[center][img]https://i.ibb.co/kGTYwYC/Al-Sharif.png[/img][/center]

[u][b]Al-Sharif[/b][/u]
[u][b]Birthplace of the Revolution[/b][/u]
[u][b]A nondescript basement somewhere in the city's slum district[/b][/u]

Below the streets of Al-Sharif, away from the prying eyes of the Council’s agents, a plot was brewing. Huddled around a cheap, faux-wood table were four young men, all with a gleam in their eye, and a swelling sense of anticipation in their chests. They peered down at the old faded blueprint that was stretched out across the table, taking note of every mark that had been meticulously drawn upon it, each one describing the positioning of a guard, or camera, or some other source of danger. Without fail, they all shifted their gaze to the big red ‘X’ that had been marked along the building’s edge: it was here that their triumph would be found.

“You’re sure this is going to work?” The youngest man asked, his boyishly handsome face screwed up in a look of worry.

“I’ve told you a thousand times, Ravi! It’ll work, trust me.” The man that spoke was not much older than Ravi, though he was quite a bit taller. Thin, with long arms and a sharply pointed nose upon which rested a pair of reading spectacles, he gave off the impression of a decisive intellect.

The third man broke his silence now, “Have faith comrade.” He clapped his hand on the young revolutionary’s back. “Tomorrow we’ll give those pigs a good show.” He smiled, his bearded face lighting up with delight, which Ravi parroted.

“Thawra hatta al-nasr.” The fourth and oldest said, speaking a slogan of the old world, one that meant ‘Revolution until victory’. One by one the other members of the conspiracy repeated those words, their chests swelling with pride as they spoke the incantation, as if it were a blessing.

Twenty-one years ago, the Revolution began. Tomorrow, the Revolution would continue.

[hr]

[u][b]Al-Sharif[/b][/u]
[u][b]Birthplace of the Revolution[/b][/u]
[u][b]The heart of the city[/b][/u]

"I'm telling you Yusef, you've got to come sometime!" The soldier proclaimed gleefully, "You ought to learn to have some fun!"

"Brothels are illegal, Nazim." Yusef replied.

"Captain Ebrahimi doesn't seem to mind." The third soldier laughed, "We see him there all the time!"

The three men walked side-by-side down a brightly lit, recently paved street. It was here, in the very center of the city, where the reconstruction had first began after Council troops liberated it from rebel forces some ten years ago. It had been placed under martial law the second the revolutionaries had been routed, and had stayed that way ever since.

"Officers don't play by the same rules as us, you two know that." Yusef said, always the practical one. "Captain Ebrahimi'll get a slap on the wrist if he gets caught, and we'll get three years of hard labor."

The others faces slackened, and then both burst out with laughter, "You've really got to lighten up! With an attitude like that you'll never get laid!" Laughed Nazim. They were returning from their nightly patrol, their guards down, their focus on the tall, fenced off garrison building where they had spent the past year together. The structure was a brutal thing, made up of sharp angles and bare concrete, it menaced all that passed by it, a constant reminder of who was in-charge.

They passed through the large, heavy iron gates and towards the building's entrance, slinging their rifles over their shoulders as they approached. The night air was warm and dry, few sounds but for the stomping of boots on gravel, and the soldiers' giggles. And then the sudden roar of an explosion.

It happened faster than any of them could react. The three men were flung to the ground, rubble and hot air flying towards them, thudding off their impact armor and ejecting the air from their lungs. There was a sharp, painful ringing in Yusef's ears, and a hard thudding in his chest. He felt a warm stream of blood course down his cheek as a gash began to flow openly. He looked to his companions, they were splayed out on the ground like ragdolls, neither were conscious, though Yusef thought, he hoped, he could see them breathing.

The young soldier's gaze drifted to the garrison building, what had become his home, and felt his breath catch in his throat. A quarter of the structure was gone, blown away in less than a second of violence. He could see broken, twisted pieces of metal, and strips of cloth strewn throughout the wreckage. There were bodies too; Yusef knew they were not breathing.

As his hearing began to return, the ringing of deafness was replaced by the blaring of sirens, and the haunting moans of dying men.