Writing Prompt: Federation Failure

Here’s a find brought to you today from my writing prompt collection on Pinterest! I have quite a few in the queue for inspiration, though occasionally things take an odd turn after being processed through my head. Who could have expected that?

This little response is a pure example of that, since things took an interestingly political turn. I am not a political person, nor am I a poli-sci major, so if there are any inconsistencies or misused labels please point them out to me! I always love input and am dying to read your thoughts!

Okay, are you ready for this? Good.

It was easy to ignore the men with the guns, so long as your eyes were closed or your back was turned. But there’s only so much of this same dirty wall one can stare at. When we first arrived, it wasn’t as easy as it is now. There were more people then, and less food; more crying and more gunshots at night.

These days the men with the guns mostly stand near the exits and eye us occasionally. It’s odd to feel the prickle at the back of your neck while you’re deep in conversation, the same conversation every day with the same four people, but there’s not much to be done about that right now.

The men who took us from our homes in the dead of night were different than these gun holding babysitters. Those men were rough, carelessly tossing us one at a time into the back of a large semi-truck trailer until there was barely enough space to turn around. The fear radiating from us was palpable and too much for some to handle. The first days after the takeover took many lives, not all from the men with the guns.

There were signs before it happened, but so many in our country ignored them and continued on as if there was nothing out of the ordinary happening. When the military suddenly fell it started to feel real for many, but to those of us who were watching all along it was time to move.

In the beginning we tried to stay unnoticed, gathering supplies and making plans in secret; before too long someone slipped up and a small lot of us were taken in, locked up in one of the first round ups of Americans. We started to take action, some of our members becoming bolder with their movements. The first attack on hold outs was bloody, causing our leader to make it clear that we were not to remain silent bystanders any longer.

The first bomb I planted was far from flawless, though expertly crafted. The building that I was to target was hard to access on an average day, but they assured me that I would face little resistance. Who would have known they would be on a orange alert status that day?

I was detained for hours, though luckily the wet behind the ears soldiers forgot to search my bag or my life would have been over then and there.

My lucky ass was able to make it another four hundred and fifty three days before my troupe was finally arrested.

At the one year mark of the Russian-American Federation Agreement a large parade was held in the nation’s capital, our figurehead president at the lead while the Russian High Chancellor stood at his side. Things were supposed to be a celebration, and I suppose it was for those who willingly agreed to follow the new government. But I just couldn’t do it, and I will never recognize them as my government.

We had learned early on that I was not meant for operative work. My skills in bomb making however, were a key aspect that I brought to the group. The three leaders recognized my skills, and I was quickly set to teaching others as well as made the leader for explosives and ammunition distribution. Only the top members of our group knew my name, and only the grand leader knew my full name; most only saw my face when they were called upon for missions.

As the months passed by in an uneasy false peace throughout our country, the leaders of our growing resistance force were cooking up a plan to end it all. That first birthday celebration of the new Communist America was the day the future was supposed to start looking bright once more.

The first time we used a suicide bomber was also the last. Our organization fell apart when two out of three leaders were captured, the grand leader having gone missing in that commotion. Rumors and discontent tore our comradery apart within days; dozens were taken in by the one month marker. Without our strong line of command and leadership, we had fallen to a simple band of rebels on the road of chaos.

I still remember being drug from my bed in the early hours of the morning all too vividly, the bright moon still shining overhead through thick clouds.

“Where is your leader?” A strong Russian accent roared near my face, his spittle spraying as I recoiled.

However, my silence was ill received though I suppose that might be a nice way of putting it. My shoulder dislocated on impact with the rough brick wall on the outside of the shack four others and myself had been taking shelter in. These were the men I had taught the most, and they were also the four men I trusted most in the disorder that had become my life.

“Girl, don’t make me kill you!” Spittle spraying man yelled at me again, but I missed whatever accompanied the demand as the butt of his gun made impact on the side of my head. Pain radiated instantly from the impact, and the headaches are still bad from that, though thankfully less frequent now.

“Don’t hurt my daughter!” One of my accomplices yelled out, but it was a horrible idea if the sound of his beating was anything to go on.

“Anyone else want to say something that isn’t helpful?” another gun toting man demanded from our huddled forms, but my whimpers and the wheezing form of my so called father were not much of a response.

“Fine, cage ‘em up, we’ll take them with us.” Their leader seemed almost put out to keep us alive, but clearly he wanted something more from us. We never found out though, gunfire ringing out in the night as we made the trek to their truck, our wrists bound behind our backs.

“Shots fired!” men all around us began to yell to each other and into handheld radios, bodies dropping to the dirt as a cool rain started to fall.

“Someone get her out of here!” a strong Russian accent demanded as a man grabbed me by my binding and hoisted me into the back of the truck.

“Here, take these too and get the hell out of here.” Another man shouted, pushing my four accomplices over as he prepared to return fire.

The rough ride was as pleasant as it would get however, since they kept us caged to ourselves not long after our arrival at the camp. I suppose they fear what kind of an uprising we could start were we to be housed with the regular civilians.

Opening my eyes I catch the eye of the closest armed babysitter, his disinterest the brightest ray of sunshine my sore eyes have seen for many weeks.

“How does the sun shine on this day?” I looked to him, his trigger finger wrapped securely around the butt.

“Like rays of gold.” His boredom belied a great truth, and I couldn’t have been happier.

“So it seems the sun will shine again?” the man crouched in the dirt beside me met my eyes.

“Like rays of gold.” He nodded again before handing the fully loaded rifle to me and his side arm to my accomplice. “Please give us a bright future to behold.”

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