Protocanonical: Scent of Revolution (Update), a star fox fanfic

Summary: Andross had won the Lylat Wars, destroyed Corneria and her allies, and began a ruthless policy of expansion out into the Galactic Core. Years later, a rebellion is underway, threatening to tear his Empire apart, even from inside Venom. Executions cannot stop it. Silence cannot halt it. And a little girl dares to take a stand against the injustice of Empire… (Extreme AU)

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Scent of Revolution

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

The only thing we have to fear is… fear itself

A woman, a vixen, dressed in black and red—the latter one of the national colors of the Empire—stood silently in the middle of Vocken's main square, blindfolded, her arms tied 'round her back. Awaiting execution.

In the background loomed a gigantic, cylindrically-shaped fortress of grey-white stone, towers piercing the cold, dank sky in lonely splendor; before it, and ranging behind her, were countless stairs ascending by threes of the same rock, each with twenty four steps; between them, at intervals, kneeling upon pedestals, hunched massive Platonic-like persons in carven robes and shaven heads, serenely unaware of their surroundings.

Snowflakes drifted down from the sky, touching her ultramarine fur and brush silently. It was the dead of winter, yet she, called Krystal, did not feel its bitter sting. Instead her thoughts dwelt upon the warmth of summer—the summer before this all happened. The breeze now blowing throughout the square ruffled her skirt, brushing against her thick stockings, but she did not feel it. Instead, her mind was occupied with those of summer. She remembered why she loved to go out in the countryside, far from the industrialized, smog-covered, war-ready cities of Venom.

It was the sensation of being free that compelled her to go out into the world, far from her family and the dreariness of housework. To feel the wind rustling her ears, blowing against her with almost gale-like force; to kiss the flowers upon the buds, to feel the sun's heat sink into her back like a loving caress, to hear the birds and the animals sound in their wild freedom.

A mere sensation of freedom.

One could never be truly free under the Emperor.

Far above the great city square, two dirigibles hovered in the sky, keeping endless watch over the cities of Venom, keeping them safe from the Cornerian rebels. The great fortress, known to the general populace as "the Citadel", could be seen more fully; pyramidal in shape, each towered section growing ever smaller until it was crowned by a tall man, his right arm pointing to the heavens.

Red flags with white borders, each with a bent, black cross emblazoned upon it, fluttered softly in ordered ranks as the wind swept over the land. Searchlights roamed over the grounds, sniffing out any intruder or curfew-breaker. Two guard-towers stood vigil over the square, one of the lights playing back and forth, sweeping, over the silent buildings.

Far overhead the stars looked down indifferently; the great moon of Venom, Eladard, half-hidden behind the dirigible, also looked down, his light nearly choked in the ever present haze which permeated the city.

Watching.

Two minutes after…

A little girl, dressed all in red with black stockings, knelt before Krystal's body, cradling it upon her knees, blood seeping through to drain away upon the cold tiles of the square. The great glaring eye of a searchlight illuminated the scene, as it had during the nighttime execution.

Tears stained her face, but she had long since exhausted her ability to cry. Tenderly brushing away a stray wisp of Krystal's hair, as she lay motionless, her eyes staring blankly upwards, in her lap.

Marca looked down into her serene face, wondering silently how she could die with such a still look about her. She had known it was coming, despite the blindfold now lying beside her daughter's knees covering her eyes, but had faced her fate with dignity. It was all she had. Yet there the fact was. Death in cold majesty.

She pulled away the crimson scrap of material she'd torn from her dress, to try and clean the red blood off her Mutter's beautiful blue fur, away from behind Krystal's head; a bullet hole through her forehead. Her fingers were stained in it. Marca continued to stroke at her, carefully arranging it like she always did before going to bed. It had been a peaceful ritual, something both women had shared. Now it was a shattered illusion. Those eyes, once so warm and peaceful, were still.

Far above them, from within the fortress, standing between two ochre-yellow pillars, a man watched them, his hands nonchalantly within his pockets; still and erect as a statue himself, save that he was breathing; breath misting in the frigid air. He wore full evening dress, black with a high white collar and tie; the only color to stand out from the pillars. They were much finer than anything Marca or Krystal would have worn.

His eyes bored into the back of her head, watching, waiting. Like one of the ever present cameras the great Emperor Andross used to monitor his subjects; invisible, silent, but always there. They were not friendly.

Marca felt his gaze upon the back of her head, and she looked up and back, lips parting silently.

