05-17-2021, 11:30 PM
Tour-Real, Northwestern Auria
Monday, May 17th, 5:37 PM
The town of Tour-Real wasn't exactly a chaotic town by any means. With an estimated population of fifty thousand plus another fifty thousand in nearby towns, it served as the center of activity for the region. The Modern-esque buildings of the central town area clashed with the old city cathedral and the City Hall, ten-story office buildings locked in a strong competition with the nineteenth-century Cathedral of Saint Helene. Although the City’s skyline was small compared to other cities, and the streets were generally passive and calm, the echo of shoes and boots stomping on the ground echoed through the streets.
Tour-Real was built with a small lake park near the center of the city, the lake being guarded over by a tall, circular watchtower, which had served as the town’s namesake and inspiration. On a typical Mid May day, the birds would flock to the lake in groups, filling the warm air with the pleasant tones of birdsong. But today, unbeknownst to a majority of Tour-Real’s citizens, was far from a normal day.
“The Marchers”, as they called themselves, had started gathering in small groups, congregating in small clumps of friends and families. Their signs and weapons were piled on the ground in a poor attempt to hide them from curious eyes. Some wore pins, shirts, or hats with the words “Lapointe Lies!” in bold orange script. That mantra had spread like wildfire through the past few months, causing an air of mistrust in Aurian politics. That air only fed the wildfire more, and protests in various parts of Lumiere were commonplace.
But Tour-Real was far from Lumiere, and outside from some signs and political clothing, nothing major had really happened. No one expected anything to happen, either. Would anyone really protest here and expect to have any significant impact?
---
Franklin Hugot sat on the park bench, feeling the sun and cool air relax his muscles. His eight-to-five office job at one of the banks in town was soul-draining, but it paid the bills, and he had become a stereotypical thirty year old salary worker losing the joy in their life. His suitcase sat at his feet, a striped tie haphazardly draped across it. That tie is gonna be the death of me. He had spilled things on his tie thrice that week, having gained stern looks from his superiors. ”What if corporate sent an inspector? It’s not a good look” his stuck-up manager had told him, with her classic disapproving tongue click.
"'Not a good look' my ass. Like corporate would care about our tiny branch. Lumiere and Southporte are all they care about, cause that's where all the money is." He sighed and looked at his shoes, absentmindedly counting the cracks in the cement pathway. Why do people always look for distractions from their normal lives? Why do we even need distractions? Why have we made our lives into such a hell that we'll do anything to escape it?
His thinking was disturbed by loud shouts from behind him, bringing him out of his state. Jesus, people. Can't you be a little more respectful? He raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulders, expecting to see some group of rambunctious teenagers. Instead, his eyebrows shot up further at the sight of hundreds of people in bright orange storming down the street. Some were marching past storefronts, breaking windows and throwing tables haphazardly. Franklin shot to his feet, gripping his suitcase. Holy Shit. His eyes darted to his car, parked in the small parking lot up ahead of the orange flood.
He paused, watching the crowd for a moment, before sprinting towards his small sedan as fast as his suit would allow him to. His sweaty hands fumbled with the keys as he tried to pry open the door, panting. He dove into his car, shoving the gear stick back and almost crashing into a faded red van behind him. He quickly turned onto the street, trying to cross the intersection as fast as he could.
He was quickly blocked by a pair of orange-vested men, another group of marchers fanning out behind them. His car was quickly surrounded, forcing him to slow to a halt. People were banging on the windows, their muffled shouts barely audible. Oh my god. Please, get me out of here. Please.
The driver's side window shattered, hands pulling open his door and dragging him out. He flailed and kicked, desperately grabbing the steering wheel to try to stay in the car. Something unseen came down on his leg, causing him to shout in pain and let go, tumbling out of the car. A kick to the ribs caused him to curl up, wheezing. Please, God. Get me out of here, get me back to Madison. Please. Please…
Everything went black.
Monday, May 17th, 5:37 PM
The town of Tour-Real wasn't exactly a chaotic town by any means. With an estimated population of fifty thousand plus another fifty thousand in nearby towns, it served as the center of activity for the region. The Modern-esque buildings of the central town area clashed with the old city cathedral and the City Hall, ten-story office buildings locked in a strong competition with the nineteenth-century Cathedral of Saint Helene. Although the City’s skyline was small compared to other cities, and the streets were generally passive and calm, the echo of shoes and boots stomping on the ground echoed through the streets.
Tour-Real was built with a small lake park near the center of the city, the lake being guarded over by a tall, circular watchtower, which had served as the town’s namesake and inspiration. On a typical Mid May day, the birds would flock to the lake in groups, filling the warm air with the pleasant tones of birdsong. But today, unbeknownst to a majority of Tour-Real’s citizens, was far from a normal day.
“The Marchers”, as they called themselves, had started gathering in small groups, congregating in small clumps of friends and families. Their signs and weapons were piled on the ground in a poor attempt to hide them from curious eyes. Some wore pins, shirts, or hats with the words “Lapointe Lies!” in bold orange script. That mantra had spread like wildfire through the past few months, causing an air of mistrust in Aurian politics. That air only fed the wildfire more, and protests in various parts of Lumiere were commonplace.
But Tour-Real was far from Lumiere, and outside from some signs and political clothing, nothing major had really happened. No one expected anything to happen, either. Would anyone really protest here and expect to have any significant impact?
---
Franklin Hugot sat on the park bench, feeling the sun and cool air relax his muscles. His eight-to-five office job at one of the banks in town was soul-draining, but it paid the bills, and he had become a stereotypical thirty year old salary worker losing the joy in their life. His suitcase sat at his feet, a striped tie haphazardly draped across it. That tie is gonna be the death of me. He had spilled things on his tie thrice that week, having gained stern looks from his superiors. ”What if corporate sent an inspector? It’s not a good look” his stuck-up manager had told him, with her classic disapproving tongue click.
"'Not a good look' my ass. Like corporate would care about our tiny branch. Lumiere and Southporte are all they care about, cause that's where all the money is." He sighed and looked at his shoes, absentmindedly counting the cracks in the cement pathway. Why do people always look for distractions from their normal lives? Why do we even need distractions? Why have we made our lives into such a hell that we'll do anything to escape it?
His thinking was disturbed by loud shouts from behind him, bringing him out of his state. Jesus, people. Can't you be a little more respectful? He raised his eyebrows and looked over his shoulders, expecting to see some group of rambunctious teenagers. Instead, his eyebrows shot up further at the sight of hundreds of people in bright orange storming down the street. Some were marching past storefronts, breaking windows and throwing tables haphazardly. Franklin shot to his feet, gripping his suitcase. Holy Shit. His eyes darted to his car, parked in the small parking lot up ahead of the orange flood.
He paused, watching the crowd for a moment, before sprinting towards his small sedan as fast as his suit would allow him to. His sweaty hands fumbled with the keys as he tried to pry open the door, panting. He dove into his car, shoving the gear stick back and almost crashing into a faded red van behind him. He quickly turned onto the street, trying to cross the intersection as fast as he could.
He was quickly blocked by a pair of orange-vested men, another group of marchers fanning out behind them. His car was quickly surrounded, forcing him to slow to a halt. People were banging on the windows, their muffled shouts barely audible. Oh my god. Please, get me out of here. Please.
The driver's side window shattered, hands pulling open his door and dragging him out. He flailed and kicked, desperately grabbing the steering wheel to try to stay in the car. Something unseen came down on his leg, causing him to shout in pain and let go, tumbling out of the car. A kick to the ribs caused him to curl up, wheezing. Please, God. Get me out of here, get me back to Madison. Please. Please…
Everything went black.
<t></t>