Fetzen
Circ6-8-2039
Free Territories (formerly Mozambique)
خفض أسلحتك
The command belched from behind the armed youth, followed by a hacking cough. Their weapons lowered as an elderly man passed between their ranks and stopped in front of the jeep. He was dressed in worn fatigues; drab ochre saturated in mid-day sweat. A shock of gray peeked out from beneath his cap contrasted starkly against his skin.
The old face cracked into a smile as scars carved deep channels into the weathered fields of his cheeks. He turned back to his armed guards and made a waving gesture with a wood-carved prosthetic.
الشباب ، تعال هنا
A girl, no older than 16, joined the old man's side. She laid her AK-M on the vehicle's hood, casting a curious glance in her periphery at Ndakala while rapidly exchanging words like gunfire in Arabic. Ndakala noted a wave of ease pass over the group as shoulders relaxed and sharp eyes softened. The girl addressed the pygmy in Xhosa, occasionally pausing as she struggled to translate her commander's message.
"Our general is most.. a-apologetic for this introduction. There is no place for.. violence amongst friends." The old man gave her a reassuring pat and she continued. "We would have you join us as guests."
At this the old man circled the jeep as he spoke through his companion. He stopped at the child caught in fitful sleep, clutching charred rags. He extended the cool wood of his prosthetic, soothing her slumber with a comforting touch.
"Has the child spoken?"
Ndakala peered over his shoulder at the child, eyes widening at the sudden recollection of her presence. The silence of their journey coupled with the recent carnage fresh in his mind had left him deeply troubled, but his wits quickly returned. "She has not. None of us have."
"And the one who charged you with this responsibility. Were they injured?" He opened the driver side door before politely stepping aside for Ndakala to exit.
The pygmy dismounted the vehicle cautiously, unsure of the old man's intentions. "Not that I noticed. Everything happened so quickly."
Satisfied, the old man extended his prosthetic to the pygmy in a gesture of good faith. The wood flushed with warmth; the digits animate with life firmly gripping flesh. He grinned broadly, addressing Ndakala and the elderly foreigner in English.
"Welcome, welcome. I am General Assad. We have quite the drive ahead of us, so let's make haste. My soldiers will confiscate your electronics. No need to leave those wardogs a trail." His soldiers spurred to action, they began the task of loading equipment while one scurried beneath the jeep. He emerged with the components of a GPS in his hands.
Assad sat behind the wheel of the jeep, looking back at Ndakala until he too entered the vehicle. They exited the compound, an abandoned military blockade, and turned on to a wide road hidden beneath thick canopy. The roar of a diesel engine surprised Ndakala; he hadn't heard one since childhood. An antiquated military transport rumbled behind the silent jeep. Their path followed a river southwards; the occasional thinning of the trees bathing them in shimmering brilliance.
After nearly an hour, Assad began to speak once more. His passengers were unsure if it was to them or himself. They had just crossed the river on an unusual stone bridge; it seemed to have risen from the very soil. The river's rushing echoed through a bizzare congregation of overgrown boulders.
"Some thousand years ago, this was the site of a great community. Khoikhoi and Sān tribes found themselves pushed to the south by drought and Bantu expansion. The former brought their mighty herds to graze these fertile lands; the latter using their advanced foraging and survival skills to supplement the livestock."
Assad turned away from the river, driving further into the jungle. He checked his watch, a pre-war novelty.
"They were the foundation of mighty kingdoms, all born from this great land. My friends, we wish to do the same."
Before them appeared a distortion in the road; a rippling haze that obscured what lay beyond. They continued through, much to the old american's chagrin. The rumble of the diesel engine echoed in a vast chamber before being cut off. Sunlight filtered through countless prisms in the cavernous ceiling, illuminating an expansive garage and loading bay underground.
"Welcome to Marange."
Free Territories (formerly Mozambique)
خفض أسلحتك
The command belched from behind the armed youth, followed by a hacking cough. Their weapons lowered as an elderly man passed between their ranks and stopped in front of the jeep. He was dressed in worn fatigues; drab ochre saturated in mid-day sweat. A shock of gray peeked out from beneath his cap contrasted starkly against his skin.
The old face cracked into a smile as scars carved deep channels into the weathered fields of his cheeks. He turned back to his armed guards and made a waving gesture with a wood-carved prosthetic.
الشباب ، تعال هنا
A girl, no older than 16, joined the old man's side. She laid her AK-M on the vehicle's hood, casting a curious glance in her periphery at Ndakala while rapidly exchanging words like gunfire in Arabic. Ndakala noted a wave of ease pass over the group as shoulders relaxed and sharp eyes softened. The girl addressed the pygmy in Xhosa, occasionally pausing as she struggled to translate her commander's message.
"Our general is most.. a-apologetic for this introduction. There is no place for.. violence amongst friends." The old man gave her a reassuring pat and she continued. "We would have you join us as guests."
At this the old man circled the jeep as he spoke through his companion. He stopped at the child caught in fitful sleep, clutching charred rags. He extended the cool wood of his prosthetic, soothing her slumber with a comforting touch.
"Has the child spoken?"
Ndakala peered over his shoulder at the child, eyes widening at the sudden recollection of her presence. The silence of their journey coupled with the recent carnage fresh in his mind had left him deeply troubled, but his wits quickly returned. "She has not. None of us have."
"And the one who charged you with this responsibility. Were they injured?" He opened the driver side door before politely stepping aside for Ndakala to exit.
The pygmy dismounted the vehicle cautiously, unsure of the old man's intentions. "Not that I noticed. Everything happened so quickly."
Satisfied, the old man extended his prosthetic to the pygmy in a gesture of good faith. The wood flushed with warmth; the digits animate with life firmly gripping flesh. He grinned broadly, addressing Ndakala and the elderly foreigner in English.
"Welcome, welcome. I am General Assad. We have quite the drive ahead of us, so let's make haste. My soldiers will confiscate your electronics. No need to leave those wardogs a trail." His soldiers spurred to action, they began the task of loading equipment while one scurried beneath the jeep. He emerged with the components of a GPS in his hands.
Assad sat behind the wheel of the jeep, looking back at Ndakala until he too entered the vehicle. They exited the compound, an abandoned military blockade, and turned on to a wide road hidden beneath thick canopy. The roar of a diesel engine surprised Ndakala; he hadn't heard one since childhood. An antiquated military transport rumbled behind the silent jeep. Their path followed a river southwards; the occasional thinning of the trees bathing them in shimmering brilliance.
After nearly an hour, Assad began to speak once more. His passengers were unsure if it was to them or himself. They had just crossed the river on an unusual stone bridge; it seemed to have risen from the very soil. The river's rushing echoed through a bizzare congregation of overgrown boulders.
"Some thousand years ago, this was the site of a great community. Khoikhoi and Sān tribes found themselves pushed to the south by drought and Bantu expansion. The former brought their mighty herds to graze these fertile lands; the latter using their advanced foraging and survival skills to supplement the livestock."
Assad turned away from the river, driving further into the jungle. He checked his watch, a pre-war novelty.
"They were the foundation of mighty kingdoms, all born from this great land. My friends, we wish to do the same."
Before them appeared a distortion in the road; a rippling haze that obscured what lay beyond. They continued through, much to the old american's chagrin. The rumble of the diesel engine echoed in a vast chamber before being cut off. Sunlight filtered through countless prisms in the cavernous ceiling, illuminating an expansive garage and loading bay underground.
"Welcome to Marange."