The Dance of the East

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

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THE DANCE OF THE EAST
​

Darkness drenched the outskirts of Mrysini, small dots of light in several homes an exception. There was a perpetual silence. The peoples of the village were all asleep, the peaceful border town outside of Mrysini offering comfort in the light of the moon.


A noise pierced the silence. A large engine, a massive putter, the putter of a truck. Not one truck, several trucks. Dust filled the roads, pebbles flew, and lights flickered on as citizens slowly staggered outside to see the commotion. A huge line of Ural AZ with tarp draped over their backs flew by on the dirt road. It was the Magyar Nephadsereg, the Popular Front of the Hungarian People's Army, the military of Boliatur. The land forces sped by, men clung to the back with outdated equipment, and several trucks without drapes. Within were rows of soldiers seated at adjacent benches. They sat, their helmets glistening in the moonlight of the Steppe. Villagers came to the streets to watch, and many young men cheered as the vehicles passed. The vehicles sped off towards central Mrysini in a massive line as if ants moving to an ant hill.

Almost as soon as the trucks had sped by, they had sped off. It was now routine for the people of this town on the outskirts of Mrysini to see trucks speeding by on their dirt roads, and each truck with soldiers within. The activity had always been at night, and never had the trucks been by at morning or day. They had seen the trucks enter, but never leave through the same route. It was the northern roads they came from, but disappeared on the southern roads.

(continuing tomorrow from perspective)​

 

[Northern Cooperative Unions]

The drapes flew around violently in the Steppe winds, sand flying through the open flap at the back. If they were lucky enough, some had goggles. Others simply used bandannas or pulled their helmets over their eyes. Sand slapped and whipped the soldiers, each dressed in a tan camouflage and adorned with assorted equipment. They were all volunteers who had simply enlisted as these trucks had drove through their towns the night before.

Zan was a quiet man. A muscular, massive, and brick wall-like figure. He was Sergeant Zan Illysk, the only formerly enlisted man of his truck. The truck puttered across the dirt road, Zan silently observing the truck behind him. He clenched the barrel of his rifle, scanning his mass of 14 men. Zan groaned, knowing that these were all simply eager teens that intended on being heroic, helpful, or dying on their first drop. He knew the ladder was likely to happen. He pondered why he was chosen to live among a squad of seven men, all whom were executed by the Boliaturian Communist Party during the Night of Terror. The trucks shook violently among potholes. Zan simply stared outwards, awaiting his arrival into Mrysini for the tedious process of commissioning all of his squad and then equipping them. He felt he had to do it, as if no one else would.

Crowds filled the streets of Mrysini, thousand of residents outside in their night clothing and gathering around the government office. The trucks sped past the massive gathering of unorganized Boliaturians. Upon the Citizen's Council Office was three ropes tied to the necks of three dangling people, one wildly kicking around and writhing as two young men pulled his legs down in an attempt to break his neck. They were hung, and the people of Mrysini appeared to be cheering. They were Yujiners, or supposedly Yujiners. Zan knew it was not the fault of the Boliaturian government, but fault of the will of the Citizenry. Whatever the majority says must go. He simply closed the flap, rubbing his temples.​