Standing atop the stairs, guns still at the ready, were the Black Guard. Soldiers of the Emperor. Their semi-armored clothing was black, their facial protection (leaving only the eyes uncovered) black, their round half-helmets, called stahlhelm, also black. The only thing not black were the long bayonets protruding out from the ends of the gun barrels, gleaming silver in the stark light of the night. Their eyes stared relentlessly forward, ignoring the little fräulein as if she were never there.

Behind them towered the Citadel, another dirigible floated quietly beside it. Lights pierced the skies upwards like the spears of a long forgotten army. The word capital could be seen between the shoulders of the Guard upon the building's façade.

But her eyes went beyond them, to rest upon the man staring at her.

He returned it, frowning slightly in his customary manner, his own eyes uncaring. Suddenly, almost self-consciously, he pulled his hands out and tucked them behind his back. Above and behind him, looking down from a lofty pedestal, gazed a stone angel; its eyes, while carven and devoid of life, were lumed faintly in the ambient light.

Marca's disheveled hair blew, but did not touch her teared face. Snowflakes drifted by her, but she did not see them. Looking towards the Citadel, with its pointing statue of a man atop its heights. Wreathed by the lights. Guarded by the airships. Flags adorning it.

Baptized in death.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Three months ago…

The day had started out normally enough, as always, in the distant western city of Schötthock. The trains had come and gone, unloaded the workers at the gates of the factory, cameras watching them, as always. They shuffled out of the station in haphazard ranks, but in a rough sort of line, moving across the bridges separating the railways from the factory grounds.

Light from the celestial body Solar, mingled with that of Lylat, melted down through the gratings and the skylights. Brightly lighting the dull colors of the building, and showing in every detail the workers as they went.

Like ants.

Marca had run out from her own job, during one of those rare free breaks granted to her, and down the bridge overlooking the entrances to the factories. There she had stopped, underneath the barbed wire fences and the cameras atop the pillars lining the walls. There she had looked down, waiting.

Waiting for her father to show up.

He had seemed depressed, far more than usual, so she wanted to cheer him up before he disappeared. In her left hand fluttered a red scarf, made from scraps of discarded material too worn or rough for use. Plain and simple. No adornment, like the lace which frilled the edges of her skirt and sleeves. That was too costly and a waste of material to boot. Only small amounts, like that of her dress, were permitted.

But decoration or no, it was the thought that counts.

There they were, a disordered mess of people moving far below her. She scanned the grey and dirty-white crowd, looking for the one man she could recognize no matter how covered in dirt he may be. The use of water was strictly regulated in the cities, for it could be poisoned or fouled easily by enemies, and so was kept only for drinking and other menial tasks. Families were allowed to bathe once every month, their days allotted. Oddly enough the same did not hold true for the wild, untamed countryside. It was the cities that the rebels wanted, not the countryside. The hundreds of thousands of installations, bristling with flak turrets and missile cannons, all across the land discouraged that idea. It was hard enough getting through the atmosphere.

There he was! An orange-colored head of fur made itself known as its owner came out of the transit station, trailing in the wake of a dozen others. The equally bright brush, looking like a wildfire in the midst of granite-grey stone and dirty-yellow sunlight, impinged upon her brown eyes—eyes that came neither from Vater or Mutter. Eyes which stood out oddly against her orange-and-blue fur.

She sent out a "call" in his direction, and released the scarf in the same instant. It fluttered downwards upon a soft, summer breeze that carried with it the scent of wildflowers which penetrated even in the harshness of industrialization.

Fox McCloud halted, alerted both by his little girl's "call" and a flash of red in his peripheral vision. His green eyes looked up as he turned around, slipping out of line. The scarf floated down, landed, and lay still upon the ground. He did not reach down to pick it up, not yet. Instead his gaze was fastened, lovingly, upon his tochter.

Marca was a curious girl, having inherited her Cerinian mother's strange ability for telepathic empathy. It was not as strong as hers, though; whereas Krystal could "read" minds as she would read faces—which depended if the person's thought were guarded or open—Marca could only sense minds. The mental difference was like between a living, breathing being and a stone, still statue of the same. Nonetheless, even deprived of "listening", she could "call out" to minds she knew and be answered.

