Chapter 1 - Invasion
Tazmily
The heavyset, black-clad Pigmask General unleashed a flood of screaming orders at the face of a soldier who stood at attention in front of him. The smaller subordinate squealed and relayed the orders to the other soldiers. One of the portly officers raised a radio in front of his mouth to direct the the convoy of armored vehicles, waiting impatiently on top of a hill facing a small village, still asleep through the dawn. Unhurried, the massive tanks cranked their necks, aiming the large cannons towards the rows of small buildings that made up the bulk of the town.
The general yelled again.
Right on cue, the row of tanks fired ceaselessly, unleashing hell on the village. The air itself vibrated from the deafening sound. The general nonchalantly raised his stout gloved hands to steady his helmet on top of his head, shielding his ears. Once the shelling ceased, the row of buildings that used to be the village had turned into a pile of flames and rubble. The air reeked of death. Satisfied, the general raised a pair of binoculars towards his eyes, surveying the destruction. This unbelievably uncivilized village called Tazmily was the only settlement on Nowhere Islands. The Pigmasks were bent on annexing the whole archipelago, but the restive village proved to be a thorn in their throat, preventing them from swallowing the main island. The higher ups decided on this radical solution; raze the damned village to the ground.
The subordinate Pigmask eyed his superior curiously, wondering how did he think? The simple grunt who manned a Pork Bean had never seen anyone command a battalion to demolish an entire village over the heads of its inhabitants, and remain stone-faced. The general wore a rigid, expressionless face, displaying no remorse, happiness or anticipation. Maybe that was why he earned his title as general. Maybe that's why…
Rat-atatatatatatatat…
Soldiers hauling chain guns aimed their crosshairs at the fleeing villagers. There were still rats burrowing in the rubble. The pigmasks had to exterminate them the old-fashioned way, otherwise the rats might regroup and resist. The general motioned for the tanks to begin advancing. Slowly, the monstrous machines crawled on top of the cobblestone road, the slates cracking under the rolling tank tracks.
Hit hard. Hit in the right place. Hit with all your might.
That was the general's motto, which he was following to the letter now. The tanks blasted in consecutive bangs, the imposing machines drudged through the smog-filled air like dragos coming back from the dead. Through the dust, silhouettes of men appeared. Whether they were fleeing or attacking did not matter; they were gunned down mercilessly.
"Infantry!" the general yelled, raising his hand. Hordes of swine-headed troopers marched into the smog. The subordinate shivered, wondering how death first thing in the morning must be like.
Rat-atatatatatatatat… Boom!
More killing.
Tazmily was completely destroyed by noon.
Smog and dust mostly cleared by then, only a few columns of acrid black smoke rose here and there. All of the few buildings that made the village were obliterated. A row of Pigmask soldiers stood in what used to be the town square, aiming their shotguns at an opposing row of villagers, their clothes were torn and their faces were covered with soot. They couldn't flee to the forest up north because tanks blocked the way there too. Some of them were innocent civilians, and some were almost certainly rebels. It was anyone's guess who was which, but such trivial issues were beneath the general. He ordered a few soldiers to mount a big machine gun on a tripod, its muzzle facing the row of disheveled Tazmilites. Some understood what was going on, the others did not wish to understand.
"Kill them, and bury them where they fall," the general said with a markedly bored expression on his face. He flipped his cape and motioned for his subordinate to start the Pork Bean. The soldier could not believe his ears.
Even when he heard the gunfire and screams, he could not believe his ears.
He had heard tall tales about the Pigmask brutality and cruelty, but hearing about cruelty was nothing in comparison with seeing it firsthand, and sitting a few feet across from the man who ordered all those people killed. The general sat straight-backed next to his subordinate and clasped his fingers, wearing a contented smile like a child who had just finished a bar of chocolate. Meanwhile, the terrified soldier could not muster enough courage to look at his general this time, shakily starting the hovering vehicle, and sped towards New Pork City.
When the noise subsided and the Pigmasks had left, whatever was left of Tazmily shook in fear, anger and stupefaction.
There was a wide pit next to the town square ruins that was hastily dug and filled, but its significance was plainly obvious. Cautiously, a few surviving villagers walked through the still-smoldering debris, looking for something. Anything.
An angry flush crossed a strong-armed, goateed man's face. He tearfully began screaming curses and oaths at the Pigmask army, then collapsed on the ground, banging his fist against the dusty rubble. A brunette woman dressed in a torn purple skirt knelt beside him, trying to comfort the distraught man.
