Revolution

“It began with a revolution. That’s how the Demos gained power, and the Savion had the tables turned.”

(Entry #36) September 5th, 1127

Tonight was a normal night like any other. But there was a stranger in the town last night. He was a figure wearing a coat and dark clothes. His horse had a bunch of equipment on it. Was he a miner? He took a pickaxe off the horse, and slammed the wall of the house across the street. He looked seemingly into the wall, then placed rubble of the wall back into it. Afterward, he rode away as fast as he arrived. The next day, the town was completely gone. Nothing more than rubble and corpses.

Three-hundred years later…

The sky was clear. Birds. They flew. They flew freely. As freely as they wished not bounded by chains or rules. They could do whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. They knew what they wanted, and learned what they wanted. Especially if it meant survival. Birds were not like the humans below. Birds, animals, pests even, had more rights and privileges than the humans below.

The Savion, slaves, serfs, peasants, all are words that describe the freedom and rights of the Savion. They were treated like dirt, they were almost as smart as dirt, nearly had to eat dirt to survive, and covered with dirt. Dirt. That’s all the Demos saw them. Even though they looked nearly identical, and were the same species, the Savion were not treated as humans. They looked up at the birds, and wished they could be them. The birds would fly away from their problems, but they were chained down.

A man wearing a holey, dirty, stained shirt, ripped up pants, shoes with holes in them, and dirt on his face blended into a crowd of other Savions perfectly. They all were poor, hated, and depressed. The man held the hand of a young boy wearing suspenders, and a dirty shirt. Both had hair that was dirty, dry, and ruffled up. The large crowd walked to a street that led down the streets of their city. Waiting for their leader to be carted down the street.

The boy looked up, he saw giant cement pillars that rose almost one-fifth of the city above the lower city. The lower city was composed of workhouses, factories, and slums. The workhouses were made of rusting metal, rotting wood, and nearly broken piping. The factories were dark, smelly, unhealthy, and dangerous. Everyday, the workers rolled the dice of being killed in the factories. So many things could kill them. The machinery could rip off your limbs, there could be a co-worker who has been having a bad day and just wants to beat someone to death, or the guard could brutally beat you down or just shoot you dead.

The slums were stacks of metal sheets, and wood. Most homes had only two rooms, and no bathrooms. So their houses usually smelled like waste and piss. They could constantly collapse, the residents could be robbed, and they could be evicted by their landlord just because he felt like it.

The crowd slowly slogged, staring only at the ground with looks of misery on their faces. They lined up on the streets, where guards were closely making sure no one walked onto the street that the stagecoach would ride on. The crowd began to move, looking down the street where some could hear the horses trotting down the street.

One unlucky man leaned a little too far and he fell onto the street. He quickly stumbled back onto his feet and tried to get back onto the sidewalk, but he wasn’t fast enough. A large guard, wearing their recognizable dark blue uniform, golden buttons, and holding his stick firm walked to the man. He grabbed him by the shoulder, with the man looking in pain from the grasp of the large beard guard. The guard threw him onto the street, where he grinded his face against the ground. The blood of his face smeared on the ground, and he tried to get up.

“Trying to get up, bastard?” asked the guard, grabbing the man’s hair and pulling him up, “Ya shouldn’t have stepped off that sidewalk.” he said as he pulled a large amount of hair off his head.

The man was on his hands and knees crying, “I’m sorry sir, I only tripped.” the man said, looking up at the guard, wiping his blood on his dirty sleeves, where the blood easily blended in with the rest of the stains.

“You didn’t trip, you walked onto the street purposely to threaten the safety of the general.” the guard said as he looked down at the bleeding and begging man.

“But I did,” the man said, folding his hands and begging desperately to the guard, “I swear.”

The guards began to become annoyed, “Are you questioning my authority?” he asked, holding up his club. By now, the man and boy looked at the conflict that was going on. Almost the entire street seemed more interested in the conflict than the general’s stagecoach. The father was hesitant on what to do with his son and the beating happening on the street.

“No, I’m not. Please, just let me free.” the man said with tears running down his face, mixing with his blood.

“I’ll let you free,” the guard said, lowering his stick, “from your pathetic, disgusting flesh prison.” He kicked the man, which knocked out a tooth. He raised his stick, and beat the man until he couldn’t get up anymore. The father began to get in front of his son, still staring at the man on the street. The guard took his boot, and placed it on the man’s neck. The father reached for his pocket in his leather jacket, but stopped and removed it. The guard pressed his leather, brown, heavy boot on the man’s neck, until a loud CRACK could be heard from all the way down the street. The foot was almost in contact with the ground, with the neck barely noticeable between the two.

The guard hauled the man’s body toward the sidewalk, the crowd moved out of the way. The blood spilled on the tile streets and flowed down the cracks of the street. The father still hid his son from viewing the man’s body. Some more guards hauled the man away, just in time for the stagecoach arrival on the street.

The crowd all looked at each other, and then looked at the stagecoach. The horses slowly trotted down the street, as the general of the country’s armed guard looked out his window at the crowd. No one cheered, no one waved, no one threw flowers. There was a dense feeling of death and hatred around them. The father turned around to his son, kneels down to his son. The father gave his son a red Hench chief and hugged him greatly. The fathers arms were warmly hugging around his son.

