07-04-2016, 10:49 AM
The meeting had started without her. Natalie walked into it by accident rather than purpose, seeking cold water from the sink in her room, but slipped quietly into a seat when she absorbed the gravity of the atmosphere. A few disapproving gazes speared a note of her absence. Many eyes were red and puffy; she had not been the only one to spend the night grieving. Ayo sat in Laurene's lap, clung tight like a much younger child. Silent and unmoving while the woman rocked her gently.
The discussion encapsulated their current situation, and sought to build security from the ruins. Natalie listened quietly as all the information available to them was dissected.
Appeals spread desperate fingers across the CCD, but if public sympathies were stoked at the plight of the Sierra Leoneans, the disaster was also noted as a civil one. An internal dispute easy to turn a blind eye to. The Northbrook family poured in waves of their own money, and Eleanor Northbrook was the guiding star of the campaign, doggedly demanding the focus of the media. She was under heavy fire for it. Leading humanitarians were not supposed to act in their own self-interests.
And now Jacques Danjou had rebranded his mercenary company under the banner of a personal army.
If Africa ignited the news hubs, right now it was for the wrong reasons. The people suffering were being forgotten in the heat of gossip.
But that was not the crux of the problem. Negotiations to receive as much aid as was needed into the city was ongoing; supplies came in a trickle, spread too thinly, gone too quickly. They calculated that they could get by on what they had, if the situation remained as it was now, but it made harder work of it than necessary. People would go cold and hungry for more days between relief. Medicine would be metered out more strictly, and people would suffer for it. In short, tensions from deprivation would be rife.
But perhaps the most debilitating blow was the loss of Netlands hospital, the city's main artery. It's destruction had severely damaged the city's capacity to deal with its many injured, not just because of the loss of supplies and equipment, but the death of so many good doctors and specialists. Triage tents billowed from remaining medical facilities, but they were both hastily wrought and undermanned. There was an undercurrent of concern about the potential for the spread of disease. Such an outbreak would be devastating.
They discussed the lay of the city. Part of the embassy had been turned over to a refugee camp. In other sections of the city, public buildings had also been commandeered. As the Red Cross and other humanitarian workers pooled resources and began coordination, it became quickly apparent that Temne were being denied entry to the city. Those already here, who had somehow avoided the persecution and violence of the last few days, were encouraged to keep their heads down.
There were still many displaced souls with nowhere to go. Those with homes to retreat to had locked themselves away. Police and legionnaires quelled the street fighting. In many ways the city was eerie still. Awaiting resolution. For Wallace-Johnson to force his brand of peace uninterrupted, or for Katlego to kick in the throes of defeat. And now Danjou had thrown his hat into the ring. Uncertainty reigned.
But here, in this room, the political turmoil was but a backdrop. An unceasing current that must simply to adapted to, keeping as many afloat as possible in the process. They did not focus on how they might change the game, only how they would react to it.
Negotiation efforts would be fought more fiercely; they would return to the begging table, again and again, until they had what they needed. They would push for more medical personnel to be flown in, if such concessions could be seized, because so many doctors had died in the destruction of netlands. Quarantine areas would be decided, to help stave off the potential for such crisis before it ever had the chance to spread uncontrollably. Red Cross staff would be present at every camp. They could do little for the Temne but try and keep the peace.
That was what they planned for. It was not what they hoped for. If Jacques Danjou's plans came to fruition, the docks and airport would open and finally let the emergency aid flood in. A convoy, organised by him, was but days away. She could hear in their voices that this was what they prayed for. What they trusted in. The time between was an interim to be endured. It gave them the focus and drive that sustained them in the face of sleepless nights and grief's cool hand.
For Natalie's part, she prayed they were right.
Jacques had told her, before the refinery, that he'd gown tired of despots and warlords. Of babies torn from the arms of mothers. Of boys with guns. At the time she'd gleaned no sense that he meant to do something drastic. In hindsight the plan had been there even then, and who knew how deep the roots of it went, or what he ultimately intended. She couldn't reconcile the man who had shown such empathy with the man who had staged the tragedy of Masiaka, but perhaps only because she needed someone to blame. He'd made a mistake, and the consequences had spiralled beyond his control. If he was juggling so many damn balls, he was bound to at least drop one.
I can't be that unprepared again.
