~Truth Without Words~
Out here, we do not look both ways before we cross the road, nor do we carry a heavy load. Groups of four, groups of five, cross the street before they die. Nation's quarrel, nouveau's scorn, shot in the back by an Iron Thorn.
Since the fall of the Kingdom… our Kingdom, my homeland has been engaged in civil war. Once, there was a king. Once, there was a cause. Now, there are kings. Now, there are causes. Once, there was a people. Now, there are peoples. These peoples are seven tribes. I live in Crionac, a village of one of these tribes. We are situated in a narrow valley; and our rival stations its warriors on the crest of the mountaintops. There, they target practice. Here, we are targets. If, say, anyone were to cross a street in Crionac, the snipers on the mountaintops would do one of two things. He would hurl an Iron Thorn, or use a move—either of which could kill despite the distance. Most of us stay indoors most of the time, some roam freely. I like to call them idiots.
I met one such idiot as I suddenly found myself intending to cross the street to resupply my pantry which had just been depleted. I hid behind the wall of some building, having knowledge of where the snipers had been positioned.
He was a mienfoo, and his name was George. I didn't find that out until later.
"What do you have," I asked, "in your paw?"
What he held was a rather large cut of cloth, wrapped about a thin wooden branch. I recognized a particular flag. Our Kingdom's banner. "The old one," he answered.
"And just what do you think you're going to do with that?"
He looked at me, and did so oddly. It was as if I was a youngster, that I wouldn't understand. His eyes did not bear the same hatred as everyone else. No, instead they held something very different. It was a resolve that could not be suppressed, a sadness that could not be consoled, a mind that could not be brought to reason. He did not answer my question.
"Look," said he, pointing to town square, "you see that open space? You think… those snipers can see from up there?"
"Why?" I asked again. "What are you trying to do?"
"I'm trying to cross the street," he said.
"But why that way?" I pressed further. "Why not cross here, where I'm about to?"
"To get to the other side," he said.
"But that's suicide! Every sniper in those mountains can see you. They'll aim for you."
He sighed. "Then maybe… they won't aim for you."
With that, he turned to walk, and I was stunned at his direction, for he walked in open space. "What are you doing? Wait—stop!"
His pace did not slow, nor did it quicken; but by this time, he was in nearing the center of Crionac's town square. I advanced as if to give chase, but an Energy Ball struck the wall just as I exposed myself. The bricks seemed to explode as hefty chunks of plaster were thrown in my face. I recoiled, stunned by the event. I noticed that the other had turned back to see if I were alright. He nodded my way as I composed myself, then proceeded the final paces to the center of the square.
I then resolved to plead where I stood. "My good man, come back before you die!"
He only shook his head. Taking the branch in his hands, he began to unfurl the banner as an Iron Thorn ricocheted off the dirt an inch from his foot. He didn't even flinch. Then, in a swift stroke, he held the flag high, and stretched it upon the sky. For a fleeting second, I saw the Old Flag in its old glory. The colors were faded, but were there regardless. The fabric was torn, but was there regardless. It was then that I saw his resolve, I saw his sadness, and I saw his mind.
I saw truth without words.
I also saw, then, that seconds pass too quickly. I heard a loud crack ring out from the mountainside; as if the ancient hills cried out in response to the gesture. The same instance, he fell, and did not rise.
It was then that I suddenly became aware of the place in which I lived, and the state in which I lived. It was a place of spilled blood, and a state of self-perpetuated misunderstanding. We dare to call ourselves civilized, sentient. Yet, we have no choice but to fall back to our feral roots…. I hate this place.
Out here, we do not look both ways before we cross the road, nor do we carry a heavy load. Groups of four, groups of five, cross the street before they die. Nation's quarrel, nouveau's scorn, shot in the back by an Iron Thorn.
This place… this place, the Shatterbelt.
Inspired by the balkanized Yugoslavian states.