His face brightened when she returned his smile. A little ray of sunshine amongst the state of war between the Empire and the rebellion. He glanced down slightly, then bent the rest of his body, still looking up at her. By feel alone he sought out the scarf and picked it up. Then he stood, and turned to follow the rest of his brethren who're now far ahead of him. He did not hurry—that was against the rules—but he caught up with the last of them before the gates closed.

Marca continued watching until he vanished behind the factory gates. Then she too turned and left. Break time was nearly up.

Unknown to her, an unusually large number of cameras—nearly every one in the immediate neighborhood—had fastened their mechanical gaze upon her. They followed her movements all the way back to her factory, and continued to observe her.

Inside the factory, one which produced electrical equipment for fighter- and bomber-planes, in the section that focused upon screens and its accompanying parts, only one worker was not moving. A camera noted that and stayed fastened upon that one. Among all the others, a flurry of arms and bodies, he was the odd man out. Odd men were potentially dangerous.

Far away, elsewhere behind locked doors, watching the same through an hundred screens—each one focusing on a different location and zoomed in/out of the person—was the man. Dressed as always in his fine suit he watched Fox's stilled body with interest. His eyebrows furrowed as he scrutinized the lone fox.

Perhaps the Emperor's suspicions were correct. It was never sure—Lord Andross had been known to make mistakes before, one of which had nearly cost him his Empire during the conquest of Cerinia. But always a measure of caution was needed. It was what had built up the Empire, had overthrown corrupt Corneria and her "federation", and begun a ruthless expansion which not even the ancient Krazoan Order, long forgotten, could compare to.

He pressed a button, and informed the manager to keep an eye on "Herr McCloud"—I.D. number 555-1138/64. He returned to watching. At that moment herr McCloud's face, whether consciously or unconsciously, seemed to look at him full in the eye through the screen. The look appeared defiant.

Down in the factory, half conscious of the omnipresent cameras—they were so common they only registered dimly in his mind—Fox slowly pulled down his dust mask, looking around slowly at his fellow workers.

As if it were a call, his eyes turned unconsciously to the war propaganda tacked onto the walls. The posters, colored red with white borders, always had the same image. A woman, with her arms outstretched as if standing in a sunlight field; a swastika behind her. So like his wife. He wondered at times if she had posed for the making of the poster. Above her was the word "Work!"; below was the rest of the caption—"for a free motherland!" Something to motivate the workers, to help win the war against the rebels, to keep up morale. It did with his morale, for that woman always reminded him of Krystal.

But he worked for a different reason. He wanted a free motherland, but not in the way the makers wanted. He wanted to be free of the constant surveillance, to be free of silence; to raise his daughter as a free woman ought to be raised, like Krystal had been on Cerinia… before that world's glassing.

He wanted to be free.

But freedom was an elusive ideal. None could escape; even those few who went over to the rebels usually died in some battle, alone and friendless; if not hunted down first by the Guard and executed for treason. But their death had a reason—they too wanted a free motherland. They too wanted to be free. And they fought for it in the only way they knew.

The alarms began to sound.

Krystal stood out on the green fields outside Schötthock in the exact same pose as in the poster, but feeling the winds instead of immobility. The one place she could believe she was free. Solar rose behind her, Lylat not too far behind, illuminating her graceful and lithe figure beautifully. Cloud formations marched to an invisible tune far above her, bunching together in that peculiar formation called the cumulonimbus, signalling a storm.

Behind her, bending down on one knee, Marca took a flower by the stem—but instead of plucking it, she leaned forward and kissed it softly. She had never owned any pets; the one scrawny, bad-tempered feline which shared their communal apartments was tolerated only because of his ability to catch vermin. Time and again she had tried to coax it to come near her, using whatever means she had to convince it. Her empathy was of no use; not even her mother could do it, and she was nearly always bone-tired after work.

Flowers were the only other option. They were allowed in the city, and Marca kept a pair of them on her window sill. Of course, it meant sacrificing a portion of her water ration—she refused to let Mutter share hers—but the blossoms she received were always worth it. They represented color, life and freedom in the confines of the city; sometimes, they were the only things which enabled her to face the next day.

As she looked up from the flower bud, the sun shining down, a flock of birds glided in the background. They too were free, like the flowers, but mobile.

The wind blew again, more swiftly—and carrying upon its back came a more ominous sound.

The whirr-whirr-buzz-buzz of aeroplanes.

Marca looked up, fear written across her face—but it was instantly quelled when she saw Krystal still standing as if nothing were happening; all the while as Cornerian B-29 Superfortresses and B-24-Liberators zoomed overhead, escorted by Mustangs and Spitfires, towards Schötthock.

