Much has been written about the Great Ghost Dance. About its heroism, about its great achievements. How a single man (our civilization's hero narratives don't love ensemble casts) stood up against the forces of the United States government and its Mighty Military Machine. We all know the narrative: the evil megacorporations strong-armed the increasingly weak US government into scores of eminent domain seizures, a Resource Rush designed to make the rich richer, and the "Indian" (this was before "Amerind" became the nonsensical nomenclature of the day) impoverished or dead, either way.
Then the Amerind fought back, forming the Sovereign American Indian Movement, whose commandos fought a brave, guerilla conflict with the massive megacorps and their government stooges. (We love an underdog in America.) Commandos even went so far as to heroically breach the military's most secure bunkers, as SAIM commandos captured a nuclear silo, and threatened to fire its missiles. Nearly a fortnight of negotiation followed, the SAIM heroes against the government's lying liars, before The Man sent his jackbooted thugs into the silo, and in an act of defiance against United Oil, the SAIM commandos fired a missile...at Russia.
Government overreaction was immediate. Corporate propaganda spun the SAIM actions as "terrorism" and "misdirected" and "unthinkably unjust", and the masses ate the pablum like ambrosia, because such was the skill of the megacorp's nefarious journalists. Spurred on by waves of public support, the fascist government ordered anyone associated with SAIM to be rounded up and put into camps. (Even the Canadians joined the party, and they're the good guys, eh?) The Re-Education and Relocation Act sought to complete what centuries of reservations had started: the imprisonment of an entire people.
But out of the camps stepped a lone hero: Daniel Coleman (soon to be "Daniel Howling Coyote", which has just the right mix of nativist authenticity and colonialist familiarity) escorted his followers from the camps, before a hail of gunfire, but miraculously not a single injury was reported. (Too bad about the Sioux; not everyone gets a messiah.) Coleman disappeared, but his legend grew, and finally in 2014 he stepped bravely from the shadows and demanded with a clear voice that the Anglos, Asians, and Africans must leave his territory. The Native American Nations were formed.
The governments reacted as governments react: with force, with hatred, with lies. They called Coleman a terrorist, a despot, a madman, a criminal - so he detonated a volcano, to prove them wrong. Redondo Peak, gone in an instant, and Los Alamos (and its tens of thousands of residents) buried under a pile of ash, as befits all non-Amerind. When the corporations moved to seize him, great storms pulled their craft from the skies, like the fists of furious gods. Here is a messiah to speak of, with miracles on camera!
President Jesse Garrety - he of the Re-Education and Relocation Act - was assassinated by William Springer. 15 days later, three more world leaders are killed. Vice President William Jarman wins the election, and is immediately inaugurated. Three days later he orders the genocide of all Native Americans. Well, their removal from US soil: the Resolution Act of 2016, aka Executive Order 17-321, isn't specific that they all be killed, but we all know what he wanted. Our cultural narrative is very clear on that. Following centuries of deprivation, reservation, rape, and genocide, we had finally decided to do the unthinkable: kill every native, fulfilling the dreams of colonialists everywhere. There's no other way to think of it, no other perspective. The United States and Canada wanted all natives to die. So on August 17, 2017, at 17:30 GMT, the US military deployed The Genocide Campaign, intended to rid the Earth of every Native American. H-Hour had come.
Two minutes later, Mount Adams, Mount Hood, Mount St. Helens, and Mount Ranier erupted. The hero had struck back against the evil oppressor.
[Fiction] Streets of Rage: The Interview (Part 1: The Gangs)
[Fiction] Streets of Rage: The Interview (Part 1: The Gangs)
Last edited by 3278 on Thu Sep 09, 2021 2:32 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Re: [Fiction] Streets of Rage: The Interview (Part 1: The Gangs)
Much has been written about the Great Ghost Dance. About its heroism, about its great achievements. Less has been written about the horror that followed.
In our collective guilt for centuries of nightmares, horrific acts and prolonged torments, we see through different eyes than were opened on that day. To call Daniel Howling Coyote a terrorist, today, is to be Alamos 20,000, to be Humanis Policlub. But on the day of the Great Ghost Dance, the view was narrower, with less perspective, our vision obscured - as if by ash.