Perhaps she'd needed the calm. Of plans and hopes and a sun that would rise tomorrow. It refortified the need for the decisions she had already made, but perhaps tempered them too. There was so much more to consider. Like how unsuited she was to this job. While her colleagues had turned straight to the salvage, Natalie had licked her wounds and railed against the unfairness of it all. She ran her hands over her head, wincing at her fingers found the bruises on her scalp. One complaint gave voice to another. She ached all over. Had barely rested since St. James.
As the others dispersed to their tasks, Laurene lingered. In fact she still sat with Ayo in her arms. Perhaps because the girl was too big for someone of her frame to comfortably carry, or perhaps because, of all the others, Laurene seemed the one most visibly affected by the events at the refinery. No one had mentioned it, she noted, despite the red eyes.
They had never been close, but they had worked together now for half a year. Laurene's eyes were swollen, her pallor pale, her short hair tufted and unbrushed. But her look was sharp, and clearly she was piecing together something the others had not considered.
"Natalie. The government knows who you are, and it knows you are in Freetown. If Wallace-Johnson - or Katlego, for that matter - finds a way to use you, they will. You have the legion's protection at the embassy, and there is plenty that needs doing here."
Natalie watched the woman a moment. Allowed the words to really soak in, knowing the moment they left her lips they were right. That her hands were tied. And for a moment the frustration crested, full force. Unremitting. It crushed with an ancient weight, an unforgivingly familiar feeling. How many times must I be asked to do nothing? Her head began throbbing again. Maybe she really had bashed something loose. She closed her eyes. "There's more I can do. I can be more useful elsewhere."
"It's not yourself you'd be risking, it's all our work here. What would your mother do if she heard that Wallace-Johnson had you? She's moving mountains already. Consider that the most useful thing you can do right now is to be safe."
Trust Jacques. Trust the Legion. Simply wait. "I can't abide others taking all the risks, Laurene."
"It's not about you, though, is it. It's about her, and all the others."
She leaned her chin into Ayo's hair, kissed the girl on top of the head. "Ekene is at the camp here, running errands for the legionnaires. He could use the support of a familiar face."
She paused, gaze ducking away. The pain rippled through her. Words tight and small. "I can deal with what happened. But only if it's not in vain. I trust that Legion Premiere is doing the right thing, despite the costs. That it's all going to work out. That we'll see the future we've fought to see for generations."
Don't jeopardise that. The entreaty was clear.
[[fyi, this post takes place before Ascendancy's announcement]]
The discussion encapsulated their current situation, and sought to build security from the ruins. Natalie listened quietly as all the information available to them was dissected.
Appeals spread desperate fingers across the CCD, but if public sympathies were stoked at the plight of the Sierra Leoneans, the disaster was also noted as a civil one. An internal dispute easy to turn a blind eye to. The Northbrook family poured in waves of their own money, and Eleanor Northbrook was the guiding star of the campaign, doggedly demanding the focus of the media. She was under heavy fire for it. Leading humanitarians were not supposed to act in their own self-interests.
And now Jacques Danjou had rebranded his mercenary company under the banner of a personal army.
If Africa ignited the news hubs, right now it was for the wrong reasons. The people suffering were being forgotten in the heat of gossip.
But that was not the crux of the problem. Negotiations to receive as much aid as was needed into the city was ongoing; supplies came in a trickle, spread too thinly, gone too quickly. They calculated that they could get by on what they had, if the situation remained as it was now, but it made harder work of it than necessary. People would go cold and hungry for more days between relief. Medicine would be metered out more strictly, and people would suffer for it. In short, tensions from deprivation would be rife.
But perhaps the most debilitating blow was the loss of Netlands hospital, the city's main artery. It's destruction had severely damaged the city's capacity to deal with its many injured, not just because of the loss of supplies and equipment, but the death of so many good doctors and specialists. Triage tents billowed from remaining medical facilities, but they were both hastily wrought and undermanned. There was an undercurrent of concern about the potential for the spread of disease. Such an outbreak would be devastating.
They discussed the lay of the city. Part of the embassy had been turned over to a refugee camp. In other sections of the city, public buildings had also been commandeered. As the Red Cross and other humanitarian workers pooled resources and began coordination, it became quickly apparent that Temne were being denied entry to the city. Those already here, who had somehow avoided the persecution and violence of the last few days, were encouraged to keep their heads down.
