Josepania
Establishing Nation
Rumperup, Østflod District
The Danish Empire, Germania
10:52 Germanian Standard Time, 12/03/1954
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"I will never forget how it began... I was reading the German edition of A New Edition of Critique of Political Economy: The Twentieth Century Methodology by Taketori Natsuki, something that was illegal during the Troubled Years. It was fascinating to me at the time, however, because although I did not necessarily agree with everything it said, it provided to me an alternative to the oppression, the chaos, the lies, all of the idiocy that oozed from Christiansborg. I had entertained ideas of spreading the word to others, inspiring them to lead resistances, but never once did I truly expect that it would start with me, on that day…"
***
***
"I will never forget how it began... I was reading the German edition of A New Edition of Critique of Political Economy: The Twentieth Century Methodology by Taketori Natsuki, something that was illegal during the Troubled Years. It was fascinating to me at the time, however, because although I did not necessarily agree with everything it said, it provided to me an alternative to the oppression, the chaos, the lies, all of the idiocy that oozed from Christiansborg. I had entertained ideas of spreading the word to others, inspiring them to lead resistances, but never once did I truly expect that it would start with me, on that day…"
***
Franz Kammerschen didn’t notice the cold, the dampness, that mildly miserable atmosphere in weather that seemed to press down on the otherwise minor border city of Rumperup, Danmark. His thoughts and attention were not focused on what was real, but rather what was imagined, or what could become reality. His imagination was running wild as his mind analyzed the text, a text he had already read five times, offering critique already annotated in the book, or praising it, or simply asking questions as though he were having a conversation with the author himself.
Brushing a stray red hair away from his face, Franz’s grey eyes flew across the pages, despite their speed taking in every word with the reverence of an enthusiastic reader, his gangly body hunched over the book as though he were attempting to fit himself inside the pages, immerse himself into the world that it offered. The seat he was in, the dulled bustle of the coffee shop around him, none of it mattered. All that mattered was the book.
It took Franz a minute longer than anybody else to notice a larger bustle outside, a dull roar of voices and movement that steadily increased with every passing second, but when he did notice, it was already in his face. The front door to the coffee shop was smashed open, soldiers garbed in the uniform of the so-called “Reformed Danish Army” poured in and began pulling and pushing people out into the street, barking orders that more resembled the roars and growls of animals than a human’s voice. He too, was snatched from his seat, his precious book ripped from his hands into a virtual ether as he half-stumbled, half-ran outside.
Around Franz, the scene was replicated many times over, but he had little time to take it all in, for his vision was a blur as he was led to a nearby wall, lined with his fellow citizens, and forced against it, facing what looked to be an organizing firing squad. Recognition of his new situation was slowly beginning to enter his consciousness, and fear began to replace confusion as he realized what was about to happen. He, however, did nothing as one of the soldiers stepped forward, probably a lieutenant going by his somewhat gaudier appearance, and held up a book… Franz’s book.
“You are charged with knowingly harboring communists, post-delegationists, and other subversive enemies of the Danish Realm, as well as colluding and collaborating with said enemies, have been found guilty with evidence like the one I hold in my hand, and are hereby sentenced to death by order of the Danish Empire.”
The matter-of-fact way he spoke almost softened the content, to the point where it took those against the wall a few seconds to figure out what exactly he meant. Some, perhaps those like the man himself who courted such illegal ideologies in their minds, responded with quiet resignation to their fates. Others, those who perhaps had no knowledge of any such events despite being on the border with the once communist and now post-delegationist state of Tyrrhenia, responded with panic, pleading for their lives in a pitiful way that, nonetheless, seemed to touch the hearts of some of the assembled soldiers, who overall looked rather uncomfortable with their upcoming task.
As for the Franz? His fear was now gone, replaced by anger and defiance that erupted. “Shame on you! You would kill innocents, your own blood, just because a pack of criminals in Christiansborg told you to! They are no better than the royalists! They are worse! At least the royalists didn’t murder their own people out of a paranoid bloodlust! Shame on you, all of you!”