"They murdered my son, Caroline," he wailed, "Those swine bastards killed Fuel!"
"They shot Bronson.. Wess.. Mapson," Caroline whispered, allowing a few tears to escape her eyes, patting the man on his shoulders. The other two men looked around.
"Quiet, Lighter. I think I heard something," a clean-shaven young man in a rounded straw hat said. Lighter glowered angrily at him.
"What did you say?" Lighter hissed, his face tightening into a grim scowl. He stood up and stepped towards hat-wearing man.
"H-he's right, L-L-Lighter," the other, a mustached middle-aged man wearing a red shirt and a white hat stammered, "I-I hear something t-too."
The four of them listened carefully. They could hear a distant muffled noise that sounded like a child crying. It was unlikely they were experiencing group hallucination, since they clearly heard the sound coming out from somewhere underneath the rubble. They frantically rushed towards the source. Yes, they could clearly hear a soft whimper from underneath the rubble. They tried digging through with their nails, but it was too hot to touch. Lighter grabbed a shovel with a cracked wooden shaft that lied a few feet ahead. He desperately dug in the debris, shovelling it away left and right. Finally, they saw a pale child's hand, but it was moving. A few minutes later, they dug up a small sooted blond head trying to cough. The kid finally stood up on his feet, hoisted by three arms. He was in horrible shape, but alive. None knew how, but it was a miracle that this child lived. Lighter and the other men clung to the boy and hugged him, not caring about the bruises and broken bones that he possibly had. This child emerged from the rubble and flames, telling them that their hometown was still alive.
This boy was named Lucas.
Lucas of Tazmily.
Despite living a little away from Tazmily, and despite his ceaseless coughing and hacking, Grandpa Alec was a good man.
Alec had a wide beard and wore large, rounded eyeglasses that obscured his eyes. His thick white mustache sometimes snuck inside his mouth whenever he was talking, so he usually licked it out with the tip of his tongue.
"Luke, m'boy," Alec said, licking a few wayward hairs on his upper lip and adjusting his brown hat, "This country's full of opportunity, believe me."
They were on a gigantic ship, cruising the blue ocean that stretched eternally everywhere. The ship was named the 'White Ship', but it was ironically devoid of any white color, opting for depressing grey everywhere if it wasn't discolored with heaven knows what. Lucas had his left arm in a sling, wore a beat up leather jacket that had lost its color, and a similarly worn brown jeans that stretched a little too widely for his slight frame. He stared impassively at the infinite waters, clear signs of pain and misery on his little face. It was heartbreaking to see such a jaded expression on a face so young, Alec thought, sipping a foul-smelling liquid from a bottle that never left his person.
"The world is full of scoundrels," Alec said ominously, placing a wrinkly, suntanned hand on Lucas' hunched shoulder, "Heh, don't you believe me, kid? Lemme pull your little ear until it gets all red. When Grandpa Alec says the world is full of - hic - bastards, he means it. Heck, those lousy sods think I'm just a drunken old coot, but I notice everything. Everything, I say!"
"But grandpa—" Lucas said weakly.
"Not a word!" Alec interrupted, "Take that madman, King P or whatever. He up and decided to burn the whole damn islands to hell, and that heckler swine Fassad who up and -hic- decided to join in his mad cause. They destroyed poor little Tazmily. Killed my sweet Hinawa. You'll see, Lucas. You'll see the pig king is a perfidious, backstabbing swine. He'll have Fassad for lunch one day. And they say I'm a good-for-nothing drunkard. May the Magypsies curse me if I was proven wrong."
Lucas returned his gaze to the ocean.
His name was Lucas. He was the son of Flint and Hinawa, and he had a twin brother named Claus. As of today, he was 8 years old.
Certainly, he did not know the exact details, but he had a vague recollection of what happened from his memories, grandpa's rants and whatever he read after the war years later. He only knew he was just a regular kid, enjoying playing with his twin brother, swimming in the nearby lake and visiting his grandpa to play with the dragos. During the evening, his mother would make them omelettes and sit on their bedside to tell them bedtime stories and sing lullabies with her soothing voice. He still remembers sleeping to the sound of his twin's rising and falling chest.
