Welcome to Gaia! ::

[1]

Brotherhood HQ...

The woman stood undergound, her breath calm but her mind racing. She couldn't recall the last time she had visited this place, at leasst not on purpose. Normally someone in the rebellion would drag her here with an injury. Occasionally one of them would confess their love only to be unconsious five seconds later. Those men were vile and weak, not knowing that love is useless in war times. But that wasn't the main reason she whacked them over the head with her gun. The truth was she didn't know the reason, or else she didn't want to think too much about it.

Glancing around in the hallway, she remained in her faux garb to keep from drawing attention to herself. Women weren't common in the Brotherhood, since it wasn't the Sisterhood or Siblinghood, so her male disguise came in handy frequently. But no matter how much she tried to hide, her presence was always found out by someone. Not that they minded; many of the members didn't care when she hung around. She never spoke out against their beliefs, just like she didn't speak out against the Holy Republic. The only reason she was in danger was her heritage: she wasn't white. Her roots lie in Mexico, not Spain, and she found that frustrating.

Lupe shrugged off her contemplating, realizing that too much thinking might be unhealthy. Her breathing felt strained and she pulled at her collar. On second thought... this coat is suffocating me. The hallway was empty, a certain creepiness about the lack of life. She ripped off the jacket with a quick flourish, stepping forward towards a meager door. She pulled it open with her coat slung over one shoulder, slipping the beret from her head so her ebony hair could fall to her shoulders.

Before, it appeared her weapons were kept in her coat, but now that was not true. Much like the strap from a messenger bag, a leather belt draped over her shoulder and across her chest held her AK-47 at her back. Though the strap looked secure, one flick of a metal clasp released the harness and she reached around to catch the falling gun. She hated wearing it when she didn't need to, especially since it was a bit unwieldy during downtime. A few more belts wrapped around her upper and lower arms, which were bare at her biceps and covered at her forearms by fingerless gloves. These wide belts served as make-shift armour when she found herself in hand-to-hand combat. Around her waist and over a skin-tight black tank was another belt, holding her spare bullets at her sides and around her back. This way her coat covered the refills when she went out into the streets. Another belt hung at her hips over dark wash jeans, which were faded and ripped in a few places from shrapnel flying at her. The second belt looked plain and useless, but hidden inside a pocket was her trusty old knife she made years before from some leftover steel from a razed building. A third belt rested between the other two, her grenades lining the her sides and back much like the bullets.

She tossed her trench onto a chair and slumped onto another, resting the gun on her lap as her eyes rested for a few moments. With her coat on, she looked much like a normal citizen. Without the coat and decked out in her combat belts with her AK-47 across her lap, the woman's dangerous persona matched her appearance

Her copper eyes opened and stared at the low ceiling, the dark covering of mold dotting the slab of concrete. She sighed lightly, whispering an unaudible word in Spanish. I guess it's useful they want me in their little 'Brotherhood'... I always have a place to recover. Her lids slid closed again just as the combat restarted outside. Nothing new about that, so she started to fall asleep, which she hadn't enjoyed in days. The last thing she heard awake was the footsteps from the members running about above her position.

'Pa kristi flesk vi spytter!'

La det ra
tne!

Ah, that has to suck. I hope it all clears up for you, mate.

By the way, I'll be going back home tomorrow night so I'll start being on a lot more in the coming... erm... year?


'Et symbol pa barmhjertighetens bortgang!'

Et skuespill der endes!

~::[ I'm sure the "advanced" title fits much better anyhow. Thank you very much for recognizing this RP... and classifying it as an advanced RP to boot. ^^ ]::~

[1]

There was a doorway nearby, not ten feet away. He could shelter there. With the same determined stride as before, he quickly closed the distance.

From his shelter, he watched the violence sadly. Soldiers attempted to storm the building, several were shot, and they fell back. Two women tried to run and escape, but one side or the other shot at them – it was impossible to tell which side, and in the end, it did not matter to those being shot who it was that shot them. One fell, bleeding profusely and appearing dead. The other drew a gun and fired at the government forces. An explosion in the street blocked his view for a moment, and Thomas never did see if she escaped or not.

Commotion down the street, towards the collapsed building, took his eye from the fighting. The man who had been shot earlier was trying to climb the rubble and escape. But the flames were intense, and he lost his grip, falling to the ground, striking his head and laying unmoving. The sudden movement and noise attracted a burst of fire, and Thomas was worried that the man, or some of the other refugees, might be hit.