The son was too young to understand what was happening or what was about to happen. But his father said to him, “Some day, all of us will be saved.” The father got up and pushed his son back, toward an alley. And walked toward the street. The stagecoach was now in the middle of the street, and the crowd all at once began to move. A dozen men, and a few women moved first, then a large crowd moved as well. Soon the crowd was on the street, and the guard began to be overwhelmed. A man pulled out a pistol and shot the stagecoach driver. Another group of men and women pulled out large knives and slit the throats of the horses.

The guards loaded their guns and aimed at the crowd. A woman ran toward the guard, and he aimed his gun at her face. And in a state of panic, he shot the woman. She was knocked back as blood spurted out of her back and blood stained his dress. The crowd charged at the guards, tackling and seizing their guns. The guards were being punched, kicked, and scratched from all ends. The guards were all bleeding and screaming for mercy. The crowd, knowing what they did to the man who simply tripped, didn’t stop. They trampled the guards and approached the stagecoach.

The stagecoach was being climbed on, and pushed back and worth it. Guard on top of the stagecoach tried to shoot the crowd, but they ran out of ammo. One guard’s ankles was grabbed and he was pulled down to the crowd. His blood spit up into the crowd, and they continued to surround the stagecoach. The general was locked inside of the coach, begging for reinforcements. The crowd slammed the windows of the carriage, and they eventually broke through.

The father reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol, aiming it at the general’s head. Then there was a flash, and silence. The son looked at the crowd, and saw what happened. On either side of the street, cannons were lined up surrounding the crowd. A cannonball was fired onto the crowd, and it scraped by the side of the coach. Men, women, and children were scattered on the ground, dead. Blood was spilling onto the street. Some had their organs falling out, and bones sticking out. The corpses laid on the ground as a large amount of panic spread as the cavalry arrived.

The soldiers on horses, holding sharp long swords charged at the remaining crowd. The horses trampled onto the corpses as they slashed down the crowd. Even more of the crowd was slashed, the cavalry ran out and another cannonball was fired on the crowd once more. More corpses burst into the sky, and fell onto the crowd bleeding and disfigured. The cavalry ran in again, and retrieved the general. The carriage was flipped over and the stagecoach was broken and in pieces, but the general was still alive although wounded.

The son looked in horror as his father held a wound on his side, and he looked at his son. A military captain walked toward the father, and ordered soldiers to pick him up.

“You really tried to take out the general?” asked the captain looking at the bleeding out man, “You Savion really are stupid.” he slammed the father in the stomach with his knee, and the father spat out blood. The father looked down at his dripping blood, fading in and out.

He looked up at his son and yelled, “Grey, run. Run and stop this suffering, no matter what it takes.” Grey looked at his father with fear and ran into the alley.

“Chase down that boy.” the captain said looking at him, three soldiers ran into the alley after him.

“NO!” yelled the father trying to escape from the soldier’s grasp, the captain pulled out a hand-gun and shot the father three times in the chest.

“For the revolution…” the father said as he took his last breaths.

The boy ran through the crumpled, dark, moist alley. Hyperventilating while looking behind him at the soldiers chasing him. His shoes were soaked after he ran through a puddle and his damp and water filled shoes weren’t helping him get ahead of them. He eventually ran into a dead end of an alley, and was pressed against the wall. The soldiers slowly walked toward him, tapping their clubs against their hands. They had devilish grins on their face as they approached the defenseless child.

The men were only meters away, until they stood still. A shadowy figure emerged from the other side of the alley. He was large, wipe, broad, and was holding a shotgun in his hands. He fired a single shot at a guard. The bullet pierced through his head and blood and brains got shot out through his eye sockets. The large man got closer, swinging his shotgun at the guards. One was in just the right, or wrong, position so that the shotgun could easily slam into his rips. The guard fell down as blood began to emerge as he grabbed his stomach area. There was a moment of shock, and he dropped dead. He had a rib stab into his internal organs.

Another figure emerged from a doorway on the side of the alley. He wore a suit, with a white shirt and black shoes and pants. His hair was styled so formal that he seemed as if he could be rich. His black thick hair covered his forehead, which below it had a look of annoyance. He jumped down to the guards and pulled out a hand-gun from his side. And just like then, all of Grey’s pursuers were dead on the ground.

The large man approached Grey, “What are you doing here boy?” he asked. His voice was loud and strong.

“They were chasing me,” Grey said a bit shy, “they killed my dad moments ago.”

The man in the suit had a look of shock, “Were you watching the stage coach come through?” he asked while getting closer to him.

The boy nodded, “Kyle,” the large man said, “Look at the boy’s pocket.” he said pointing at the red handkerchief in Greys pocket.

The man in the suit looked at it, “I see it.” he knelt down to the boy. “What is your name?” he asked, placing his hands on Grey’s soldiers.

“My name is Grey.” he said, “Why are you interested in my dad’s handkerchief?”

