[i][right][sub](Addressing: [@Raylah] and [@Jangel13]) (Starring: Abadi) [/sub][/right][/i] At this point, to say that Abadi is having a bad day is just a little bit like saying that the sun is bright, that wind blows, or that the Zetans are gross. It's just obvious. Bad days have become intrinsic to her nature. To be Abadi is to have bad days. Oh, and her friend is dead. That probably has something to do with it. The Undefeated patched the news in some time ago, but it hasn't processed yet. That is, the computer has processed the data files, and the ECU government has understood the message- but for Abadi, it hasn't processed yet. Her mind is still running over it. Running over it again, and again, and again, wondering how it could happen, why it happened, why she didn't speak to Kelsie that last day instead of going to the stupid monkey parade... Three bottles lay around her desk, arranged in no particular order. She never drunk so much before this job. One of the drinks was a gift from a fellow Oligarch, Andrei Federov: he drew a little heart on the bottle. He's been flirting with her since she turned eighteen. Never before was she emotionally low enough to really bother with him, but right now he is in her bed, a couple of rooms away. She takes another drink. There's a new colony on the scene, the only one the ECU hasn't reached out to yet. That's ironic: their policy used to be "Be first for everything!" Maybe it's an attempt to stave off that onsetting depression, or maybe it's even out of humor, but Abadi decides to take up that old slogan just one more time. She sends the new colony a message, all official and welcoming, as if her government and her way of life aren't collapsing beneath her feet as she writes it. [hider=Message to the Mahre Collective] Welcome to the Meeting Place! I am Liaison Abadi, and I'd like to start with an apology for not reaching out to you sooner. I represent the Earth Cultural Union here, a nation dedicated to preserving the ways and forms of our ancestors, the glorious people of Old Earth. We have heard good things about your people! Our stalwart allies, the Undefeated, have apparently reached some sort of bargain with you. As we trust their judgement, we hope this will mean good things for our two peoples as well. We should speak. In hopes of meeting soon, Jamila Abadi, ECU Liaison. [/hider] [hr] [center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center] [hr] [center][h3][b]White Flower Revolution (Part Three of Four) [/b][/h3][/center] After hours of effort, the last mounted screen on Lawley Street is smashed. At long last, the little residential neighborhood is allowed some moments of perfect, blessed quiet. They sit in a little bubble of dark and silent, separate from the screeching lights of the rest of Neo London. There is no more music here; peace, peace, peace. It does not last long. A high voice rises from the darkness, shaking with emotion- it belongs to the same one who destroyed the last ECU screen. It shouts, "This is what they do!" In the shadows, a dozen of the other screen-smashing volunteers gather around to listen. The voice shouts again, "This is what they do!" The one shouting is a young woman, Tiffany Holstead, and she is a recent Mixtist convert. When the old Mixies flooded back in from the wasteland, they got to work fast, making believers of the secular city-dwellers. Some of them, anyway; Tiffany is one. She was won over by the furious preaching of an old woman who had spent decades in the desert. The same desperation and fervor colors her own speaking, even when she doesn't always realize it. She speaks now, and people listen. "This government, the ECU, they've had a boot to our throats since the day we were born. They can't live without control, they can't breathe without it." So starts her thesis. It's an opinion everyone agrees with; it makes them eager to listen. She feels that power, right away. The unique, addictive sensation of a crowd that wants to hear what you have to say. She goes on. "But, listen," she says, after some time, "they have a secret: they're weak." A few of the men in the audience cheer roughly at this. "That's why they have to lie- always, always, always. Because they're afraid of the Truth! Because they know, deep down in their hearts, that they don't have the power to stop us all. They have never had the power. All they ever had are lies." She smiles slightly, a sight nobody can see in the dark. "Have you ever seen how quickly a lie crumbles in the face of the Truth?" Now more than a few men cheer. (In fact, a little girl overhears claps from up on her mother's balcony.) Her audience is still secular, of course, like most of New Hollywood. But the rebels love the Mixies anyway; everything they preach affirms what the Flowers already believe. Everyone loves to hear themselves reassured. There is no pedestal here, in this pitch-dark alleyway that echoes everything she says, but Tiffany Holstead is on one. She feels a growing mass of people surround her, caught up in the sound of her sermon, and made bold by this, her soft voice becomes crackling lighting. "No, no, they're wrong. They're wrong!" Her last two words bounce off the metal-concrete, like a chorus. There it is again: the giddy feeling of finally, finally saying something that you've wanted to your whole life. And now more than the walls are echoing Tiffany Holstead; the crowd joins in. "They're wrong!" "They're wrong!" "They're [i]wrong[/i]!" She points in the direction of New Westminster, from where the Matuvistans think they run the city. Her words take on a life of their own: they call them murderers-for-hire, attack dogs. The ECU can't defend itself, she hears herself say, so they summon these brutes to do their dirty work. The blood of every New Hollwoodite in this alley boils; there is death in their hearts. At last, and at a pivotal moment in her speech, she speaks the fatal words. "It's time to get rid of them." The mobs cheers. Because now it is a mob. But at the very back, a man shakes his head, and limps away. [center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center] He limps right into a pub. And then he limps past the kitchen, down a secret flight of spiral stairs, and into the secondary, secret pub that's hidden beneath the main one. It's called the Underpub, and it's a prime gathering spot for one of the biggest gangs of Neo London. Here you can talk to anyone, so long as they're a criminal, and find anything, so long as it's stolen. It's a far cry from the mob-ridden streets above: here it is dim, cool, and quiet. Something out of a 20th century mafia film, fused seamlessly with 19th century British furniture. The criminals of the ECU are just like the Oligarchs. The man doesn't stop limping until