Filled with the Holy Spirit, he moved before he knew what he was doing. He stepped onto the street, waving a piece of white cloth and displaying the armband that marked him as an international observer. “Don’t shoot!” he bellowed, “these men are unarmed!”

The soldiers and rebels must have been overcome by the Spirit, or awed by his courageousness, because the gunfire stopped almost at once. Then it started again, but this time none of it was directed in the bishop’s direction. He walked out, slowly and calmly, and examined the wounded man. He was still alive, and as far as Thomas could tell, it was safe to move him.

Another bystander came forward, saying he was a nurse. Together, they carried the man to the shelter of a doorway, where he would be a little safer, at least, and cleaned and bandaged his wounds the best they could. By the time they were finished, the building that the insurgents had been in was no more, and the gunfire had almost stopped.

Knowing that the man needed real medical attention, Thomas left the shelter, carrying his white cloth, and walked slowly and purposefully towards the soldiers. They seemed alarmed at first, and called for him to halt, training their guns on him, but when they saw that he was a man of the cloth, and a bishop, they allowed him to approach. “There is a man back there, who is badly hurt and needs an ambulance if he is to live,” he told the soldiers.

“We can’t have any non military traffic here now, there’s a war!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

“A military ambulance, then. It is urgent.”

“No way, that’s not possible! He might be one of them!”

Thomas paused a moment, taking a breath before he spoke again. “But did not the Lord Jesus teach us to minister even to those who hate us? I am a man of God, and I will personally go with this man if you will take us to the hospital in one of your trucks.”

The officer of the soldiers was saved from having to respond to this by a loud exclamation from up the street. “He is dead! Father, father, he has died! I tried to help him, but I could not save him!”

Thomas bowed his head, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, greatly saddened, as if this was a singularly horrible tragedy, though it was but one such incident out of many. “It is done, then.” he said softly. More firmly, he stated, “Soldier, we have no need for transport to the hospital anymore. I shall say a prayer over the body for his soul and for the souls of those who murdered him, and then we shall bear him to the morgue ourselves, so his family can be found, and he can be given a proper burial.”

As he turned back, he noticed that the soldier who had spoken against him looked greatly troubled. He turned to him and said kindly, “My son, God loves even you, and will always love you, no matter what you say or do. The Most High has saved a place for you in Heaven, as surely as there is a place for both the purest saint, and the darkest sinner.” As he continued upon his way, the bishop saw that his words had both comforted and disturbed the young man.

[1]

Pleased with himself, Sir Heidrich continued on down the hallways of the brownstone, headed toward the exit. That, however, he knew, had been just a warm up, a little something from the higher-ups to get his blood flowing hot. After all, why else send a Reaper to do the job of a regular squadron? Especially a Reaper such as Sir Walter Heidrich IV, son of the former military consul to Lord Stanton himself?

Pulling a cigar out of his pocket, he smiled, lighting it and taking a deep puff. Surely soon this foolish fight would come to an end. Surely the Brotherhood would see the error of their ways, and surely, quite surely, Sir Heidrich would be richly rewarded above all others for his loyalty and devotion. They would all see.

"Major Heidrich?" called a voice into his headset, this time, a woman with a soft, almost musical voice.

"Ah, Isabel," he rasped smoothly. "So good to hear from you, my dear. What did Major Garrison go home for the day?"

"That's Captain Eckhardt,"the woman replied coldly. He hit a nerve and he knew it--his subordinate loved to consider herself just as much of a Reaper and a soldier as he was, and perhaps she was, but Walter would never admit this. Not openly.

"Good to see you're in such a lovely mood. And that's Sir Heidrich, Knight Grand Cross of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Captain Eckhardt."

The line was silent for a moment. Finally, defeated, she replied. "Rumor of hostiles in a apartment building six blocks north."

"Isabel, love, there are hostiles everywhere, in case you haven't noticed. Comes as part of the territory with the whole 'revolution' bit. Surely they taught you something at school, right?"

"A cell of Muslims, Sir Heidrich."

A smirk crossed sir Heidrich's features as he thought back. Rarely did the Reapers find Muslim cells nowadays--many had been eliminated in the past few years. He himself had seen to the extermination of countless men, women and children just a few years prior. After all, it had been Muslim extremists who were responsible for the car bomb which killed Field Marshal Walter R. Heidrich III in the winter of 2115.

"Sir Heidrich?"

"Prepare a group of yourself and two of the others. Meet me in thirty minutes, Captain Eckhardt," he rasped coldly, the resolve in his voice unmistakable.

