soul and consciousness ebb out and into the city he had fought to save.