His defiance shocked all in earshot, civilians and soldiers alike. The lieutenant, however, quickly became enraged, and advanced upon Franz, drawing his pistol as he did so.
“It is because of subversives like you,” the lieutenant began, shoving the book into Franz face, “That we must do this! You have brought this upon yourself, and upon others, because of your lack of loyalty to the legitimate state!”
Franz, strangely even to himself, was not fazed, “And why do we turn to such ideologies?! Because of fascists like you, those who would forget their humanity in the name of obedience to some criminal, scum not worthy to-“
He could speak no more, for the lieutenant’s fist interrupted his speech and impacted the side of his head, causing him to see stars and lose his balance. He impacted the ground, the book hitting the concrete next to him, before he was roughly dragged back up and staring back into the face of the lieutenant, who by now seemed to become death himself.
“Insolent dog! You die first, by my hand!” he screamed, pointing his pistol at Franz’s face, the barrel holding a void of blank nothingness masking the bullet that would end Franz’s life.
Time seemed to slow as adrenaline pumped into Franz’s blood. He became acutely aware of everything around him, how the civilians and the soldiers were staring at him, in awe of his defiance in the face of certain death. He could feel the white-hot rage of the lieutenant emanating as though from a factory. Franz swore he could see the bullet loaded in the gun, itching to burrow its way into Franz’s mind and join the text of the book that swam in there.
One word from that text popped out, shining forth like a light in the black void, and consumed his mind, its context now lost in what seemed to be his last moments in this world: Fight.
Without further thought, his left hand shot up, pushing the gun out of the way, a split second later the bullet erupting from the barrel and impacting the wall next to Franz’s head. He ignored the ringing in his ears, focusing everything on the lieutenant in front of him, who was just beginning to realize what was going on as Franz’s right fist plowed into the lieutenant’s face, a crunching sound following the blow.
Time sped up to normal again as another strike, then another, as Franz pummeled the lieutenant with a rage he had never felt before. Before he knew it he was on top of the officer, his left hand pinning the gun to the ground that nonetheless kept firing into the wall, perhaps from reaction more than intent, his right hand turning red from the blood that began to appear on the lieutenant’s broken face.
Franz was vaguely aware of a renewed chaos around him, civilians and soldiers both, with shots punctuating the screams and shouts here and there, but he didn’t pay attention. Instead, he ceased his barrage to reach for the pistol and tear it from a weakened hand, pointing it at its former owner. Through bloodied, bruised eyes the lieutenant recognized what was happening, and with renewed strength did his best to push the gun away, but to no avail, for although it shook with the effort Franz gave to keep it on target, on target it stayed.
“No!” The lieutenant shouted, a weak, pitiful scream of primal fear, a stark contrast to Franz’s reaction to death staring at him in the face. “No! Don’t kill me!”
His words fell on deaf ears as Franz, a twisted, feral snarl warping his features, began to squeeze the trigger.
“N-“
BANG!
Reality slowly began to come back to Franz, his focus off of the now shattered remains of the lieutenant. Around him were civilians and a few soldiers alike, most of them bloodied and bruised, some of their comrades of both occupations strewn around them. Franz became further aware of more chaos around his little group, as it seemed others were following his example, whether they were uniformed or in plain clothes.
Those around him, though, were looking at him, their eyes asking the same question, ”What now?” For a second, Franz’s mind was blank, for he had just killed a man, and felt nothing from it. He then saw another word from the text, still swimming in his head, come forward and be illuminated, and it said REVOLUTION.
He was committed, now. His path was clear. It had to be. Why else did he survive certain death beyond luck? He reached for his book, its pages dotted with the blood of the lieutenant, and he stood, holding the book in his left hand and the pistol in his right.
Franz then said, “Stop this madness, save the people.”
They now had a purpose, and with a cry of defiance, they set to their work.
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