NPC Perspective - Near the Scythian
"Surely now is the time?" asked a disgruntled woman, her face half obscured by a woollen mask, tugging on the arm of a bald man with a lined forehead. Both of them were wearing civilian clothes, that of labourers. They were probably dockworkers, porters, tradesmen, or something similar. One thing was for sure, they were hiding from the crowds and from the security around the colossal ship.
"The Scythian...," she had muttered previously. "Where was that when we needed it weeks ago? Before we all started dying?" The man had replied to her coldly: "We aren't important enough to them." That would soon change, he thought. The government that taxed them, forced them to work, corralled them and gave them enforced curfews, but so often 'forgot' to pay them, or provide them with enough food would no longer forget about them. Diplomacy had failed, petitions had been ignored, voices had been hushed. They would notice them this time. They would not be given a choice.
There were others like them on the third storey of a nearby building, crouched behind a half wall which obscured their bodies. Their heads were protected from the glare of the sun by their dark masks. They were all but invisible to those preoccupied on the ground. "Not yet," he replied to her question. "Let the crowd build up. They're in the right place, but at the wrong time. It's unfortunate that they'll have to pay the price for the government's betrayal. Let the colony's authoritarian bullies come to corral them. We'll pick them out when they force people into lines."
Things were beginning to escalate on the ground. The crowd was getting so large it was beginning to collapse in on itself. People were being crushed by stampedes as people tried to force their way closer to the unloading ramp of the ship. This became more fervent as food was being handed out more slowly. Men and women were beginning to move down the ramp of the ship, armed with batons, and began bullying the people into orderly lines. For some, it made sense to comply. Other, less sheep like individuals, shouted abuse at the seamen and the civilian security forces which were beginning to make their way into the area with their own authoritarian equipment.
"Nathe," whispered a man sat a few metres away on the rooftop. "When are we doing this?" The bald man looked over at him and gestured for him to calm down. "Soon. Load your rifle." It hadn't been hard to sneak away a rifle from the security stores, nor the three pistols, the batons and the boxes of cartridges they had with them. Others like them had acquired weapons from other parts of the colony, but they were stashed away for the time being. There had been one man on stag at the security armoury that night, and he was half asleep. There was nothing to be aware of, he must have assumed, there was no war on this little moon. That would soon change.
Nathe watched as a few of his accomplices merged with the crowd. They wore their masks around their heads like a beanie, ready to be pulled down when needed, but otherwise kept hidden amongst the more chaotic parts of the crowd. In their hands they had surprises for the ship and its complement.
"Not long now. Just remember, whatever happens next, we can't go back." He moved aside for the masked sniper to crawl to where he had been sitting. The man peeked over the wall. There was a scuffle going on involving a man and woman, and a lot of raised voices. Security moved in. "Nathe, look at this," he said excitedly. Nathe moved to the wall and looked down into the sprawling mass of people. "Some toff bellend officer, look at him. Expecting everyone to kiss his arse like he's the gift to mankind," he said with vitriol. "You can see him a mile off with all that shrapnel on him," he added. It was true, for some reason this officer was wearing his mess uniform while wandering around while the seamen wore their working overalls.
"There's no cameras here, young man," said the sniper.
"That's your target," said Nathe, tapping him on the shoulder. The sniper smiled a cold smile, the kind he had smiled when he had been drafted into the army years ago, the kind of smile before he killed somebody.
"There's nothing left!" shouted one of the semi-masked men in the crowd, inciting shouts of panic and anger from those around him. "They don't have enough for all of us!" he added. The crowd pushed harder than ever towards the ship. No longer were they in lines. No longer did the security forces maintain their authority over them, dictating which individual would eat today, and which dying person would receive care. The pugnacious man had now pulled down his mask and submerged himself in the crowd. People began falling over in the stampede, crushed by those stepping over them. Punches were thrown, voices shouted all around him. The sun glinted on tradesman tools; knives and hammers, that some of the crowd had been carrying on their belt, having rushed from their workplaces, as they were drawn in anger and slashed or whacked against people to their left and right. A small object began sailing through the air towards the ship, and the man disappeared through the crowd.
The unloading ramp, and the area within a few metres all around it, was wreathed in flame as the glass object shattered, spraying pure alcohol in a huge area and igniting on the flaming cloth it had been wrapped in. Two seamen fell to the ground, rolling in agony and desperately trying to put out the flames. Others clutched their arms or shoulders, shredded by the shattered glass. Many more civilians fell. They took the worst of it. Crack! A round was fired from within the crowd, striking the metal plating of the ship. Crack,
crack! A seaman fell, his baton clattering down the unloading ramp. The crowd screamed in panic and began pushing in all directions, both away from the military personnel and very much towards them.
The sniper on the roof smiled again as the chaos began. For a brief second he watched the fire spread. That was the price they paid. Fire and blood. He rested his cheek against the rear plate of his rifle and stared through the scope, one eye closed. His crosshair lingered on the face of the officer for a moment, before moving down to his festooned chest.
"Here's one for your papers, boy." He exhaled and slowly squeezed the trigger. The round left the rifle with a deafening pow!