Towards… her home…

She jumped up and started to race towards the city. Immediately she was caught by Krystal, who restrained her kicking and struggling with ease. Amid much shrieking and screaming her mother finally got through to her daughter's terror-stricken mind.

Krystal reassured her that Vater would be safe, that the bomb-shelters were close by, the city was well protected by airships, flak-guns and missile-turrets; and that she would know if he was killed. Then, to finish it, she told her tochter that there was nothing she could accomplish except being killed.

It is out of our hands, she added, gently caressing Marca's headfur. We can do nothing.

Marca understood finally after straining a few more times against Krystal's grip. She relaxed, encircled within the other's arms protectively, but fearful.

Together they watched the bombardment of their home.

Morning.

The bombing had gone through the entire night, and when it was over, hardly anything was left of Schötthock. Except rubble.

A headless statue, carrying the scales of justice and the sword of guardianship, stood silent vigil over the ruins. A red scrap of material, remnants of a national flag, fluttered in the breeze from its hand. Below there was the shattered hulk of a factory building—or an apartment that had been unlucky to be in the bomb radius—and before that was the rim of a massive bomb crater. Rubble lined its edges. Filling it was water, from shattered piping and burst reservoirs, but slowly draining away with oil and other fluids, crimson colored, into the ground.

Fox sat upon the crater's edge, facing in the direction of the headless statue. Looking around.

Had it been worth it all? he wondered, turning his gaze downwards. Was treason worth this? this destruction? One could never be sure. Not in war. Only if one knew they were winning. And he wasn't sure if he had done the right thing.

Before he had set out to work that morning, he had attended a meeting in his off time with the Underground, a small rebellion that worked to free Venom from the Empire. Each meeting was a risk, for the cameras were everywhere, Guards too, gates, barbed wire and faceless walls. No more than four or five of the Underground met together, such was the risk, but they all had their ways of communicating with one another.

Even with the rebellion upon Corneria.

He had told the others, wishing for the thousandth time he had the gift his wife possessed, that he would do it—that he would deactivate specific flak-guns around the factories, lower the shields, and lead the rebels to their targets.

That in itself had been a success—with one, minor problem. He had no way of knowing where Krystal or Marca were. They had not shown up in the shelter, so he assumed they were either in another, out on the fields far from the battle… or dead…

He violently turned away from that thought. He would find them. That was why he did not go with the others to a haven afterward—he stayed behind, looking, searching.

But had it been worth it all?

Even with his help the rebels had suffered losses; numerous fighters and bombers had gone down, indiscriminately crashing into buildings where the civilian populace would reside in, depriving them of their homes. Even the factories had not suffered as much—not all of the guns had been silenced… not all of the shields had been lowered.

There had been no follow up with a ground invasion. No battlecruisers or destroyers had come down from orbit, covering the landing ships. The planetary Web had done its work well, and there was nothing he could do about that.

"The Web" was a system of asteroids doubling both as generators and weapons-emplacements, sending beams of cold, deadly energy through space during invasion to connect with others, until the planet was cloaked in an awful spider's web of energy. Covering the gaps were weapons satellites, each armed with numerous phaser strips and kinetic weaponry. To top it all off there was a massive military base upon the dark side of Eladard, protected by state of the art shielding and guns, and it maintained "the Web". Furthermore there were fleets of warships in deeper space to guard the motherland.

Andross had capitalized upon this defensive system during the Lylat Wars, destroying the mercenaries sent to assassinate him, and later obliterating the Cornerian fleet that came after—winning the war in one swift stroke.

No… it had not been worth it…

Herr McCloud sighed internally, looking at the dust he held in his hands, that was even now falling through to the tainted ground beneath. That represented all he had done, everything he had thrown away upon this gamble, and got nothing. It was a dream, freedom. The Empire was too strong, and there was nothing—nothing—he could do about it.

Suddenly the ground shook. He stood and turned in the same instant.

The massive bulk of a Mark I tank, still in service after twenty-one years, sent its overlong treads high into the sky as it towered above him, ready to crush his insignificance. The white and red colors of the Empire were emblazoned upon its side. The swastika too.

A fury filled him—an unspeakable fury of total anger, of being silenced by surveillance and the constant watching of the Guard. Of oppression.

