We are not welcome.
Six months ago, the unification agreement was signed in Norvik (formally Nollas). Initially, the Tasenz people and our provinces refused to sign the agreement - we experienced marginalization before the Crisis of 2170, and learned to expect it afterwards. Yet, in the face of our experience, we joined the Treaty of Nollas, expecting something new.
The first four months were defined by overwhelming euphoria: the government in Norvik, in the process of consolidating, paid little attention to the provinces north of Zukran. We enjoyed the same political freedoms, receiving grants from the fed to develop infrastructure. Our culture thrived, our farms flourished. Funding was dedicated to S-21, a highway linking Chiark, Duaq, Mirek, and Tasenzi to Norvek's entire network. Transportation eased, and we saw record profits from food exports traveling to the urban centers south.
Then, the drought struck. Harvests failed, and the food stopped flowing. With a lack of income, thousands of young Tasenzs migrated south to Norvik, Brenstead, and Westreach, seeking employment and educational opportunities. However, there weren't enough jobs for everyone. With nothing besides their Duaq Leather backpacks, many migrants turned to crime. Those who stayed behind faced a disastrous famine, triggering the state government in Tasenzi to begin diverting infrastructure funds to purchase food on the international market. This action improved the crisis.
But our luck ran out. 3 weeks ago, the federal government announced a massive investigation into accusations of "Tasenz Fraud," accusing officials of laundering money to foreign actors. Our elected governor, Geofbart Kelbles, vehemently denied the accusations and refused to comply with Corden Dopond, the leader of the interim government. Despite the public bickering, nothing important occurred until two days ago. Soldiers, accompanied by tanks, took S-21 to the state capital and blockaded the highway. Nobody in, nobody out. The soldiers seemed calm and reassured, almost certain that their assignment was merely symbolic. Today will be just the same, I assume.
The young Tasenz man caps his pen and places it on his desk, stashing the small journal in a drawer.
Suddenly, he hears a loud explosion followed by car alarms. The whole house shakes. He steps outside: the dry desert air hits his face, as if his head was next to the oven. A black cloud of smoke billows over the Erbrett neighborhood, in the direction of the police station. He tries to make sense of the sight - he rarely sees anything like it.
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TakakakakakakaTakakakakakakaTakakakakakakaA faint sound, almost like the beating of drums, slowly approaches and intimidates the crowd of Tasenz who gathered in the street.
More explosions break the whirl of the stale air, shaking the ground and triggering more car alarms. The same black smoke, the kind he had seen 8 years ago during the Sido Riot, rose from the governor's compound. He hurries back inside, snatching his silver-toned video camera and hastily training its lens on the things now overhead.
The flying machines move faster than anything he'd ever seen, their rotors slicing the airborne sand effortlessly. He watches the vehicles approach Kelble's compound, his view distorted by heatwaves before disappearing behind tall buildings. He waits for more noise, but an uncomfortable silence besets the city. He feels his shoulders tense, and his nerves grow. Suddenly, sharp pops ring from the compound's direction. Sudden bursts, followed by stray cracks. Its the sound of hunting season, but louder and more desperate. The atmosphere once again falls quiet, the faint wail of sirens occasionally breaking the tranquility.
He walks back inside, sitting down and preparing to write a new journal entry. Yet, he cannot focus - the flying machines are back overhead. He opts to put his earplugs in and write about the drought again.
30 minutes later, he resolves to figure out the earlier events, tuning the radio to Tasenzi Public Radio:
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..............The static makes him jump; he'd left the volume at 100 percent from his music last night.
He tries the federal radio:
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Kelbles... captured, Tasenzi State under ...... military occupationThe announcement shocks him, and he runs to the window expecting the same from his compatriots. Instead, he sees soldiers march down the street, followed by their steel machines of oppression.
He thinks back to his primary education, what he'd learned about the time before 2170. He can't help but think: What is different now?
