02-06-2020, 06:29 AM
February 5th, 2020
The strong Redeemer pine branches that extended over the Mansion’s rotunda from the trees only allowed wisps of light to seep through from the sun. Foley wandered down the pavement, birds chirping occasionally within the leaves. A small and gentle push of the breeze rested against his head. It was quiet except for that. No honking or bustling from the Tofino streets, everything was supernaturally quiet. Foley began to grow confused. From behind the sturdy base of a tree several dozen meters away, Hannah emerged. She was wearing a white, fleeced dress. She looked beautiful. But, she was alone. And the only person on the expansive Presidential lawn aside from Foley.
“Hannah,” Foley quizzed his wife softly, “where is everyone?”
Hannah turned around, looking at her husband. She cocked her head to the side, appearing confused. Suddenly a deafening blast, and Hannah’s dress ripped open in a flash of red. As blood pooled from the wound in her chest, she stared at her husband in horror as she crumpled to the ground. Behind her, Van’a Kamoni stood with a pistol raised at Foley, a smirk crossing his face.
Foley snapped awake. Another nightmare.
He went to the sink and splashed water in his face, rubbing a heated towel over himself to dry off. Looking back into the bedroom, Hannah was sleeping deeply under the sheets. Foley smiled sadly to himself. He knew that Kamoni would haunt him forever, but he wondered if it would ever leviate once the man was killed.
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The helicopter was in flames. After having been shot down by a M.L.F. shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, the helicopter plummeted into the ground and six of the ten soldiers aboard had been killed. The helmet footage from the battle was ferocious, as Zamastanian soldiers on the lines near the crash site rushed in to save their wounded compatriots and fight off the advancing insurgents. As tragic as the shootdown was, the heroism on display would serve to motivate the country. Foley clicked off the screen from the pad on his desk and stood, looking back at the window of the Gaviria Room and towards the skyline of Tofino. He had always stood for his people, and would always fight for them. He knew the sacrifices of his countrymen all too well. The bullet fragment lodged in his chest pained him everyday, and though the world could not see it, he winced when he spoke. Yet, he was a powerful speaker. Today, he was going to speak again.
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“My countrymen, fellow Zamastanians,” Foley bellowed from his podium on the steps of Congressional Hall, “we are here to commemorate those we lost on the second of January.” A crowd of thousands was gathered before him in the park, with the expanse of the Bay behind them and the shimmering glass of the highrises surrounding the capital complexes. “We lost hundreds, the world lost thousands, yet we never lost hope. We, the Zamastanian people, never lost dignity, pride, honor, or our valor.”
“As our brave men and women fight the enemy in Vulkaria, we fight the ideologies of violence and oppression here. We overcome the adversity of terror every day that we are alive. Our society is the cornerstone of freedom. We have the foundation of righteousness on our side.”
The crowd erupted in a roar. Zamastanian flags fluttered and waved over the thousands of heads. Signs punched into the sky, some saying “Long Live Zamastan”, others saying “Keep Up The Fight”, and mottos of patriotism and support spread across the masses.
“On these steps have stood the greatest fighters against oppression. Tomias Hapson, Marvin Gaviria, both slain in this spot,” Foley paused, gesturing to the small stone plaques to either side of the podium, “reminders of the men and women who have given their lives for freedom,” gesturing to the statues of soldiers towering in the park, “and the everlasting example of the bravery we have on our side.”
Fole knew how to work the crowd. From the podium, he heard a man in the audience shout “Thank you, Mister President!”
“As we remember those we have lost, we honor their lives. We honor them for the walks of life they came from, their roles they played in the lives of their loved ones and the people they touched, and we will never forget them. Today, we unveil their memory and keep it sanctified amidst the heroes of this park.”
A large tarp fell from the covered statue, and it revealed the thirty-foot marble obelisk inscribed with the names of the 125 victims who died in Zamastan on January 2nd, 2020.