In one swift move, screaming, he threw his handful of dust towards the machine as it rounded the rise…

Krystal echoed his scream, clutching at the bars separating her from the courtyard. Beside her was Marca.

They had been evacuated to Vocken, another military city, but crawling with more Guards, cameras, gates, wire and endless walls, after the bombing run. Life had never been the same since.

Before them stretched the courtyard, a massive training ground for the soldiers of the Empire. Behind its distant fences stood Mark I, II, III and IV tanks in ordered rows. There were even two Superfortresses, waiting silently for launch. Towering above them were the barracks and guard towers. And the cameras.

In the tiled grounds stood four men—three of the Black Guard, the other, Fox, wearing orange prison clothing; written across his back was his I.D. number. His hands were cuffed together.

Facing the two women.

Suddenly, one of the soldiers whacked him hard in the small of back with his baton. His face contorted with pain as he fell roughly to his knees; blood droplets flew from his mouth, the teeth of which had been broken during intense interrogation. He had been found guilty, of high treason against the Emperor, of defacing the flag of the Empire for usage in service of the rebellion, and of handing over his own city to be destroyed.

One of the Guard walked behind him, carrying a black cloth. Just before he put it over the bald-headed fox's face, herr McCloud looked up. His eyes found the women. They seemed to say "I'm sorry". So Marca thought.

The soldier pulled it over behind Fox's head, then stepped back. The other, holding the baton, stepped closer.

Suddenly he lashed out, as Fox bowed down to the ground. Krystal's screams grew shrill, and she collapsed in agony, sliding down the bars to the ground.

They were drowned out by the large echoing crack of the vulpes' skull caving in under the blow.

Marca turned her head away the moment Vater's death happened, closing her eyes; but she could not close out Mutter's screams. Neither could she close out the fading—ever present, but now silenced—mental presence. Unlike her mother, who felt it keenly in every particle and fiber of her body, it was like the disappearance of the sun by a cloud.

But this sun would never return.

Krystal's cries stopped the moment Fox's body fell down, still echoing, mingling with the death-blow of her husband, across the courtyard. Tears now replaced them, streaming down her face in torrents. Following the path of other tear-trails.

She looked out in utter and helpless fury at the Guard, who represented everything evil to her now. They did not return her gaze, watching the still body of the prisoner… locking up in the rigor mortis of cold, silent death…

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Present day…

The man who had ordered the execution of Krystal and Fox McCloud, who had watched the latter's movements with a suspicious eye, looked down at Marca. His gaze was mocking, it seemed. His eyes appeared to saying, "There is nothing you can do about it, fräulein. Nothing."

Marca continued gazing up at him for a long while—or perhaps only seconds—then turned to look back at Krystal. Snowflakes dotted the woman's peaceful face. Dotting her little girl's hair, and red bow, too. Covering her clothing.

So peaceful, in death. She had no peace in life. She had committed everything to destroy the man who killed her husband. And it had cost her own life.

Marca pulled out her hand from out under Krystal's head—then slowly, gently, with the touch only a loving tochter could have, closed her eyes. As if she were asleep. Blood still flowed, but draining now. It would soon stop.

She looked up at the youthful face of the soldier, who gazed back without any hint of emotion. Resolutely facing her fate.

Marca got up from where she had sat for the past hour. Holding the little red piece of her dress, now stained in blood. So were her hands. So like the one she had given Vater. It was ironic in a way, that both had become symbols of their passing. Both had died for defying it—yet defending it, too.

With an imperceptible nod the soldier signaled to one behind her. The other immediately began tying a blindfold around the woman's head. Preparing for execution.

Marca looked up from the ground, her breathing short, her chest heaving. Her eyes, downcast, lifted themselves upwards to the Citadel. Towards the man. Her mouth parted again.

She decided what to do. Now there was no turning back.

Taking a deep breath, she took the first step. Then another.

A third step. She held her scrap of dress loosely in her left hand, like a banner.

A fourth.

Krystal stood quietly, waiting. She could not see the spear-like lights lining the fortress. She could not see the dirigibles hovering overhead. She could not see the cameras. She could not even see her tochter, who was watching out somewhere in the crowd that was forced to watch.

She could not see the soldiers.

But she could hear.

Eight.

Nine.

A tenth. Two more.

Marca's eyes faced forward resolutely, just like Krystal's. She was going to do this. She reached the second set of stairs.

Dive into the darkness; ignite the flame within.

Now there is no turning back.

