Iraelia
TNPer
It was an overcast, foggy day in Tlaakatlandkaali, an odd sight in the capital of the Confederation of Tlaakanders. The city, itself nestled along the lakes of the island Zacatl, while large, sprawling, and often reeking of raw sewage, was normally a sun kissed paradise. A beautiful capital for a beautiful nation.
Although nation is a bit too strong of a word, isn't it? The archipelago of five islands in Northern Iteria were as different as could be, and for most of history it's inhabitants had been at one another's throats. All that bound them together was a shared poverty ridden oppression, and their bastardized Gotic Creole language, a scar of the bygone colonial era.
For as long as any living man can remember, Tlaakatland has been defined by it's relations to others. First it was UKAG, which established a brutal plantation culture on the islands. Then it was Syrixia, with their omnipresent corporate enterprise. Next it was a Malorian intelligence agency, hiding their tyranny behind the bourgeois expatriates they used as cannon fodder to "liberate" the island. But as a new millennia dawned, these systems of control seemed to disintegrate. The national government served to only entrench moneyed interests, and the power of local governments served to show that Tlaakatland was anything but one nation. For a time, this was sustainable. But when the interests of men begin to conflict with the corporations meant to serve them, violence follows in short order. As the Confederation government elected in 2016 further fought to integrate Tlaaktland by extending the control of its corporate entities, the sovereignty of local government was revoked bit by bit. People turned to the polls to rectify this, but it wasn't enough. A re-elected Federalist government meant more integration and more corporate control. A drop in the price of bananas and oil, which was accompanied by massive layoffs, was the final nail in the coffin.
It was a January 5 like you'd see every four years. A newly elected federal government was being sworn in outside the legislature. But what interests us is not what is happening on the premises of this building, but below it. Beneath these politicians, in a complex tunnel system beneath the Capitol, sit three disgruntled miners, all laid off by their employer. All around them are improvised C4 explosives. The men argue, mud dripping from the top of their cave. After some disagreement, one of the men decides to stay back. The others make their way out, nearly a half mile, to the exit. Their solemn comrade waits, playing with a lighter that's in his hand. He lights a cigarette and enjoys the last smoke of his life. As the mud cave fills with a thick cloud, his pocket watch goes off. He puts down the lighter and his lit cigarette, and fumbles around in the dimly lit cave. He grabs two loose wires, the trigger of the very device that will be his executioner, and crosses them.
In an instant, the Capitol erupts into flames. Shockwaves rip through the center of Tlaakatlandkaali. The city, built upon the muddy foundations of a lake, quivers like a tight rope walker above a canyon. And in an instant, nearly everyone in the capitol building is dead.
Somewhere, outside of Tlaakatlandkaali, a yellow flag flutters in the wind. Amidst the banner stood a small reptilian creature, one which commanded the fear of every Tlaakatlander. Below it, in bold black letters, read a phrase in Tlaakatlander Creole. In Mercanti, the translation was roughly:
"Don't tread on me."
Although nation is a bit too strong of a word, isn't it? The archipelago of five islands in Northern Iteria were as different as could be, and for most of history it's inhabitants had been at one another's throats. All that bound them together was a shared poverty ridden oppression, and their bastardized Gotic Creole language, a scar of the bygone colonial era.
For as long as any living man can remember, Tlaakatland has been defined by it's relations to others. First it was UKAG, which established a brutal plantation culture on the islands. Then it was Syrixia, with their omnipresent corporate enterprise. Next it was a Malorian intelligence agency, hiding their tyranny behind the bourgeois expatriates they used as cannon fodder to "liberate" the island. But as a new millennia dawned, these systems of control seemed to disintegrate. The national government served to only entrench moneyed interests, and the power of local governments served to show that Tlaakatland was anything but one nation. For a time, this was sustainable. But when the interests of men begin to conflict with the corporations meant to serve them, violence follows in short order. As the Confederation government elected in 2016 further fought to integrate Tlaaktland by extending the control of its corporate entities, the sovereignty of local government was revoked bit by bit. People turned to the polls to rectify this, but it wasn't enough. A re-elected Federalist government meant more integration and more corporate control. A drop in the price of bananas and oil, which was accompanied by massive layoffs, was the final nail in the coffin.
It was a January 5 like you'd see every four years. A newly elected federal government was being sworn in outside the legislature. But what interests us is not what is happening on the premises of this building, but below it. Beneath these politicians, in a complex tunnel system beneath the Capitol, sit three disgruntled miners, all laid off by their employer. All around them are improvised C4 explosives. The men argue, mud dripping from the top of their cave. After some disagreement, one of the men decides to stay back. The others make their way out, nearly a half mile, to the exit. Their solemn comrade waits, playing with a lighter that's in his hand. He lights a cigarette and enjoys the last smoke of his life. As the mud cave fills with a thick cloud, his pocket watch goes off. He puts down the lighter and his lit cigarette, and fumbles around in the dimly lit cave. He grabs two loose wires, the trigger of the very device that will be his executioner, and crosses them.
In an instant, the Capitol erupts into flames. Shockwaves rip through the center of Tlaakatlandkaali. The city, built upon the muddy foundations of a lake, quivers like a tight rope walker above a canyon. And in an instant, nearly everyone in the capitol building is dead.
Somewhere, outside of Tlaakatlandkaali, a yellow flag flutters in the wind. Amidst the banner stood a small reptilian creature, one which commanded the fear of every Tlaakatlander. Below it, in bold black letters, read a phrase in Tlaakatlander Creole. In Mercanti, the translation was roughly:
"Don't tread on me."
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