The strong Redeemer pine branches that extended over the Mansion’s rotunda from the trees only allowed wisps of light to seep through from the sun. Foley wandered down the pavement, birds chirping occasionally within the leaves. A small and gentle push of the breeze rested against his head. It was quiet except for that. No honking or bustling from the Tofino streets, everything was supernaturally quiet. Foley began to grow confused. From behind the sturdy base of a tree several dozen meters away, Hannah emerged. She was wearing a white, fleeced dress. She looked beautiful. But, she was alone. And the only person on the expansive Presidential lawn aside from Foley.
“Hannah,” Foley quizzed his wife softly, “where is everyone?”
Hannah turned around, looking at her husband. She cocked her head to the side, appearing confused. Suddenly a deafening blast, and Hannah’s dress ripped open in a flash of red. As blood pooled from the wound in her chest, she stared at her husband in horror as she crumpled to the ground. Behind her, Van’a Kamoni stood with a pistol raised at Foley, a smirk crossing his face.
Foley snapped awake. Another nightmare.
He went to the sink and splashed water in his face, rubbing a heated towel over himself to dry off. Looking back into the bedroom, Hannah was sleeping deeply under the sheets. Foley smiled sadly to himself. He knew that Kamoni would haunt him forever, but he wondered if it would ever leviate once the man was killed.
-
-
-
-
The helicopter was in flames. After having been shot down by a M.L.F. shoulder-mounted rocket launcher, the helicopter plummeted into the ground and six of the ten soldiers aboard had been killed. The helmet footage from the battle was ferocious, as Zamastanian soldiers on the lines near the crash site rushed in to save their wounded compatriots and fight off the advancing insurgents. As tragic as the shootdown was, the heroism on display would serve to motivate the country. Foley clicked off the screen from the pad on his desk and stood, looking back at the window of the Gaviria Room and towards the skyline of Tofino. He had always stood for his people, and would always fight for them. He knew the sacrifices of his countrymen all too well. The bullet fragment lodged in his chest pained him everyday, and though the world could not see it, he winced when he spoke. Yet, he was a powerful speaker. Today, he was going to speak again.
-
-
-
-
“My countrymen, fellow Zamastanians,” Foley bellowed from his podium on the steps of Congressional Hall, “we are here to commemorate those we lost on the second of January.” A crowd of thousands was gathered before him in the park, with the expanse of the Bay behind them and the shimmering glass of the highrises surrounding the capital complexes. “We lost hundreds, the world lost thousands, yet we never lost hope. We, the Zamastanian people, never lost dignity, pride, honor, or our valor.”
“As our brave men and women fight the enemy in Vulkaria, we fight the ideologies of violence and oppression here. We overcome the adversity of terror every day that we are alive. Our society is the cornerstone of freedom. We have the foundation of righteousness on our side.”
The crowd erupted in a roar. Zamastanian flags fluttered and waved over the thousands of heads. Signs punched into the sky, some saying “Long Live Zamastan”, others saying “Keep Up The Fight”, and mottos of patriotism and support spread across the masses.
“On these steps have stood the greatest fighters against oppression. Tomias Hapson, Marvin Gaviria, both slain in this spot,” Foley paused, gesturing to the small stone plaques to either side of the podium, “reminders of the men and women who have given their lives for freedom,” gesturing to the statues of soldiers towering in the park, “and the everlasting example of the bravery we have on our side.”
Fole knew how to work the crowd. From the podium, he heard a man in the audience shout “Thank you, Mister President!”
“As we remember those we have lost, we honor their lives. We honor them for the walks of life they came from, their roles they played in the lives of their loved ones and the people they touched, and we will never forget them. Today, we unveil their memory and keep it sanctified amidst the heroes of this park.”
A large tarp fell from the covered statue, and it revealed the thirty-foot marble obelisk inscribed with the names of the 125 victims who died in Zamastan on January 2nd, 2020.