A Song About Kent State

Proxy of Demescia

Proxy of Demescia

TNPer
TNP Nation
Demescia
Somewhere on a Sifric Reserve, Sifris—Demescia:
What was once a grove or meadow is now a sandbox. Where solemn trees once stood now stands total stations and automatic levels. Instead of deer or boar grazing, there are surveyors researching.

Near the border of the barren field, Prakash adjusts a transit level as Kolomb-Roto (Pigeon Gang) played in his headphones. Though, at the corner of his eye, there’s movement in the bushes of the remaining wood. A woman with rags for a robe emerges, wielding a spear and boar skull. [bgcolor=#fff]“Fek’,”[/bgcolor] the surveyor says. He takes off his headphones and snatches his handheld transceiver from the bench. [bgcolor=#fff]“Denaskuloj venas sur la ejo. Sendu iom da—pikedoj, tuj.”[/bgcolor] He asks for security, but there’s no response. [bgcolor=#fff]“Saluton?”[/bgcolor]

Someone muffles him from behind, rope wrapping tightly around his arms. He tries to break free, flailing his legs, but they’re too strong.

The Sifrites bring him to an idle bulldozer, where men with hardhats and clipboards kneel on one side, yelling through makeshift ball gags, and brawny men with hardhats lie on the other. He kneels before a man in a coyote skull headdress, whose foot was on a brawny man’s back. [bgcolor=#fff]“Iskon.”[/bgcolor] The man tells the women in Sifric to unmuffle him, and they take out the ball gag in his mouth.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Konscias tio sifrikas?”[/bgcolor] The man asks the surveyor, in rough Tutsono, whether he knew these were Sifric lands.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Ne estis nia decido,”[/bgcolor] Prakash blurts. It wasn’t their decision. [bgcolor=#fff]“Ni sole pagigas.”[/bgcolor] They just get paid.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Kiu via boso?”[/bgcolor] He asks who his boss is.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Selena Meyer.”[/bgcolor]

[bgcolor=#fff]“Eskapu tie ?i kaj ordonu vian boson halti seksatenci dion.”[/bgcolor] He tells him to leave and tell his boss to stop raping god.

Note: I don't know how the hell anyone would roleplay in this but it's open (probably).
 
Verdkastel; Verkas, Hetacia—Demescia:
Dimitro Iliopoulos, Demescia’s chief premier, sits in Verdkastel’s hawker center, news reverberating from a large flat screen television on the wall. He wolfs fried tripe, a side of his lu?ejo, while his boyfriend across from him picked at oily brussel sprouts.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Dim?jo,”[/bgcolor] ?inata says, [bgcolor=#fff]“se vi estus besto, kio vi estus?”[/bgcolor] If Dimitro was an animal, what would he be?

[bgcolor=#fff]“Mi ne estas felulo, ?i?jo.”[/bgcolor] He’s not a furry, he tells him.

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Vi ?iam tion diras.”[/bgcolor] Dimitro always says that, he said. ?inata turns to the broadcasting news outlet, BluN. Current headline: “Sifrikoj Forpelis Termezuristoj de Mino en Ribelo”—Sifrites ousted mine surveyors in protest. [bgcolor=#fff]“Rigardu.”[/bgcolor]

Iliopoulos scowls when sees the headline. [bgcolor=#fff]“Estas bona esti ?efo, mi supozas.”[/bgcolor] It’s good to be chief, he supposes. [bgcolor=#fff]“Almena?, mia vivo ne enuas.”[/bgcolor] At least his life isn’t boring.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Mi povas imagi.”[/bgcolor] ?inata can imagine.

The Nordic-featured news anchor states that security is hospitalized, all of them sustaining wounds to the head. Prakash comes on, saying that he wasn’t sure whether he would make it to he his wife, but he’s glad he did.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Ha, tial neniu ?atas Demolando.”[/bgcolor] ?inata says that for that reason, no one likes Demescia. He turns to Dimitro, who has eyes on him from all around, even from the vendors.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Kio?”[/bgcolor] Dimitro says. [bgcolor=#fff]“Mi ne havas opinion. La intendento povas tion mana?i.”[/bgcolor] He doesn’t have an opinion. The intendant can manage it.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Via patrino povas mana?i min.”[/bgcolor] Your mom can manage me, ?inata said. The kids and teens in the room chuckles.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Tial mi amas vin.”[/bgcolor] For that reason, Dimitro says, he loves him.
…
A Suburb in Frome, Sifris—Demescia:
A balding man clenches his rattling cup of tea, breathing deeply and audibly, as he watches BluN. It’s Willem Jansen, the intendant of Sifris. He dips a cerba?o (chunk of fried lamb brain) into aioli, then leans back. The words of the rebels resounds through the news anchor’s lips: “stop raping god.”

