EARTH Toyi Toyi

Discussion in 'Private Roleplay' started by Diarmuid O'Sullivan, Feb 4, 2018.

  1. Diarmuid O'Sullivan

    Diarmuid O'Sullivan UN Renegade

    Messages:
    56
    “‘The fuck do I need that for?”


    That, was a pump action shotgun with a bandolier for shells. The armourer and two assistants were handing them out willy nilly to the cluster of uniformed personnel. Diarmuid O’Sullivan stared at it, distinctly unimpressed. “We’re not the bloody army Vito”. Most of them were in camouflaged fatigues even if none of them were soldiers. They’d been dragged off other duties and pressganged into riot suppression, they wanted every last body they could find. Diarmuid found it ridiculous. He worked the street, he wasn’t a soldier. Ballistic vests and helmets with riot faceshields weren’t his everyday garb.


    “No but they are” was the retort, Vito gesturing with his arm, “Do your job O’Sullivan”. Diarmuid muttered something under his breath but took it all the same. His gaze went left to where Vito had gestured. A line of APCs were there, soldiers lounging around near them, a hundred or more. “Christ” he said, moving to his own people. A small intersection at the edge of a shanty town was about to become a warzone.


    They were gearing up calmly and methodical, the result of lots of practice. There was a bustle of conversation and activity, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. “Well the Lord bless us and save us, is it yourself is it?” came a theatrical voice. Diarmuid’s eyes rolled, the thick Oirish was enough to make his ears bleed “You can fuck off to Iveragh with that McCarthy, save the blarney for the wans en route”.


    McCarthy just shrugged “Christ you Nordies are dry shites”. He sobered up fast looking at the shotgun. “That bad? I thought we were policing a riot, not storming the fuckin’ Bastille” he said while looking around, “Ye getting ready for the Dusters?” “Unless they decided to move back to Earth and live on Basic, then no. Just keep your eyes out for the locals.”


    The only ones in blue uniforms were the local cops, an outnumbered and lonely group clustered near the VTOL landing zone. Chainsmoking and shooting nervous glances between the federal cops and each other. “Wouldn’t want to be them after today” McCarthy mused. Some had come off Basic and lived in the very slums they were now dealing with. It wasn’t much of a life when you had to wear a wrongly sized uniform with bloodstains from the previous owner. A lot moved to barracks blocks for safety, choosing that over a knife in the dark at home. Most of them were dirty and on the take but they kept the peace somewhat. ‘Locals’, ‘Indigs’ were common enough nicknames for them if the speaker was feeling polite.


    Most of the shanty towns in the sector had been bulldozed, those in Blue Zones generally didn’t appreciate their views being marred by those on the lower rungs of society. It was a familiar pattern. They’d tear down the township here, there’d be riots, violence, then they’d set up shop somewhere else and six months later down the line that’d be bulldozed too. Most of the trouble came in the summer months, just in time for the rookies and recruits from the academies to be shoved right in the firing line, cracking skulls and taking names. Everything would simmer down until tensions slowly started to boil again, repeating the whole cycle all over again.


    “It’s going to be a bad one Diarmuid” McCarthy said, his gaze turning skyward. A police pattern VTOL was droning slowly overhead, sharpshooters sitting by the open side hatches. “You’re telling me, our support is the bloody army. What are they here for?” McCarthy scratched the back of his head, “We need anyone we can get. You rather it was just our company and the local lads? This isn’t the only march happening across the city. Be grateful we have them.”


    Diarmuid didn’t dignify it with a response. He put his helmet on, massaging a twinge in his shoulder. A whistle sounded and heads went up all round. De Courcey was jogging past the the CP, his arms flailing. “Form a line! The bastards are coming!” Rotors whined as another VTOL came into view. Another sound was becoming audible, the tramp of hundreds of feet, thousands. The rumble of a crowd.


    “I fuckin’ hate Katowice”. There were two single lines of police strung across the street, the APCs and soldiers waiting in reserve at the intersection. The VTOLs circled menacingly overhead, marksmen staring impassively at the crowd. Diarmuid’s hands tightened on the shotgun. There were just so many. Shouts and chants, Polish, Czech, German, it didn’t matter the language. With that many it became a roar.