Four mountain tops disappeared in an instant, their thick magma plugs obliterated by a sudden upwelling of liquid rock. The sudden release of pressure forced superheated air outward at over 1000 kilometers per hour, instantly felling anything and anyone within 20 kilometers of the peaks.
Mount Adams and Mount Hood detonated primarily upward, blasting eruption columns like the mushroom clouds of nuclear detonations, 30 kilometers into the sky. Mount St. Helens - because it had most recently been deformed by its own eruption - and Mount Rainier both detonated laterally; their own blast columns reached only 20 kilometers in height. Instead of raining debris across 18 states and 3 provinces as Adams and Hood, they primarily blew outward, restricting their effects primarily to their local areas.
Overall, the detonations were likened to the force of four 30-megaton nuclear blasts - as indeed many thought that day. The sum of the blasts was more than twice that of the most powerful nuclear detonation - and all within a couple hundred miles.
Mount Rainier was one of the hardest-hit, and, being closest to Seattle, was one of the most devastating. The entire north face of the mountain blew outward, and sloughed off. A landslide composed of more than 5 cubic kilometers of rock blasted downward at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Following it was a river of molten lava, so hot that it flowed 50 kilometers down the mountain without cooling.
We are so detached, now, to speak of rivers of lava, but this was a clean, clear, crisp summer morning in the Pacific Northwest. Thousands of people lived within the path of the rockfall, the lava flow. A fountain, a river, a torrent of stone so hot it was liquid, poured down the side of an exploding mountain, directly toward the city.
In its path, rivers flashed to steam. Fish boiled, kilometers downriver. Millions of mammals died as the air itself turned to poison. There was no time to run: the rockslide moved hundreds of kilometers per hour, the lava scarcely slower. Those who tried to flee found themselves blocked by the population of the city, quickly waking to the nightmare above them. Lit by the fires of hell itself, Mount Rainier rushed toward the waiting arms of the city, anxious for its embrace.
One long finger of molten stone poured down a river basin, forever changing its course. Followed by a rain of ash that lasted days, the Mowich Lava Flow carved down the river bed, unstoppable, inexorable, reaching for the green, fertile, beautiful city of Puyallup.
The fires burned for days. Houses and factories burned. Cars and busses burned. People burned. What was not crushed under stone, or burned by lava, was soon buried in ash, or suffocated by toxic fumes. Within minutes of the explosion, hundreds were dead; within hours, thousands were dead, in Seattle and Portland, in Nisqually Indian Community and Yakama Indian Reservation. And in Puyallup.
Daniel Howling Coyote is a hero. Daniel Howling Coyote is a terrorist. Contrary to our cultural narrative, he can be both. We all can.
In our collective guilt for centuries of nightmares, horrific acts and prolonged torments, we see through different eyes than were opened on that day. To call Daniel Howling Coyote a terrorist, today, is to be Alamos 20,000, to be Humanis Policlub. But on the day of the Great Ghost Dance, the view was narrower, with less perspective, our vision obscured - as if by ash.
Four mountain tops disappeared in an instant, their thick magma plugs obliterated by a sudden upwelling of liquid rock. The sudden release of pressure forced superheated air outward at over 1000 kilometers per hour, instantly felling anything and anyone within 20 kilometers of the peaks.
Mount Adams and Mount Hood detonated primarily upward, blasting eruption columns like the mushroom clouds of nuclear detonations, 30 kilometers into the sky. Mount St. Helens - because it had most recently been deformed by its own eruption - and Mount Rainier both detonated laterally; their own blast columns reached only 20 kilometers in height. Instead of raining debris across 18 states and 3 provinces as Adams and Hood, they primarily blew outward, restricting their effects primarily to their local areas.
Overall, the detonations were likened to the force of four 30-megaton nuclear blasts - as indeed many thought that day. The sum of the blasts was more than twice that of the most powerful nuclear detonation - and all within a couple hundred miles.