"Bereit waffen!" Ready weapons!

Thirteen.

Fourteen. Make the future… begin.

Another two.

"Feuer!"

The line of twenty Black Guards let loose their guns, firing intermittently. In short bursts. Unevenly.

Red stained the back of her head, spreading rapidly over the white cloth, changing her hair into a sticky mess. It was no longer blue.

Krystal's knees crumpled, no longer under the control of her body. She fell forward, yet still upright, her body swaying; hovered motionlessly for a moment.

Then toppled backwards.

She ascended the final set of stairs, and up the last steps. And stopped before the line. Behind her, to the left, rose one Platonic, kneeling man upon his pedestal. More lights sprang upward in the sky. Concealing all the buildings. Except the Citadel.

Before her lay its massive tower; before her lay the line of soldiers. Off to her left were two Mark I tanks, motionless, massive silhouettes. The Black Guard were equipped with riot shields, but otherwise looked the same. Uncaring. Emotionless.

The snowflakes falling from above became more thick, coating the ground with a fine layer of watery crystals. But the soldiers remained. The temperature started to drop.

Far above little Marca, upon the façade, was the slogan of of the Empire. But only one word, in massive letters, was visible to her eyes.

Freedom!

She lifted up her arm. The scrap fluttered more urgently than before as the wind caught it. Unconsciously Marca was mirroring the pose of the great statues upon the Citadel. She stared defiantly at the soldiers, at those who killed her family. At the man still looking down at her from his high tower. She was not homeless or friendless—she had aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, grandparents from both sides of the family, and even grandchildren. She would be taken care of.

But what she was going to do would be a death sentence, a shooting. She did not care. She had lost her parents, both of them.

Her hair blew, brushing across her forehead. The rest of her facial fur rippled slightly. Her brush waved back and forth slowly.

"I can do something," she said silently, answering the man's challenge. "Something which you can never understand. Never."

She released the scrap.

"Great Father, ruler of the universe," Marca prayed, for the first time in her life, "if you are there, please, hear my call…"

The red flag drifted ever upwards upon the breeze, floating higher and higher, ascending the heights of the Citadel. It carried her plea. Carrying her prayer.

Upon the back of a summer breeze.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Notes:

—This fanfiction was inspired by the music video Two Steps From Hell - Freedom Fighters (Extended) by YouTube user Seven7Lives. This will explain the usage of German words, the names of the World-War II aircraft and WWI tank models, and the strange atmosphere overall. I recommend you to watch it to fully understand. It is also the background music for the entire fic. (Note; the names of the two cities came from a Random City Name Generator, not actual German words.)

Another point of interest would be the Star Fox fanfiction Badlander by user DarkComedy. It is currently in a state of stagnation; has not been updated in over two years. It is quite similar but no less radical than this one.

—Marca is the feminine form of Marcus. Not a gender-bent.

—This was completed in under three days. I'd like to thank Soulia17 for ensuring my German was correct.

Your reviews are welcome. They may or may not be answered, depending on your questions.

~X~X~X~X~X~X~

Update:

—After watching and re-watching the video by Seven7Lives a chance reading of a YouTube comment, "Question of Purpose", redirected me over to EpiceMusicVn's video of the same thing entitled Thomas-Adam Habuda (feat. Mikolt) - Question of Purpose (EpicVocal/Choral) - EpicMusicVn | Cinematic, and from there to the original video.

—The original is entitled MOTHERLAND | Mutterland and is an original work, and can be found on YouTube under user 1oneclone. Here is its description:

"In a totalitarian propaganda world ruled from above, a girl can be all it takes to spark off a revolution and challenge the MOTHERLAND.

"The narrative and imagery of MOTHERLAND is based on stereotypic characters and motives that are abundant in propaganda art of the 1920s & 1930s: The innocent child in need of protection by the heroic soldier, the benevolent ruler and the patriotic worker. They all live and serve for the nuturing mother state. In MOTHERLAND this original meaning has been turned on its head to reveal an underlying, terrifying truth behind the propaganda.

"Whilst the world depicted gives the audience a look into a stylized past, it was built and realized using cutting edge 3d real-time technology. Crytek's CryENGINE was used for previs and to render out set extensions & background vistas to be used in compositing. Approx. 66% of all shots feature real-time rendered background elements.

"MOTHERLAND is a diploma project produced at The Institute of Animation
Filmakademie Baden-Württemberg"

—Thank you for reading this.