There were still many displaced souls with nowhere to go. Those with homes to retreat to had locked themselves away. Police and legionnaires quelled the street fighting. In many ways the city was eerie still. Awaiting resolution. For Wallace-Johnson to force his brand of peace uninterrupted, or for Katlego to kick in the throes of defeat. And now Danjou had thrown his hat into the ring. Uncertainty reigned.
But here, in this room, the political turmoil was but a backdrop. An unceasing current that must simply to adapted to, keeping as many afloat as possible in the process. They did not focus on how they might change the game, only how they would react to it.
Negotiation efforts would be fought more fiercely; they would return to the begging table, again and again, until they had what they needed. They would push for more medical personnel to be flown in, if such concessions could be seized, because so many doctors had died in the destruction of netlands. Quarantine areas would be decided, to help stave off the potential for such crisis before it ever had the chance to spread uncontrollably. Red Cross staff would be present at every camp. They could do little for the Temne but try and keep the peace.
That was what they planned for. It was not what they hoped for. If Jacques Danjou's plans came to fruition, the docks and airport would open and finally let the emergency aid flood in. A convoy, organised by him, was but days away. She could hear in their voices that this was what they prayed for. What they trusted in. The time between was an interim to be endured. It gave them the focus and drive that sustained them in the face of sleepless nights and grief's cool hand.
For Natalie's part, she prayed they were right.
Jacques had told her, before the refinery, that he'd gown tired of despots and warlords. Of babies torn from the arms of mothers. Of boys with guns. At the time she'd gleaned no sense that he meant to do something drastic. In hindsight the plan had been there even then, and who knew how deep the roots of it went, or what he ultimately intended. She couldn't reconcile the man who had shown such empathy with the man who had staged the tragedy of Masiaka, but perhaps only because she needed someone to blame. He'd made a mistake, and the consequences had spiralled beyond his control. If he was juggling so many damn balls, he was bound to at least drop one.
I can't be that unprepared again.
Perhaps she'd needed the calm. Of plans and hopes and a sun that would rise tomorrow. It refortified the need for the decisions she had already made, but perhaps tempered them too. There was so much more to consider. Like how unsuited she was to this job. While her colleagues had turned straight to the salvage, Natalie had licked her wounds and railed against the unfairness of it all. She ran her hands over her head, wincing at her fingers found the bruises on her scalp. One complaint gave voice to another. She ached all over. Had barely rested since St. James.
As the others dispersed to their tasks, Laurene lingered. In fact she still sat with Ayo in her arms. Perhaps because the girl was too big for someone of her frame to comfortably carry, or perhaps because, of all the others, Laurene seemed the one most visibly affected by the events at the refinery. No one had mentioned it, she noted, despite the red eyes.
They had never been close, but they had worked together now for half a year. Laurene's eyes were swollen, her pallor pale, her short hair tufted and unbrushed. But her look was sharp, and clearly she was piecing together something the others had not considered.
"Natalie. The government knows who you are, and it knows you are in Freetown. If Wallace-Johnson - or Katlego, for that matter - finds a way to use you, they will. You have the legion's protection at the embassy, and there is plenty that needs doing here."
Natalie watched the woman a moment. Allowed the words to really soak in, knowing the moment they left her lips they were right. That her hands were tied. And for a moment the frustration crested, full force. Unremitting. It crushed with an ancient weight, an unforgivingly familiar feeling. How many times must I be asked to do nothing? Her head began throbbing again. Maybe she really had bashed something loose. She closed her eyes. "There's more I can do. I can be more useful elsewhere."
"It's not yourself you'd be risking, it's all our work here. What would your mother do if she heard that Wallace-Johnson had you? She's moving mountains already. Consider that the most useful thing you can do right now is to be safe."
Trust Jacques. Trust the Legion. Simply wait. "I can't abide others taking all the risks, Laurene."
"It's not about you, though, is it. It's about her, and all the others."
She leaned her chin into Ayo's hair, kissed the girl on top of the head. "Ekene is at the camp here, running errands for the legionnaires. He could use the support of a familiar face."
She paused, gaze ducking away. The pain rippled through her. Words tight and small. "I can deal with what happened. But only if it's not in vain. I trust that Legion Premiere is doing the right thing, despite the costs. That it's all going to work out. That we'll see the future we've fought to see for generations."
Don't jeopardise that. The entreaty was clear.
[[fyi, this post takes place before Ascendancy's announcement]]