"...Yes, Sir Heidrich."

[1]

Lupe snapped awake, hands immediately in position on her AK-47 as if she would shoot. Her grip was firm, her eyes darting back in forth for the source of the voices. She listened for a few moments, realizing they came from the memorial room just adjacent to this one. She relaxed slightly, the leather in her belts squeaking with the tension in her biceps. She heard footsteps walk into the distance as she stood from the chair. She could never identify this room; it wasn't a lounge or a living room, just a room with some chairs and a moldy couch. She reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out a red piece of cloth. A blood-stained bandana, something she'd taken from the body of her mentor a few years before. She never wore it, even though with his dying breath he told her to take it and don it proudly to fight for what was right.

Her fist clenched around the fabric, placing it back into her pocket. She wouldn't wear it; this group consisted of mostly atheists and God-mocking citizens. She couldn't blame them because she would be in their position if she'd been raised in this hell. Her parents maintained their family's religion and she followed it faithfully. Whatever had ahold of Stanton was not the Holy Spirit or a Christian faith. And she would fight until they knew that as well.

She exitted the room with trench coat in hand, slinging the strap from her weapon over her shoulder. She glided by the memorial room, pulling on the coat with a confidence rarely found with women her age nowadays. She pulled her hair into a low ponytail within seconds, the elastic snap echoing down the barren hallway.

A few steps later she stopped in the middle of the passage. Halfway between the memorial and communications rooms, she couldn't decide what to do for awhile. Should she leave? Should she look at the computer screens for information? Should she go back and rest? Her mind raced with these questions. For some reason she felt a connection to these people, like family almost, though the ones she trained with had since been killed. She could recall a few that might still be alive, but they were in different sectors. She couldn't possibly leave this one without killing someone on the way and she refused to do that on purpose. Killing wasn't her style, outside of self-defense.

But that moral slipped every time she saw innocent people tortured, raped, and murdered just because of their identities.

'Pa kristi flesk vi spytter!'

La det ratne!

I'm very glad you asked!

The new Republic doesn't harbor any ill will toward the old, beloved Monarchy and descendants of the lines aren't frowned upon. The Anglican church is still there, it's just taken a practical back seat to Stanton's regime of ruling loosely based on Christianity. Priests of any kind, save the Catholics, are more than welcome in most places and have a few more perks to their jobs.

Reverends, priests, and the like are valued for their role in government positions and enjoy healthy pay as well. Yourself being an Anglican priest... I can say that the Republic would value you as well.

Knights and Lords are still around... the nobles have been integrated into a faux-parliamentary position (which obviously holds no power over Stanton) and knightings are still carried on by priests... not the Queen.


'Et symbol pa barmhjertighetens bortgang!'

Et skuespill der endes!

[2]


Bishop Thomas Morgan knelt in prayer in the silent cathedral, praying for peace, asking for the strength, wisdom, and courage to work God’s will and bring peace, and seeking an understanding of all the senseless suffering he had seen. The man who had died yesterday on the street, the many maimed and wounded in the hospital he had visited earlier today . . . the government workers said it was the rebels that caused their injuries. And, they were probably right that most of the civilians wounded were wounded because of the direct actions of the insurgency, for that is the nature of armed insurgencies, especially in urban areas. But the true culprit was the system of violence itself, those that taught that violence deserved violence, and that equated violence with power.

The suffering he had seen was enough to make any man want to kill. But that reaction, the desire to make men suffer for the suffering of other men, was what had caused the suffering it the first place. He prayed for an end to that thinking. And he prayed that he would never succumb to that way of thinking himself. He prayed that he might not stop loving those who did succumb – nor those who were complicit with this thinking, such as the churchmen with whom he would be meeting later today.

It was hard to face others of his faith that refused to take a firm stand against the system of violence. It was greatly saddening to see that not all of his faith were willing to stand up for the message of peace that Jesus had brought. Many were afraid he, knew, afraid for their lives, and afraid for their comfort. If they spoke out, others might disapprove, and their life would be hard. It was disheartening to see so many shy away from the cross of Christ. And to see others use Christ’s holy name to justify violence was the ultimate insult. But he still had to remember . . . Christ loved even them. If Christ, whose name it was that was being insulted, could forgive so much, should not he?

In a city torn by war, one man prayed for peace and non-violent change: peace and freedom from oppression for the city, the opening of the eyes of those who upheld violence, and that he could find it in his heart to love them all, no matter how vile the violence.