Rooftops: Tempest
#1 of Rooftops
Author's Note: This is obviously *not* from cha0s's point of view. The character is a new one, who will be introduced soon.
** Rooftops: Tempest**
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I rub my bloodshot grey-green eyes and slowly gaze out through the crowd. Over fourteen hours have passed, and the deadly fifteenth is saying its last, poisonous goodbyes. Each second brings forth a tension that makes the previous seem slack. The world has gone dark ever since our first amendment rights have been paved over, replaced with oppressing laws. "A gathering of ten or more furs may only last up to fifteen hours," one of these says, and failure to comply with this specific law results in an immediate death sentence. They've kept a third of our right to a speedy and fair trial, disposing of the other two.
We've grown sick of it; revolution is imminent. I stand in the spearhead of the resistance, a massive "passive" protest whose point is not to demonstrate our desire for change, but instead to feign innocent pacifism until the beast Riot can rear its ugly head and declare that they brought this on. Everyone is armed, some with pistols and firearms, but most with melee weapons. Furs haven't been able to purchase guns for years, but there are some humans in the crowd. Those are the ones who have guns, with a few exceptions. I see a fox with two kukri in sheaths across his back and frown, absentmindedly clutching the chain that's wrapped around my arm. Is it really worth it? I'm not sure anymore. But whether it is or not, I've dedicated myself to this cause, declaring it worth fighting and dying for. I've brought along my music player, and "The Earth Will Shake" by Thrice begins, our time slowly ticking away. The police and riot officers surround us, almost all in gas masks. Those that aren't are standing beside giant digital timers, the orange cells that make up numbers softly changing as our collective sentence draws nearer. A storm brews on the horizon.
Sixteen years, and already I'm about to experience one of the most important events of my era. Unfortunately, it will also be among the bloodiest. A humid southern wind whips my hair, but I don't mind it. Fifteen hours among a crowd makes any wind welcome. The world seems to have gone silent. Dawn has only just revealed how many dark clouds cover the sky, casting gloomy shadows among the crowded city square. Every eye is on the clock, every hand gripping a weapon nervously, every mouth silent.
Time seems to have slowed to a stop. A raindrop rappels down a thread of empty air, stealthily creeping onto its intended destination of my shirt. I break my gaze from the clock and stare into the heavens, wondering how the world has come to this. Even the speed of thought seems to have slowed, its normal lightspeed reduced to a mere crawl. The sea of suspended rain floats gently above my head. I sneak a glance back at the clock, trying not to become entranced in the blinking lights. Thirty eight seconds are left. Shivering, I look around, wishing to impress this moment in my mind for as long as I will live.
The warm southern wind shakes a leaf from an oak, and as the wind carries it by my face, the spell is broken, the seven seconds of still is over. The crowd seems to stir, but in reality it is only coming back to life from its nanosecond of death. The police officer without a gas mask calls to us through his bullhorn, telling us of how he doesn't want this to happen, how we should disperse before it's too late. He knows we won't, and his pointless lies reflect that. If he didn't want the oncoming storm to break, he would find a way to stop it and not conform to the madness that has overcome almost all humans in recent years. Or perhaps we're all mad here.
As tempestuous sound pours through earbuds and into my ears I close my eyes. After a second, they open again, wishing to be somewhere else. Thirty seven seconds remain, and I glance at my watch for the time. A quarter past six in the morning. The second hand on the analog speeds back up as well, the whole world seeming to come back to life to watch and wait. Murmurs begin throughout the crowd. The song erupts into a flurry of fury. A countdown begins. Thirty emanates from everywhere, colliding with itself in a hushed whisper as it reflects back to me. A single tear falls to the ground, mixing in midair with the raindrops it mimics.
Twenty five comes and I force myself to look up at the electric bar that controls our lives. We all know that this will result in failure, that every one of us is condemned. First the tear gas will come, then a slaughter. I put a black bandana on my face to shield me from the worst and to protect my identity. Now I've blended into the crowd, a faceless female sergal among a mass of a thousand, all clad in the uniform of a revolutionary: dark jeans and a black hoodie, hood up over my head.
Twenty. I unravel the chain from around my arm and string it taught between my hands. The thought that this will soon be used as a weapon seems surreal. Fifteen. Fifteen seconds of peace remain. I attempt to find some emotion deep inside me, but fail. I have grown stone cold, and that fact alone frightens me. Ten. We will fight back, but the forces will keep coming. We won't back down. We are the resistance, defenders of what is right. We will not be forgotten. We will make a difference.
Five. The world has gone dark. The light sprinkling of rain that appeared a sea has almost ceased. An uneasy wind parts the crowd anxiously. Four. A wild thought, a phrase, a lyric runs through my head, but it fades as quickly as it starts a wildfire. The rhythm of the words is burned into my mind, the lyrics themselves lost to eternity.
Three. This is it. Merely three seconds of something that could be called normalcy. I silently pray... Two. The song finishes with a desperate cry as the clock hits one. Lightning flashes on the horizon. I tremble with fear and fury. Canisters that are spewing a foggy grey gas sail towards us, Molotov cocktails sailing away. Six straight zeroes stare ominously at the scene. The storm hits.