07-28-2014, 09:25 PM
There were too many piles of dead bodies in the city. Many would, at best, end up in mass graves that would likely be dug in the national park to the south of the city, which would suffer drastic deforestation to accommodate the thousands of refugees that had fled to the capital, and the many thousands more that would surely join them in the coming days.
Many would go unidentified, dumped into deep holes quickly, the bodies likely looted for anything of value first. Perhaps in the coming decades, some human rights group or another would fund an effort to pull dental records of those bodies, exhuming the mass graves and seeing them granted a 'proper' burial.
He glanced down at her as she took up a more comfortable position, leaning against one of the labouring ventilators. The machines were desperately over worked; the embassy was filled beyond it's intended capacity, meaning the machines had been needed to be run continuously to assure a good flow of air, especially through the sections housing the wounded.
He held a hand out for the binos she had 'picked up' somewhere. They would be returned to his men, who would need them to keep the perimeter secure during the night. Once handed over, they were tucked into the leg pocket of his slacks, where they fit neatly.
Her comment was met by a ghost of a chuckle, "Allan Quartermain."
As if that alone was explanation enough. A moment's silence, and he glanced down at her, "Sir Rider Haggard. An Englishman, author, from around the turn of the last century. Wrote of the great hunter, Allan Quartermain. Macumazahn. Part of the fiction was that he could never die so long as he remained on the Dark Continent."
He shrugged and returned his gaze to the streets below the embassy. "I might have given you a speech about why I do what I do. But I doubt you would care. Perhaps there is some similarity in our end games, but the motives and means to get there are very different. Every life taken to reach my goal is one too many. Every one of my men that give their lives for my goal, is too much asked of my men."
Below, there were widowed wives clutching their children to their sides. There were men who mere hours before had been influential and safe, now dirty and exhausted. Women, girls, who had escaped with their lives, but carrying the seed of their attackers. Lives had been ruined, destroyed, and some would never recover.
"The world suffers a lot. Not because the violence of bad people. But because of the silence of the good people. I will not be silent. My men will not stand idly by. And in so doing, I hope to set an example."
It was hard to imagine, but the quote was of Napoleon Bonaparte. The man had conquered through force of arms, but had brought medical science, education, economic stability, and scientific growth in his wake.
"That aside, I will sleep tonight. I need to adjust to the time zone. And the best way to do that is to stay awake a few more hours, somehow."
He smiled down at her; he had no way of knowing if Jared's magics had truly rested him or simply kept the need for rest at bay for a few more hours. Either way, he would need to sleep eventually, and would need to keep himself awake till it was time to rest.
Many would go unidentified, dumped into deep holes quickly, the bodies likely looted for anything of value first. Perhaps in the coming decades, some human rights group or another would fund an effort to pull dental records of those bodies, exhuming the mass graves and seeing them granted a 'proper' burial.
He glanced down at her as she took up a more comfortable position, leaning against one of the labouring ventilators. The machines were desperately over worked; the embassy was filled beyond it's intended capacity, meaning the machines had been needed to be run continuously to assure a good flow of air, especially through the sections housing the wounded.
He held a hand out for the binos she had 'picked up' somewhere. They would be returned to his men, who would need them to keep the perimeter secure during the night. Once handed over, they were tucked into the leg pocket of his slacks, where they fit neatly.
Her comment was met by a ghost of a chuckle, "Allan Quartermain."
As if that alone was explanation enough. A moment's silence, and he glanced down at her, "Sir Rider Haggard. An Englishman, author, from around the turn of the last century. Wrote of the great hunter, Allan Quartermain. Macumazahn. Part of the fiction was that he could never die so long as he remained on the Dark Continent."
He shrugged and returned his gaze to the streets below the embassy. "I might have given you a speech about why I do what I do. But I doubt you would care. Perhaps there is some similarity in our end games, but the motives and means to get there are very different. Every life taken to reach my goal is one too many. Every one of my men that give their lives for my goal, is too much asked of my men."
Below, there were widowed wives clutching their children to their sides. There were men who mere hours before had been influential and safe, now dirty and exhausted. Women, girls, who had escaped with their lives, but carrying the seed of their attackers. Lives had been ruined, destroyed, and some would never recover.
"The world suffers a lot. Not because the violence of bad people. But because of the silence of the good people. I will not be silent. My men will not stand idly by. And in so doing, I hope to set an example."
It was hard to imagine, but the quote was of Napoleon Bonaparte. The man had conquered through force of arms, but had brought medical science, education, economic stability, and scientific growth in his wake.
"That aside, I will sleep tonight. I need to adjust to the time zone. And the best way to do that is to stay awake a few more hours, somehow."
He smiled down at her; he had no way of knowing if Jared's magics had truly rested him or simply kept the need for rest at bay for a few more hours. Either way, he would need to sleep eventually, and would need to keep himself awake till it was time to rest.