One morning, he woke up to his mother's screaming and howling. "Tanks! They surrounded the village," she repeated hysterically. He didn't understand what she meant, but he and his twin poked their heads outside the window to see the lovely big things that looked like metal dragos standing in a tight line at the town gate. They squealed in joy, not understanding what was so scary about the metal dragos. Hinawa nervously grasped his arm and grabbed Claus' with her other hand, then she hurried out of the house after placing a few items in a cloth bag that she slung on her shoulder.
"Evacuate. We do not…. Street," a heavily-accented voice boomed from a loudspeaker somewhere. Hinawa lost control over her stomach. She leaned against the wall and emptied her breakfast on the floor before hurrying to the street, still holding her twins' hands in her arm. Their brown dog, Boney, followed behind the frightened family. Lucas saw others, men, women and children running in blind panic. He saw his dad arguing with their neighbor Bronson, who held a large crossbow.
"Get rid of this thing, you'll get us all killed," Flint snapped at Bronson, who dropped the bow after a moment of hesitation. Lucas remembered his mother sobbing and crying while she ran through a back alley. He remembered the soldiers standing by their tanks, drawing their weapons at the fleeing villagers.
"This side's closed," Bronson shouted in panic.
Terror began seeping in Lucas' soul. He whimpered then burst into tears, clutching his mother's dress.
"Shh, darling, shh," his mother tried soothing him with her shaky voice, but he cried harder. Claus began tearing up as well, hugging his twin close as the ground began shaking underneath them with tank fire. The scared people huddled, some prayed silently while the kids bawled. Then..
Why did he remember that part vividly?
Usually a typical description would've been 'I heard a loud sound, then everything went black', but Lucas remembered everything happening down to the heartbeat. The universe slowed down as he clearly saw a shell slam against the wall they were behind. He could vividly see the color draining from his brother's face, who pushed him out of the way just as the wall crumbled on top of him and their parents. He could count every brick and speck of dust that landed on his body, where had it landed and what bruise or broken bone it had caused. He clearly remembered his vision filling with black as he was buried under debris, then the last bit of air disappeared, and he felt like he was being choked. Did he lose consciousness? Maybe, but he remembered hearing the tanks screeching a few meters away from where he was stuck.
Why didn't he die? The only explanation he could come up with was that 'his time hadn't come yet'. For Claus, Hinawa and Flint, their time was on the morning of the 20th of April that year, but Lucas survived until the others dug him out.
The days that followed his family's death were nightmarish. He lived with his grandfather on Mt. Oriander, The sound of bullets and explosions became commonplace, and Alec was becoming more apprehensive and nervous.
"Those swine-headed bastards will slaughter us all," he told Lucas everyday, "You'll see, m'boy. If we stay here, they'll make their bullets from our eyeballs."
So they fled Tazmily. And Nowhere Islands.
"In the west, there's a different world, Luke," Alec told him, "A free world away from all those massacres, and I'll be damned if they do not take in the likes of us."
And that's how 8-year-old Lucas ended up with his old grandfather on a ship bound to Eagleland, bidding farewell to his home that was taken by the Pigmasks.
The days that ensued on top of the White Ship were gruelling. The refugees fought over everything, whether it was a few crumbs of food, a mouthful of water or a pretty girl that hadn't succumbed to hunger yet. They always fought over everything. Lucas had lost track of time during the long trip, but eventually news came up of seagulls sighted above the ship. Everyone hurried above board and huddled to watch that indeed there were seagulls sporadically appearing in the foggy sky. Lucas saw massive towers peering through the fog from afar. One in particular stood remarkably taller than the rest, lights flashing from its very top. Alec placed his hand on Lucas' shoulder.
"See that big one in the middle? That's the Monotoli building, my boy," Alec said, a wistful smile on his face, "Geldegarde Monotoli grew up poor, but he eventually became the richest man in Eagleland. See what I tell you about this country bein' the land of opportunities?"
Lucas felt tears stream down his face, not because he was touched by Monotoli's success story, but out of fear that the tower would somehow topple over and sink their ship. Lucas had a lurching feeling in his guts that Eagleland won't be the perfect place his grandfather painted it out to be.
Yet there he was, a young Tazmilite immigrant, entering Eagleland to start a new, unsure life.
Hey! I had an idea while working on Chapter 12 of my other fanfic, so I'm starting a story about Lucas losing his family and home to a Nazi-like invasion and start a new life in a foreign country. Please tell me what do you guys think of this so far. :D