Mount Rainier was one of the hardest-hit, and, being closest to Seattle, was one of the most devastating. The entire north face of the mountain blew outward, and sloughed off. A landslide composed of more than 5 cubic kilometers of rock blasted downward at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Following it was a river of molten lava, so hot that it flowed 50 kilometers down the mountain without cooling.
We are so detached, now, to speak of rivers of lava, but this was a clean, clear, crisp summer morning in the Pacific Northwest. Thousands of people lived within the path of the rockfall, the lava flow. A fountain, a river, a torrent of stone so hot it was liquid, poured down the side of an exploding mountain, directly toward the city.
In its path, rivers flashed to steam. Fish boiled, kilometers downriver. Millions of mammals died as the air itself turned to poison. There was no time to run: the rockslide moved hundreds of kilometers per hour, the lava scarcely slower. Those who tried to flee found themselves blocked by the population of the city, quickly waking to the nightmare above them. Lit by the fires of hell itself, Mount Rainier rushed toward the waiting arms of the city, anxious for its embrace.
One long finger of molten stone poured down a river basin, forever changing its course. Followed by a rain of ash that lasted days, the Mowich Lava Flow carved down the river bed, unstoppable, inexorable, reaching for the green, fertile, beautiful city of Puyallup.
The fires burned for days. Houses and factories burned. Cars and busses burned. People burned. What was not crushed under stone, or burned by lava, was soon buried in ash, or suffocated by toxic fumes. Within minutes of the explosion, hundreds were dead; within hours, thousands were dead, in Seattle and Portland, in Nisqually Indian Community and Yakama Indian Reservation. And in Puyallup.
Daniel Howling Coyote is a hero. Daniel Howling Coyote is a terrorist. Contrary to our cultural narrative, he can be both. We all can.
Re: [Fiction] Streets of Rage: The Interview (Part 1: The Gangs)
Deke was born in 2049, though he didn't know until he was tested for entry in Combat Bike. "Why would I care?" he asks me, when I question why he didn't ever try to find out before then. "We don't do birthdays in the Playground."
2049 was a simpler time, people would say now, because everything is smaller the more distant it gets. Maria Mercurial - herself just up out of Puyallup the year before - released Puta, to widespread acclaim, and even sits in with Warren Cartwright of Concrete Dreams for an acoustic set downtown. Richard and Samantha Villiers had a too-public divorce. Lorenzo Hayes finally beats the home run record - and apparently by virtue of superior training, not pharmaceutical assistance. Saab knocks out their fifth Euro-Rally win. The matrix goes cat-wild with awws when it's discovered that your furry feline friend might secretly be able to turn into a cheetah.
And Deep Green hunts 31 noblemen to death in Dartmoor. 249 people were blasted to pieces in the Shiawase Atomics office in San Francisco. 38 people die in Seattle as the Sons of Sauron attack the Humanis policlub headquarters. You know, a simpler time.
He was raised in the ashes of Puyallup. We don't think much about it now, because MCT's Verdant Grove project has since replaced so much of the blight, but from its destruction in 2017 until 2063, Puyallup languished under a layer of dust, buried deep in rubble, the skeletons of burned-out buildings shrugging on every ashen street, remains of cars and humans alike picked clean by scavengers. Active geysers spewed fumes and mud. Cave-ins littered the district, some swallowing whole buildings, others small enough to miss if you didn't watch your step. And everywhere, everywhere, the ash and cinders.
"I didn't know what black and white was," he says now. "Motherfucker, everyone was grey."
Growing up with no parents, in an urban hell, bred a certain type of person. One of his earliest memories is of hunting rats for food in lava tubes beneath the city streets. No one taught him to speak, much less to read or write. A wound could mean death, in this ash-covered wasteland, so fighting was rare, but brutal: most relationships were managed by posturing, not combat, but when a fight started, it was kill or be killed. He ate the other children who dared to fight him, because meat was a precious resource, not to be wasted by sentiment. He was not, as we would think of it, a human being: he was an animal. Feral.