he collapses, whole-body, into a well-creased leather chair, long reserved just for him. It even has "Mixie" cut onto the side. He gave the person who did that a black eye- but that's what it takes to be a Mixtist in a world of crooks. He wears it as a badge of honor. "Mixie!" Calls one of the aforementioned crooks, from across a sea of smoke and classy design. This room is small and cramped, but something about the clutter of furniture and the fog of cigar smoke makes it feel ancient and huge. A world all its own. You could get lost, in this one room. The crook, whose name is Johnny, weaves his way through it, even past the lightly manned bar. Everybody knows that the Mixie doesn't leave his chair. For one, because he has a bad knee. And for two, because he likes making people come to him. Johnny does, dragging up a little wooden barstool. "What's the news, Dallas?" he asks, swiveling in his stool a little bit. "I thought my name was Mixie," says the other, quietly. He doesn't bother to turn and look at his guest. It would show weakness. This is all about appearances. "That's because you are a Mixie, Dallas! But hey, you're a Dallas too, Mixie. How've you been?" Dallas wasn't going to answer, but Johnny will never know it, because he goes on talking without waiting. "I've been good, me-self. Well, we've been good, you know. The Scuttlers." Dallas never thought that was a [i]particularly [/i]impressive name for a violent street gang. "Since you Mixies and the Flower lads took over, we've been rolling in it, really." "Don't say 'you Mixies'," Dallas interrupts. "I'm not with them." Johnny's young face crinkles up in confusion, even folding away some of that teenage acne. "I thought you were a..." he struggles to use the proper term, "... a Mixtist?" "I am a Mixtist. Just not that kind." Dallas taps his fingers impatiently, and that's the end of that discussion. How could he explain to this kid how different he was from the ones on the street, from the Tiffany Holsteads of the world? Everyone knows that the ECU drove the Mixtists out of the cities decades ago. Or so they thought: yes, [i]most [/i]of them did go outwards, squatting in those ugly ruins for generations. Dallas had heard about them. The harsh life of outlaw taught them to be discriminating and fanatic- they cast aside the old ways, adopting an obsession with a singular god they named "Truth." But that's not what Dallas is. He's the descendent of those who managed to stay in the cities, despite the protectors trying to drive them out. They went underground, hiding their faith behind secret passcodes and occult rituals nobody else could identify. Life is harsh for them, too, but in a different way: they've had to cozy up to criminals to keep themselves hid. Like the Scuttlers. The boy shakes his head. "Whatever, I can't keep up with your type. But we have been doing really well. Nobody is even protecting the good stuff anymore. Did you see the latest haul? You should join up officially, Mixie." Far over head, Tiffany Holstead is stomping a mob through the street, heading for New Westminster. But Dallas doesn't hear it: all his attention is suddenly on the Scuttler's "latest haul." Little Johnny has begged his boss to drag out a big trunk full of micro-transmitters: an ECU device that can create touchable holograms anywhere. Highly experimental, illegal for citizens to hold- and worth millions. The Scuttler boss smiles with pride. He's a fat, aging man, a paragon of his breed. No morals, no concerns but money and power. Dallas knows his kind, he's lived his whole life with that kind, and only barely stopped himself from becoming one; but that means he knows how they think. Looking here at these transmitters, and remembering the mob about to get massacred overhead, he begins to form a brilliant idea. "Hey, Boss," Dallas says, slowly, "I think I have a plan that'll make you more money and more power than you've ever seen... I'm talking real, political power. A place in the new government, maybe." He lifts his head, making eye contact. "And all you need to do is help me stop some sheep from getting slaughtered. Deal?" [center][b]~~~~~~~~[/b][/center] [i][right][sub](Addressing: [@Irreedeemable] and [@SgtEasy]) (Starring: Tiffany) [/sub][/right][/i] It was a deal. As Tiffany's mob grows, chanting its way through the streets and busting every screen on the way, the Scuttlers stalk behind them. They walk in the darkness left in Tiffany's wake: where her people destroy the lights, there is a hiding place for the Scuttlers. Crooks in the shadows, like every ECU holo-film about them. And speaking of holograms... The Matuvistan squadron they come upon are very, very surprised, when the men they shoot at don't die. They aren't real men, after all, but holograms created by the micro-transmitters. The Scuttlers have sent out holographic soldiers- borrowed from some war game Johnny likes to play- that have simple combat programmed into them. They can't coordinate or follow orders at all, but after the Matuvistans waste bullets shooting at light, well, that's when the real fighters came out. After weeks of psychological torment, this mob is in no state for mercy. They leave the Matuvistan's bodies lying on the sidewalk. A bloody sight. Vengeance incarnate. Then, the chimpanzee shows up. This one is a surprise for everyone. He claims to come from an entire planet of apes- with, apparently, very strong political views. His mercenaries are ready to fight for the White Flower cause, if only they would accept them. They seem to already see Tiffany Holstead as a leader (and, she is a little shocked to realize, so do all the men and women around her) and, reluctantly, she agrees. Normally, even the Flowers would refuse aide so strange, but these are desperate times. Despite some hoping, they come upon no other Matuvistan squad by luck. Soon, the make-shift walls around New Westminster, the headquarters the Matuvistans have been living in, are before them. They draw out the holo-soldiers again, even taking a few of their enemies out that way, but soon the jetknights and the real warriors are alerted. The apes in particular fight fiercely here, a real terror in close quarters, where the strength and power of a gorilla can face down ten men. But the Matuvistans have their walls: they retreat, firing from above. Then, despite their allies and their holograms, and all their desperate cleverness, the Flowers are hurt. They are mowed down. And in panic, with foreign bullets raining down and screams all around, they are broken and scattered. The Holstead Uprising, as it will come to be called, has fallen. But not all is lost. Tiffany Holstead herself survives to fight another day, and if this night proves anything, it is this: the occupiers can bleed.