[b]Collab between Tortoise and [@Dog][/b]

Their signs look like the typical marks of a protest: pickets with bold letters on them, reading things like “GREED DOESN’T PAY,” and “THIS IS OUR LAND,” and “FOREIGNERS GO HOME.” At least three dozen men and women carry those messages, even when some would condemn them for doing so: after all, the Ustonian megacorps had kept their end of the bargain. They pay local tax. They hire local workers.

But this is Bezia- or New Hollywood, or whatever it is called these days. Conflict still abounds. The xenophobic elements, in lieu of true aliens or mutants or cyborgs to rail against, have chosen these foreign companies for now. The Zetans aren’t here. The Columbians all went home. So these Ustonian corps are to be the targets, guilty or no. Angry men march on a newly-built headquarters in bright midday, feeling perfectly justified in their anger.

And, worst, there is something else in the midst. These Flower protestors- some of them, anyway- are also veterans of the revolution. At their hips are weapons. Guns, mostly, with a few axes thrown in for flavor. At least one is the very same axe that split the skull of a Matuvistan in Neo London- because that is, indeed, where this unfortunate company has chosen to take up residence.

You know, there is a fine line between a protest and a riot.

They approach the building. Official Flower security will eventually intercept them, but not before they get to the Ustonians.

“THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING. PLEASE DISPERSE THE AREA. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING,” yells a loudspeaker from an officer on top of an armored car. A small block of riot-officer stood guard, blocking the various pieces of junk thrown at them. This was not much of a riot or protest, to them anyway. If anything, this was simply a small angry mob. With the crowd still determined to stay, the security-officers launch a series of tear-gas and flashbangs into the mob before quickly rushing in to beat down the protesters and then arrest.

But these protestors had faced this kind of thing before. When the first tear-gas canisters arced over their heads, trailing gray smoke across the sky, they knew to pull up scarves around their faces and wrap tight goggles around their eyes. The overall look was kind of ridiculous; but it did keep them safe from the gas. Mostly, anyway. Little tendrils seeped into the eyes-it burned like cut onions.The protestors had to fight through it.

One man shouted through: “These strangers think this is the first time we’ve dealt with this? They’ve never met protectors!” He was answered with jeers and laughter. And with quick-drawn guns.

“I’ll say it again,” the same man shouted, but now he cocked back a shotgun and aimed for a Ustonian: “Get off of our planet!”

He fired, and the first shot echoed through the thick tear-gas mist. The body dropped.
A brutal melee occurs as security-officers, dorning full-protection gear, clash with the mob. Faces are bruised, kneecaps broken, batons broken, rubber-bullets and beanbags shot, and plenty of other things ongoing. A few bodies are taken out of the melee in hand-cuffs and then quickly moved into the backs of vans while others are moved to medical vehicles. An assortment of screams, yells, and thumps are heard as the fight goes on. 

The Flower protestors are outnumbered- they think. Through the haze of gas and the fog of a fight, nobody is sure who’s still standing, or who’s where, or who’s who. People throw a punch half as often as they crash into each other like bumper carts. Two competing forces, fear and anger, are as much at war here as the people.

Jims, a teenage Neo London native, loses out to the former. He starts to run. He carries his dad’s pistol with him. He sprints through the crowd, trips over a metal-concrete curb he couldn’t see, and has a bleeding forehead when he is able to open his eyes again. How much time has passed? He still hears the fight around him- only a few seconds, maybe. The gun is still in his hands. He nearly screams when the masked face of a Ustonian security officer lurks out of the tear-gas and appears to see him. So much like the protectors. So much. He knows what they would have done to him, and in that panic, his little pistol feels like the one power he has. The Ustonian tries grabbing at his arms, snatching and gripping and struggling, wanting to put cuffs on him- they nearly mount each other- they roll and wrestle against each other on the hard ground, and Jims somehow, barely, forces his gun up to the Ustonian’s head. The fight stops for a moment.

“Get back, man, I’ll shoot! You- you fucking protector! I swear I’ll really kill you, this bullet isn’t rubber!”

A small chuckle is heard from the Ustonian officer. “Try it, kid,” says the security officer - knowing full well that the pistol cannot do much against his kind of armor. 

Jims tries it. A little ‘ting!’ signifies the bullet ricocheting off the officer’s helmet. “Shit!” says Jims, ineffectively.

“Tough luck, kid,” says the officer with a heavy vo-coded voice. With a raised baton, the officer smashes in poor Jim’s face. Hit after hit, Jim’s face starts to get extremely bruised. Before long, Jim loses consciousness and his body is moved towards the medical van.