He chomps on that cerba?o, louder than the rage bubbling inside him—harder than how he’ll punch those sons and daughters of bitches that dare to threaten the mining economy and the reputation of the Daughterland.

His wife looks on from the bathroom. [bgcolor=#fff]“?u vi bonas?”[/bgcolor] She asks if he was okay.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Mi bonas,”[/bgcolor] he says, forcing a smile. [bgcolor=#fff]“Mi sole meditantas.”[/bgcolor] He’s just thinking.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Pri kio?”[/bgcolor] About what?

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Politiko.”[/bgcolor] Politics.
 
Intendant's Office; Frome, Sifris—Demescia:
Jansen repeatedly taps the surface of his bureau, staring at a television showing BluN. A helicopter shoots footage from above the site, where a bulldozer was tipped over.

[bgcolor=#fff]“La ribelantoj diras, ke ili ne haltos ?is la estro protektas ilian teritorion kontra? firmoj de minado.”[/bgcolor] The rebels say that they will not stop until the intendant protects their land from mining companies.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Sinjoro,”[/bgcolor] the intendant’s assistant knocks on the door of Jansen’s office, [bgcolor=#fff]“raportistino atendas por intervju’.”[/bgcolor] A reporter is waiting for an interview.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Diru al ?i atendi.”[/bgcolor] Tell her to wait. He opens a drawer in his bureau and pulls out a small zipper bag with a gray, powdery substance.

[bgcolor=#fff]“?i jam farantas tion, sed okej.”[/bgcolor] She was already doing that, but okay. He pours out of a bit of it, uses his pencil to gather it in a pile, and snorts it.

He leans back and breathes. [bgcolor=#fff]“Venu!”[/bgcolor] A lanky, olive-skinned woman in a gray pantsuit comes in, ignoring the bits of crot on his desk.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Bonan maten’.”[/bgcolor] Good morning. [bgcolor=#fff]“Kiel vi fartas?”[/bgcolor] She sits door in a cushiony chair by his desk.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Mi fartas bone.”[/bgcolor] Jansen says he’s doing well.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Vi estas Willem Jansen, estro de Sifriklando, ?uste?”[/bgcolor] The reporter makes sure that’s he the intendant and not some look-alike spokesman (that’s happened before). The intendant nods. [bgcolor=#fff]“Okej. Mi volas koversi pri via sinten’ pri la ribel’ ?e la—Jadholmo Mino.”[/bgcolor] She wants to talk about the rebellion at Jade Hill Mine. She presses recorder on her phone-record app thing.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Nu, ?i ne estas ribel’, sed signal’.”[/bgcolor] It’s not a rebellion but a sign.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Signal’ de kio?”[/bgcolor] A sign of what?

[bgcolor=#fff]“La neceso de ?an?’ en polisoj.”[/bgcolor] The need for a change in policy. [bgcolor=#fff]“—?i tiuj sifrikoj estas—?enintaj nin dum iom da fojo pri ilia lando minacata de minado.”[/bgcolor] These Sifrites have bugged us for some time about their land being threatened by mining.

[bgcolor=#fff]“La etalono protektas landojn sifrikajn kontra? pertubo ekstera, ?u ne?”[/bgcolor] The Benchmark protects Sifric lands from interference, right?

[bgcolor=#fff]“Jes,”[/bgcolor] he quickly answers, face getting red and heated, [bgcolor=#fff]“sed la kortego nulis ?ia aplikado en Sifriklando anta? dudek jaroj. Ili nur protestas kontra? la juro kaj uzas nenecesan perforton.”[/bgcolor] Yes, but the court nullified its application in Sifris twenty years ago. They’re just protesting against the law, and using unnecessary violence.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Ho, nu kiel vi solvos la situacio?”[/bgcolor] How will you solve the situation?

