Somewhere in Central Keron
"This is the third camp we've liberated this week." Ti-fo stood, his arms crossed across his stocky chest. He still had coal dust clinging to his face - Ostomrei had no idea whether he had washed since the first night of the uprising, or if this stuff was just ingrained into his skin and the bristles of his beard. "Each one is worse than the last."
As he spoke, an emaciated figure stumbled out of one of the huts, if one could call it even that, their sunken eyes blinking at the light as they were led - almost carried - out into the air by one of their liberators. It was impossible to tell whether they were biologically male or female, for there was nothing on their bones except a layer of skin, stretched thin like parchment over their body.
"By the fates," The old coal miner that - somewhat unwittingly - had become the leader of the group, muttered under his breath.
Ostomrei found it hard to disagree.
The stench of poverty, that overwhelming, clogging miasma of dirt, shit, rot and dispair, was the only thing she could smell. It was the only thing *to* smell.
"It is because these are the political prisoners. Those who made the ground for this movement, those who distributed the material, only to get discovered, and locked away." Ostomrei kept her face a stone, as much as she wanted to weep for this one figure, who had sunken to their knees, pinkish tears rolling down their soot-blackened skin, needle arms wrapped around the revolutionary's legs, their head buried into his leg.
The armed man who had had his arm around them was left to stare, struck dumb, at the prisoner sobbing into the light of dawn. His own tears dripped from his cheeks and jaw to drip onto the shorn head of the figure, a hand resting against their cheek.
"Ironic that those who made all this possible wouldn't hear about it actually happening until they themselves were freed." This comment, almost whispered, from Tahwur, one of the Quera operatives that had been stationed to a camp a hundred miles west of her original posting; the two groups of workers had joined forces, a mirror of what was happening across the country. He turned away, looking up at one of the few prison guards who had had the sense to surrender when the workers had arrived - he perched on the edge of a raised platform, arms and legs bound in the chains that the prisoner who was now guarding him had been wearing.
He looked down at the scene from where the new captives were arranged. He had stopped crying and begging an hour or so ago, and now he just sat, his shoulders hunched and the dark pits of his eyes empty.
Tahwur drew the ex-guard's gaze, then shook his head.
From the long, low hut that the now-freed prisoner had been pried from, another revolutionary stumbled out, a bundle in her arms, her face slack.
"What's that?" Ti-fo started to move.
The woman didn't respond. She walked - almost limped - on, like her legs were only reluctantly taking instruction.
"Ona?" Ti-fo rushed to her. He glanced at the bundle, then took a half-step back. What colour there had been in his light-deprived face drained away.
Ona walked on.
As she limped past, Ostomrei too caught sight of the rags held to her chest.
A tiny child, unnaturally tiny, their skin sunken into their face stared blindly up at the air, the glassy eyes vacant.
"Fates..." She didn't know who had whispered it. It might have even have been her.
They all watched Ona carry the dead baby to where their comrades were digging the graves. Even the weeping, newly freed captive fell silent, and stared after the two of them.
There was a flitting shape past Ostomrei's shoulder; the bird spread its wings, fluttering down atop the barbed wire. It stood, turned to watch the scene, and cocked its head, the sun reflecting off the mirrors of its eyes. After a moment, it opened its beak, and sang.
"This is the third camp we've liberated this week." Ti-fo stood, his arms crossed across his stocky chest. He still had coal dust clinging to his face - Ostomrei had no idea whether he had washed since the first night of the uprising, or if this stuff was just ingrained into his skin and the bristles of his beard. "Each one is worse than the last."
As he spoke, an emaciated figure stumbled out of one of the huts, if one could call it even that, their sunken eyes blinking at the light as they were led - almost carried - out into the air by one of their liberators. It was impossible to tell whether they were biologically male or female, for there was nothing on their bones except a layer of skin, stretched thin like parchment over their body.
"By the fates," The old coal miner that - somewhat unwittingly - had become the leader of the group, muttered under his breath.
Ostomrei found it hard to disagree.
The stench of poverty, that overwhelming, clogging miasma of dirt, shit, rot and dispair, was the only thing she could smell. It was the only thing *to* smell.
"It is because these are the political prisoners. Those who made the ground for this movement, those who distributed the material, only to get discovered, and locked away." Ostomrei kept her face a stone, as much as she wanted to weep for this one figure, who had sunken to their knees, pinkish tears rolling down their soot-blackened skin, needle arms wrapped around the revolutionary's legs, their head buried into his leg.
The armed man who had had his arm around them was left to stare, struck dumb, at the prisoner sobbing into the light of dawn. His own tears dripped from his cheeks and jaw to drip onto the shorn head of the figure, a hand resting against their cheek.
"Ironic that those who made all this possible wouldn't hear about it actually happening until they themselves were freed." This comment, almost whispered, from Tahwur, one of the Quera operatives that had been stationed to a camp a hundred miles west of her original posting; the two groups of workers had joined forces, a mirror of what was happening across the country. He turned away, looking up at one of the few prison guards who had had the sense to surrender when the workers had arrived - he perched on the edge of a raised platform, arms and legs bound in the chains that the prisoner who was now guarding him had been wearing.
He looked down at the scene from where the new captives were arranged. He had stopped crying and begging an hour or so ago, and now he just sat, his shoulders hunched and the dark pits of his eyes empty.
Tahwur drew the ex-guard's gaze, then shook his head.
From the long, low hut that the now-freed prisoner had been pried from, another revolutionary stumbled out, a bundle in her arms, her face slack.
"What's that?" Ti-fo started to move.
The woman didn't respond. She walked - almost limped - on, like her legs were only reluctantly taking instruction.
"Ona?" Ti-fo rushed to her. He glanced at the bundle, then took a half-step back. What colour there had been in his light-deprived face drained away.
Ona walked on.
As she limped past, Ostomrei too caught sight of the rags held to her chest.
A tiny child, unnaturally tiny, their skin sunken into their face stared blindly up at the air, the glassy eyes vacant.
"Fates..." She didn't know who had whispered it. It might have even have been her.
They all watched Ona carry the dead baby to where their comrades were digging the graves. Even the weeping, newly freed captive fell silent, and stared after the two of them.
There was a flitting shape past Ostomrei's shoulder; the bird spread its wings, fluttering down atop the barbed wire. It stood, turned to watch the scene, and cocked its head, the sun reflecting off the mirrors of its eyes. After a moment, it opened its beak, and sang.
Harndon
Some wanker with too much time and too little energy.