Adults were to be avoided at all costs: they were stronger, faster, more cruel. They made noises that made no sense, possessed objects that could kill at a distance. You could scavenge from their garbage if you were careful, but you never wanted to deal with one. They were giants, and never to be trusted.
As he grew older, he discovered some children weren't predators, or prey. Some could be negotiated with, even befriended. Some even had adults of their own, who cared for them instead of hunting them. He doesn't know who he met first, because most of them were just always part of the neighborhood: Eugene was a friendly neighborhood monster, Ares a source of constant competition, Billy ever-present at the fringes, Chopper almost a kindred spirit, Amber a source of worry and amazement. They played dice with finger bones scrounged from the wreckage, taught Deke to speak his first few dozen words.
Together they carved out a niche for themselves, a sort of childrens' garden in the middle of an inferno. Within Seattle, Puyallup Barrens, the wreckage of a once-thriving community; within the Barrens, Hell's Kitchen, the worst blight in the city's worst neighborhood; and in the center of it all, the Devil's Playground, home to a few families, and a small collection of feral children with access to all the weapons they could scrounge, steal, or kill for.
2049 was a simpler time, people would say now, because everything is smaller the more distant it gets. Maria Mercurial - herself just up out of Puyallup the year before - released Puta, to widespread acclaim, and even sits in with Warren Cartwright of Concrete Dreams for an acoustic set downtown. Richard and Samantha Villiers had a too-public divorce. Lorenzo Hayes finally beats the home run record - and apparently by virtue of superior training, not pharmaceutical assistance. Saab knocks out their fifth Euro-Rally win. The matrix goes cat-wild with awws when it's discovered that your furry feline friend might secretly be able to turn into a cheetah.
And Deep Green hunts 31 noblemen to death in Dartmoor. 249 people were blasted to pieces in the Shiawase Atomics office in San Francisco. 38 people die in Seattle as the Sons of Sauron attack the Humanis policlub headquarters. You know, a simpler time.
He was raised in the ashes of Puyallup. We don't think much about it now, because MCT's Verdant Grove project has since replaced so much of the blight, but from its destruction in 2017 until 2063, Puyallup languished under a layer of dust, buried deep in rubble, the skeletons of burned-out buildings shrugging on every ashen street, remains of cars and humans alike picked clean by scavengers. Active geysers spewed fumes and mud. Cave-ins littered the district, some swallowing whole buildings, others small enough to miss if you didn't watch your step. And everywhere, everywhere, the ash and cinders.
"I didn't know what black and white was," he says now. "Motherfucker, everyone was grey."
Growing up with no parents, in an urban hell, bred a certain type of person. One of his earliest memories is of hunting rats for food in lava tubes beneath the city streets. No one taught him to speak, much less to read or write. A wound could mean death, in this ash-covered wasteland, so fighting was rare, but brutal: most relationships were managed by posturing, not combat, but when a fight started, it was kill or be killed. He ate the other children who dared to fight him, because meat was a precious resource, not to be wasted by sentiment. He was not, as we would think of it, a human being: he was an animal. Feral.
Adults were to be avoided at all costs: they were stronger, faster, more cruel. They made noises that made no sense, possessed objects that could kill at a distance. You could scavenge from their garbage if you were careful, but you never wanted to deal with one. They were giants, and never to be trusted.
As he grew older, he discovered some children weren't predators, or prey. Some could be negotiated with, even befriended. Some even had adults of their own, who cared for them instead of hunting them. He doesn't know who he met first, because most of them were just always part of the neighborhood: Eugene was a friendly neighborhood monster, Ares a source of constant competition, Billy ever-present at the fringes, Chopper almost a kindred spirit, Amber a source of worry and amazement. They played dice with finger bones scrounged from the wreckage, taught Deke to speak his first few dozen words.
Together they carved out a niche for themselves, a sort of childrens' garden in the middle of an inferno. Within Seattle, Puyallup Barrens, the wreckage of a once-thriving community; within the Barrens, Hell's Kitchen, the worst blight in the city's worst neighborhood; and in the center of it all, the Devil's Playground, home to a few families, and a small collection of feral children with access to all the weapons they could scrounge, steal, or kill for.