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Forigo.”[/bgcolor] Removal.

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Kio?”[/bgcolor] What?

[bgcolor=#fff]“Ili malamikas. Ili devas esti forigitaj.”[/bgcolor] They’re hostile. They must be removed.

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Kiel?”[/bgcolor] How?

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Ne komento.”[/bgcolor] No comment.

[bgcolor=#fff]“V-vi aspektas esti sugestanta devigon.”[/bgcolor] You seem to be suggesting force.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Mi ne sugestantas ion.”[/bgcolor] I’m not suggesting anything. [bgcolor=#fff]“Mi nur volas fini ?in. ?u vi havas pli multajn demandojn?”[/bgcolor] I just want to get it over with. Any more questions?
 
[bgcolor=#fff]“Ili malamikas. Ili devas esti forigitaj.”[/bgcolor]

The words spread through the Daughterland—through the television news networks ranging in bias, through the gaudy, cluttered web pages of ‘Miko, through the words of mouths in dinner discussions, even through the sparse villages of the desolate mountains—in less than a day.

Verdkastel, same food court: the words of the blunt intendant resound and eyes open.

[bgcolor=#fff]“—Kiel?”[/bgcolor]

[bgcolor=#fff]“Ne komento.”[/bgcolor]

At an instant the patrons unite in a singular commotion about that single topic. What did he mean? What will he do? They hush when the intendant speaks again.

At the end of the interview, the reporter asks [bgcolor=#fff]“?u vi volas diri ion alian al la a?dantaro?”[/bgcolor] Do you want to say anything else to those watching?

[bgcolor=#fff]“Nur reprezentu via filinujo bone.”[/bgcolor] Just represent your daughterland well.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Vi ne faras!”[/bgcolor] You do not, a middle-aged man exclaims in the midst of the hushness, rising from his plastic stool and making his aioli fall to the floor. The crowd rabbles again, throwing their stools to the ground. Some of the customers cover their heads as bits of rice and okra are tossed in the air.

Meanwhile, in one of Katulinoj’s shopping centres—in its vitrolite and marble plaza—people simply walked onward without causing a ruckus. Though, politics still pervade the soft conversing among shoppers.

Meanwhile, a Sifric woman with a yurt in the mountains cuddles with her youth as she views the interview on television, a tear plummeting to the rug.

Meanwhile, ‘Miko is flooded with threads about it, though with mix of support and disgust. One can’t look at their feed without being bombarded by at least a dozen messages preaching about this and that.

The public opinion is scrambled at this point, but one question surpasses the rest: what happens next?

Premier's Office; Combre, Zunto—Demescia:
Dimitro Iliopoulos stares at the appeal on his granite bureau. His green-blue lava lamp glows in an otherwise darkened room, the sun dawning over Demescia. [bgcolor=#fff]“Li volas kion?”[/bgcolor] He wants what, Dimitro says to himself. “Apelo por Armiloj en Sifriklando”—appeal for Arms in Sifris was its title. Dimitro skims over the usual words of flattery that came with every appeal. Shit about “the change this country needs” and that stuff. He knew about it as a journalist—how intendants will flatter higher-ups like gold-diggers to get what they want—and now that’s he’s chief, the stuff’s old to him.

The meat of the appeal: dispatch of the Commonwealthian Guard to “remove Sifric threat.” Iliopoulos, yawning, half-mindedly signs.
 
Mine on a Sifric Reserve, Sifris—Demescia:
A man in a hide toga breaks ground with a stick, and buries a seed. The land is lined with seeds in rows and columns. As bunch of men and women in togas, stolas and chitons tend to them, the man with the coyote headdress sits atop the bulldozer. He looks out at the vast surrounding wilderness and the mountains that backgrounds them.

Though, he catches a harsh rumbling from afar. He looks in its direction. A gray animal emerged from the forest—a strange one. One with a long hollow nose of metal and weird feet, revolving like how the sun and moon revolve around earth.

Four smaller animals accompanied it, also gray and with revolving feet. Riders with helmets rode them like they were masters. The coyote man just stared, unfazed?unmoving, as they tore through the rows of seeds. They all stop before the tipped bulldozer, revealing thundersticks as they got off.