    One of the locals took a last drag of his fag before snubbing it out under his boot. A fly buzzed near Diarmuid and he swatted at it. The chanting was growing louder as the crowd drew nearer, rising in pitch and intensity. It brought up primal feelings inside him. Ancestral memories of war drums and tribal raids.


    De Courcey was standing on the bonnet of one of the armoured cruisers, his chin mike connected to the external speakers. Even still, he didn’t bother trying to fight the crowd’s roar. Might as well push back the tide. It was primeval, terrifying. There was barely restrained violence there, a whole mass of humanity ready to charge forward and overwhelm the thin lines of


    “Faceshields down lads”. It was a sergeant from second platoon who’d spoken. Andress, Swiss, a twenty year veteran. Good woman to have in a scrap. Married with two kids. Her gaze didn’t leave the crowd for a second. Diarmuid tugged his down, his shoulders hunching defensively. The crowd were stamping their feet, chanting in response to the call of their leaders. He didn’t understand it but it had the locals itchy. “Don’t fucking take another step back” he heard himself say, stopping the man on his right from scooting back more. You didn’t need to speak the language to be nervous. The power of it was incredible.


    Then, silence. Diarmuid nearly cried aloud in relief. A murderous silence. De Courcey took advantage of it, his voice amplified. “You are gathered here illegally. Further continuation along this road is forbidden. I hereby order you to disintegrate and disperse”. A loud murmuring following his words.


    “Heads!” Diarmuid was barely aware of saying it. Stones came vaulting out of the crowd, smashing near the cruiser. Andress swore, “Get the fuckers!”. Four burly officers went forward with shock batons to snatch a couple, a half dozen others fanning out with levelled weapons to disencourage any protest. Most of the stone throwers were lucky or smart enough to melt back into the crowd. One wasn’t so lucky. He was dragged out and beaten to within an inch of his life, the crowd snarling as they watched.


    The stonethrower’s head was limp when he was dragged past Diarmuid, blood streaming from his face. De Courcey took the chance to repeat his warning. He turned to say something to an officer near him. His arms gestured and two soldiers hurried forward from the intersection.


    A muffled crump sounded, canisters vaulting high and landing into the crowd. They began to spew white noxious smoke, the crowd moving to try and escape it, coughing and spluttering. “Front rank kneel! Respirators”. Diarmuid dropped to his knees with the others, taking off his helmet. He slotted on the respirator in a matter of seconds before replacing his helmet and rising. The locals were watching with a mixture of envy and resentment. They’d bandanas and shemaghs, a poor substitute.


    Not everyone scattered from the gas. A protester held a rag to her face, trying to scoop up a spewing canister. It burnt her hand even through the sleeve but she managed to lob it forward.


    “Coming back!” Heads went up at the warning cry, a smoking canister landing in the midst. Those without respirators coughed and wheezed, cops kicking the canister back towards the crowd.


    “I repeat” De Courcey was doggedly continuing on “You are to leave this place immediately”. More stones were coming from the crowd, Diarmuid flinching as some landed near him. “Fuckers” he could hear another cop swear.


    One of the VTOLs came in low and slow. Diarmuid could see the sharpshooter leaning out, rifle steady. A loud crack sounded as they fired. The crowd seemed to part where someone had been shot. A hush had fallen over them. It lasted only a few seconds before they erupted.
     
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  2. Diarmuid O'Sullivan

    Diarmuid O'Sullivan UN Renegade

    Messages:
    56
    A miltiawoman took a rock right to the forehead. Her eyes rolled backwards in her skull and she crumpled to the ground. Two others grabbed the unconscious cop, dragging her backwards to the transports.


    A shotgun fired to Diarmuid’s right. “Who was that?! Hold your fire!”, De Courcey was red in the face from the gas, clutching a cloth to his face. No one said anything but another fired a few seconds later.