“Lets just say, your father was a good friend of ours.” he said, he rose up and reached out his hand, “Come on. We are going to take you to a new home.” Grey reached out for his hand and took it. Kyle and Grey walked down the alley, with the large man in front of them. They ducked into a hole in the wall, and slid their weapons underneath. It took Grey some readjusting to the light in the room they walked into. The room was full of boxes, papers, and guns. Grey turned to the wall, where he saw a large map of the city, and the path of the stagecoach mapped out. There was another building circled, it was a large building.

“Are the rest of them back?” asked the large man to a woman sitting on a chair, who was throwing supplies into multiple backpacks.

“Not yet.” she said as she aggressively threw ammunition packs into the bags, “I didn’t think it would ever be this bad.” She had long black hair, she was wearing a similar outfit to Kyle, with the white shirt, black jacket, but she had black shorts and brown boots on.

A loud burst came from a door at the end of the room, “You bastards!” yelled a voice from the hall that was connected to the door. “What the hell was that plan?” asked a man who was holding a younger looking man over his shoulder. The angered man had spiked hair, he was ginger, and was wearing much more ragged, holey, and dirt clothes.

Over his shoulder was a black haired, wounded man. He was wearing a white shirt, and a black suit. He was bleeding out from the lungs, and was coughing up blood every couple seconds. The angered man had the wounded blood running and dripping down the left side of his shirt.

Kyle and the woman froze, looking in horror at the wounded man, “Get him on the bed!” yelled Kyle sprinting over to a cabinet to grab bandages, thread, and a needle. The ginger placed the wounded onto the mattress, where he continued to cough up blood.

“My boy…” the woman weeped on the man’s bedside, “How did this happen Dale?” she asked to look at the ginger.

Dale looked over to Kyle, “The men you gave us were idiots, not fighters at all. They couldn’t hold a gun, they couldn’t duck for cover, and they couldn’t simply split the cavalry horses throats.”

Dale clenched his fists in anger, “The plan was a fluke.” he said looking at Kyle who was wrapping the bandages around his bleeding son.

“No shit.” he said, wrapping the bandages around the boy’s arm.

Dale looked around the room, “When the rebellion can’t aim, shoot, or even LOAD a gun, it makes it difficult to hold off reinforcements.”

“How many are still alive?” the large man asked.

“Lance and I were the only ones who could probably walk.” Dale said, looking at his bleeding friend.

Grey walked out of the shadows where they kept him, “What all happened? Why is everyone getting hurt?” asked the oblivious young boy.

Kyle gave the bandages and needle to Dale, “This was supposed to be a turn around for us Savion. We would kill the military leader on his way out to the country, and his death would have caused a large amount of panic. Which would have been the perfect opportunity to revolt and take charge. We all split up into two groups, the hit team and hault team.” he looked at the boy’s handkerchief, “Your father was part of the revolution, and thus the hit team. Their job was simple, to kill the general. The halt team was in charge of raiding, killing, and sabotaging reinforcements. Because it would be all over if they were able to get to, and use the cannons.”

“Their halt team was inexperienced, and was quickly wiped out. Lance took a couple shots, and I carried him back here. And the assassination failed. Now our numbers have decreased from three-hundred to about twenty.” Dale looked around at about half of the remaining rebellion.

Lance began coughing louder and more violently. Dale, Kyle, and the large man rushed over to the bedside. He began coughing much louder, and much more violent.

“Lance,” Kyle had growing water in his eyes, “Stay in there. Please, don’t die on us my son!” he yelled as the coughing got worse and worse.

The coughing slowed down and became much more quiet, “He’s getting better, Grif go and get a doctor to check him out!” Grace said to the large man.

“Grace, I don’t think that will be useful,” he said looking down at Lance.

Grace looked confused, “Why?” that’s what she thought until she looked down.

Lance rose his fist up high, “For the revolution…” he said his head gently pressed against the bed.

There laid her son, not coughing, not bleeding, not breathing. Kyle checked his pulse, in his mind hoping, wishing, praying that it would start moving. It didn’t, it never did. Kyle went to hug his wife, she fell into deep sadness, bawling her eyes out. The scream could be heard from outside, Kyle tried to hold back all emotions in his body, and to think about anything besides his dead son.

Grace calmed down, kneely on the ground with her son’s body in front of her. Kyle rose up and walked over to something that Grey had never seen before. It was a weird metal device that Kyle kept tapping weirdly. It almost sounded like a rhythm, until he stopped.

May 24, 1423

Lance Roads died of blood loss. The assassination of the general failed, and most of the rebellion of the eastern city was wiped out. We request new recruits and back up. Please schedule a meeting some time in the near future. -Kyle Roads

That message was sent out throughout the island, to all the rebellion headquarters around the country.

“Grey,” Kyle looked down at him, “Are you willing to help us, and achieve your fathers dream of a free Savion people?”

“Yes sir. I want to save all Savions.” Grey said, looking up to him.

Kyle smiled at him, “First thing we have to do, we gotta teach you how to shoot a gun.” He took a branding iron and pressed it against Greys shoulder, “Congratulations Grey. You’re an Owl now. Welcome to the revolution.”