In Sifric he spoke to his fellows, who were on the ground shaking: [bgcolor=#fff]“Remember that before anything else, we are Demescian. Remember that even if we die, we will never lose. Remember that, after what happens today.”[/bgcolor]

Premier's Office; Combre, Zunto—Demescia:
Alone in his dark office, biting his fingernail with his bleached teeth, Iliopoulos stared at the bright screen in front him. A few tacks at the keyboard–a few clicks on the words he'd typed. Birds chirped outside in the light of noon, but that light wasn't for him. Not yet.

He exhaled as he finally leaned back in his swivel chair. Nine bulky paragraphs in justified, double-spaced, 11-point Calibri. [bgcolor=#fff]“Nun, mi pensas, ke estas temp’ por lun?o.”[/bgcolor] Now, I think it’s time for lunch.

Just as he got up, the orange landline phone rang. He stared; “should I answer it?” he asked himself.

He sighed as he sat down and took the phone. He probably wasn't finished with work anyway, he figured.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Jes jes, saluton,”[/bgcolor] he said. Yes yes, hello. [bgcolor=#fff]“Ho, ?u vere? Nun?”[/bgcolor] Oh, really? Right now? Iliopoulos moved orange curtains aside and looked outside his window. People with effigies and signs saying “Akuzu!” flooded the courtyard. [bgcolor=#fff]“Mi pensis, ke ili estas birdoj.”[/bgcolor] I thought they were birds. [bgcolor=#fff]“...Okej, mi pritraktos ?in.”[/bgcolor] Alright, I'll handle it.

He put down the phone. “So much for lunch,” he thought. “Thought I'd be roasting pork, not people. Not even a cannibal though—it'd be for nothing…” He grabbed his yellow feather boa from a rack as he exited the dark office.

He made it to the wooden double–doors to the loggia. The hubbub of the crowd grew louder than a bird could ever chirp. “Sinjor’ Iliopoulos,” a shorter man in a suit said behind him, [bgcolor=#fff]“?u vi certas, ke vi ne bezonas protekton?”[/bgcolor] Are you sure you don't need protection?

[bgcolor=#fff]“Nekonataj. Ili amas min.”[/bgcolor] Nonsense. They love me.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Tio ne estas, kion diras la enketoj,”[/bgcolor] the man murmured. That's not what the polls say.

When Iliopoulos stepped out into the gallery with a cordless microphone, the crowd was in a mix of cheers and yells. Chants of “Akuzu!” grew louder.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Bonan tagon, karuloj.”[/bgcolor] Good afternoon, my darling lads. His microphone matched his audience in volume. [bgcolor=#fff]“Mi a?das vian petegon pro akuzo, sed mi ne perfidos—mian vorton.”[/bgcolor] I hear your plea for accusation, but I will not betray my word. The crowd was in fury; cans and bottles flew in the air but failed to touch even the loggia.

[bgcolor=#fff]“Lasu min klarigi?”[/bgcolor] Let me explain? “[bgcolor=#fff]Mi ne la?dos, kio okazis ?i-matene. Mi persone kredas je la rajt’ protesti. Tamen, sinjor’ Jansen est’ la estro de sia propra land’.”[/bgcolor] I will not praise what happened this morning. I personally believe in the right to protest. However, Mr. Jansen is the intendant of his own domain. [bgcolor=#fff]“Se vi est’ tiel kolera, kial vi ne vo?donas lin sen oficejo?” [/bgcolor]If you're that angry, why don't you vote him out of office? “Elektoj estas en unu monato. Mult’ de tempo por malkonstruado tiun homon.” Elections are in one month, plenty of time to demolish that guy. [bgcolor=#fff]“La respondo estas vi mem, ne mi.” [/bgcolor]The answer is yourselves, not me.

Projectiles went higher, still missing Iliopoulos but rolling to the wall when they landed on the loggia. [bgcolor=#fff]“...a? vi povus detrui la korton kiam beboj bruas.”[/bgcolor] Or you could destroy the court like babies throwing a tantrum. He turned and waltzed back inside, the protesters throwing toilet paper and rotten eggs all over.
 
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