    A molotov came sailing over and landed on a jeep bonnet. Flames sprouted and two officers scrambled aside. More followed and other stones. “Fuck this”. Diarmuid’s grip was white knuckled on his shotgun.


    The inquiry would not be able to determine who fired first nor who gave the order. What started as a few sporadic shots steamrolled into a ripple of gunfire along the line, over a hundred shotguns roaring. Screams came from the smoke, the first line emptying five or six shells each into it.


    “Second line, twenty metres forward”. No one was eager to rush up. They came forward, breathing heavily through the respirators. The first rank were slotting in fresh shells with warranted haste. Groaning and screams of pain came from bodies on the ground. They were everywhere. Shadowy figures moved in the smoke. Shouts were answered by shotgun blasts, the riot squads moving slowly forward and shooting indiscriminately.


    “Watcher to Hammer, vanguard has been blunted. Rioters are moving to disengage”. It was all De Courcey needed. He looked back at the idling APCs, his arm circling above his head. The drivers gunned them forward slowly, accelerating once they’d cleared the smoke. The crowd was streaming back and to the sides. Anything to get clear of the smoke and the indiscriminate gunfire.


    The APCs emerged, engines roaring. The hatches were open and some were riding on top. The APCs roared down the main thoroughfare, smashing through the flimsy obstacles and burning tyres. Figures came running from the smoke, every cop and militaman still standing, running at full pelt after the vehicles. The crowd scattered like minnows rather than get run over.


    Troops began to debus, coming out of the APCs with roars. Diarmuid could hear single shots in the smoke followed by several more fired quick together. He nearly tripped over a body, they were strewn everywhere with many still twitching or moving. Some played dead rather than risk incurring the government’s wrath. Two locals were busy kicking in the head of a rioter, the body had stopped moving three stamps back. A soldier cracked another’s skull open with a sweep of the rifle butt.


    A small knot of soldiers and cops were leaning on the overpass wall, shooting down at the fleeing crowd. Two soldiers passed him dragging a moaning man who was bleeding from two wounds. A VTOL angled slowly past the overpass. One of the crewmen dropped a canister, more smoke billowing out as it hit the fleeing mob. It took screams on the comms and from frantic looking officers to eventually regain control of the situation.


    The aftermath was always worse. Smoke billowed from still smouldering fires. Bodies lay abandoned on the overpass though some attempts had been made to clear the wounded. Fresh patrols were pushing into the slums while those who’d suppressed the riot stood around in numb shock.


    “Jesus Christ”. There were bodies all over the place. A line of rioters were lying face down on the ground with their hands on the back of their heads, an officer watching them with an SMG cradled in her arms. Another barked orders at them in a mixture of German, Polish, and Czech, while a third cable tied their hands behind their backs. Once done, they were hauled to their feet and quick marched to holding cages where more cops with dogs had them penned.


    The local cops were the most vicious, promising dire threats to the prisoners while brandishing batons. They’d been the ones most at risk beforehand. Flush with victory, they were going to ensure nothing like this happened for a long time again. There were going to be quite a few incidents at the detention centres.


    A blank faced soldier walked by, handing out fags from an unmarked packet. Counterfeit. Diarmuid took one, not even bothering to make the tired old joke about smoking the evidence. He sparked up and took a drag, coughing at the rough taste. Slum produced, they had none of the finesse of the upmarket options. He was happy to enjoy the relative silence but it was ruined by another’s words.


    “Do we get overtime for this?” a chorus of rough laughs. Something in Diarmuid snapped and he grabbed the other man by the throat, hefting him up on the wall and half dangling him in open air down to the drop below. “Fuckin’ hell Diarmuid!” “He’s gone mental!”. He was nearly foaming at the mouth but the combined strength of five or six others managed to pry his hands off his target and shove them both back down.


    He was breathing heavily now, eyes darting to dare others to say anything. He got back a mixture of hostile and bewildered stares. Diarmuid turned on his heel. He spat on the ground and stalked off, ignoring the jeers and taunts from the others. He flung his riot helmet away with one hand, flashing the two fingers back over his shoulder.
     

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