Poja Posted September 9 Share Posted September 9 (edited) Vignettes of Eurth • • • † • • • Welcome to the Vignettes of Eurth, a repository of short stories written by and for the members of Eurth. As a repository of short stories, this thread is open to everyone in Eurth to post in without the need for prior permission. Let the Vignettes of Eurth serve as a home to your single-post, short stories that would otherwise have no home. Do you want to post about a day-in-the-life of one of your citizens? Perhaps a single government session with no overarching plot? Maybe you want to post about the rise (or fall) of a king in his first (or last) moments? Maybe you want just want to post something obscure about your nation that wouldn't fit anywhere? Let this be the place for it. To quote Wikipedia, a vignette is a "short and descriptive piece of writing that captures a brief period in time. Vignettes are more focused on vivid imagery and meaning rather than plot. Vignettes can be stand-alone, but they are more commonly part of a larger narrative, such as vignettes found in novels or collections of short stories. As such, all post should adhere to a few standards to ensure that what is posted here is vignettes and solely vignettes. You are encouraged to get as creative as you like and to explore your nation to whatever level you desire - whether it be the most micro to the most macro. That is the joy of these vignettes, they are stand-alone and thus can have as much freedom as you desire. Posts should not include: news articles, out-of-character (OOC) posts, Academy RPs, single chapters of a larger workPosts should be one-off posts in-character (IC) onlyPosts should be long enough to qualify as a single post but should not be so long that they require a second post to makePlease use the appropriate tags below Please use this tag to denote if this is Canon or Non-Canon: [hr][center] [size=5][b][[color=#BF0000] CANON [/color]] Next, press shift + enter to go to the next line and please use this tag to indicate whether the post you are writing has taken place in the Past, the Present, or the Future: [[color=#BF0000] TIME [/color]][/b][/size] [/center][hr] Lastly, please also put this at the bottom of each of your posts to assist with navigation: [right] [url=https://www.europans.com/topic/7738-vignettes-of-eurth/]Return to Introduction[/url] [url=https://www.europans.com/topic/7738-vignettes-of-eurth/?do=findComment&comment=40025248]Return to Contents[/url] [/right] • • • † • • • Edited September 9 by Poja (see edit history) 5 Link to comment
Poja Posted September 9 Author Share Posted September 9 (edited) Table of Contents • • • † • • • OrioniLetter of Complaint to VelawagonNeopolis RisingThe Rods of AmilakiPojaThe Death of a PresidentTo Be Forgotten • • • † • • • Edited September 13 by Poja (see edit history) 5 Link to comment
Poja Posted September 9 Author Share Posted September 9 (edited) [ CANON ] [ PAST ] To Be Forgotten • • • † • • • Every year in the Konfederacija Poja, approximately 12,500 children run away from home. Most of the runaways come from broken homes where drugs, alcohol, and abuse play central themes in everyday life. The Pojački Center for Missing Children (CND) is here to help. Call 0-800-257-18-42 for more information or to seek assistance. Remember, we're here to listen! Friday, 15 May 1987 | 21:00 hrs [UTC-3] Konfederacija Poja, Rugi, Krušejevo The sun had gone down only minutes before Radič Krstić climbed through the broken chain link fence and onto the grounds of what was once the Krušejevo Insane Asylum. Built in the 1910s as a hospital for TB and polio patients, it had garnered a particularly morose reputation by the time it was shuttered in 1958 thanks to the rollout and successful mass production of the wurld's first polio vaccine. The land was sold off to the Pojački government, resold in 1960, and then reopened in 1962 after major renovations as an insane asylum. If its reputation was bad as a hospital, as an insane asylum it was exponentially worse. Throughout its subsequent seventeen-year history, the reports out of the Krušejevo Insane Asylum were downright horrifying. Stories of both physical and sexual abuse were rampant, patients who were released accused their caretakers of a litany of crimes including forced starvation and dehydration, torturous and unnecessary medical procedures, and gross negligence. There were ninety-seven deaths from 1962 to 1979, few of which were ever satisfactorily explained. Government investigators descended on the facility finally in 1979, shuttered it for good, and brought up its staff and owners on hundreds of charges. Some saw the inside of a jail cell but most didn't and since then, the Krušejevo Insane Asylum had sat as an abandoned structure, rotting from neglect. Despite signs warning against trespassing, it was a frequent target for delinquents and urban explorers, it was also rumored to be a safe haven for runaway children, which was why the sixteen-year-old Radič was trying to get his flashlight to work as he climbed through one of the many broken windows to the facility's main building. Stepping inside, Radič's boots immediately crunched against the small bits of broken glass that had once made up the window. In the silence of the corridor, it sounded louder than a gunshot and Radič quickly crouched down as his flashlight came to life, shining onto the ceiling above him. With a frantic panic, he quickly thumbed the switch off casting himself back into darkness. Breathing heavy, his heart pounding in his chest, Radič was terrified beyond words for any number of reasons. For starters, he was only sixteen and just four months on the run, having finally found the courage to leave the hell that was his home. Radič's mother had abandoned them many years ago to pursue a full-time drug habit, likely brought on by his father's rotten existence. An alcoholic who was cruel, mean, and physically abusive when he drank, Radič's father should have seen the inside of a jail cell but he was connected with just enough of the wrong people that he had enough immunity to carry out his ill ways, so long as he stayed within his lane, which was perhaps the one thing he was good at doing. In fact, the day Radič disappeared, his father took it upon himself to ransack the kid's room for any hidden money and, when he found none, took it out on Radič - or perhaps himself - by trashing the room. As f final act of his ill-begotten ways, he hadn't even bothered to call the police to report his missing son. Radič had it rough at first, really rough in fact. In his four months on the run, he'd been nearly robbed twice, gotten into seven fights, nearly been hit by a bus once, and he was pretty sure he was almost lured into prostitution by a hardware store owner who he was now sure was a serial pedophile. Radič's wurld knew only suffering and struggle. He struggled to find food, struggled to find clean water, struggled to keep his clothes from being torn, and most of all he struggled scrounging anything of value. He'd left with only a backpack, Đ500 in cash, three changes of clothes, and a few odds and ends. The money was long gone, the clothes so encrusted in grime, dirt, and filth that he abhorred the feeling they had on his skin. He hadn't showered in four months either and he hurt and ached in various places nearly all the time from injuries and creeping malnourishment but Radič wouldn't reach out for any help, fearing that his story wouldn't be believed; after all, no one had believed him thus far. His biggest fear was that police would just send him back home. With no one to trust and nowhere to go, he was probably at his most desperate. He was trespassing and, if the police cared to patrol the facility, which they would do many years in the future, they'd pick him up and throw him in a jail cell but in 1987, few people cared what happened to the place or its trespassers, least of all the local police. Gathering what little strength he could muster, Radič stood up and turned on his flashlight, carefully illuminating his path so that he wouldn't step on anything on worse, hurt himself. He kept his mouth closed, struggled to control his beating heart, and listened as hard as he could. He'd both been warned about the place and told to seek it out for potential safety. He was warned to avoid it because "bad people" were known to trespass in it, especially at night but lured there by the urban myths that a community of runaway kids was living there, spreading rumors about the aforementioned bad people to keep interlopers away. He'd heard more of the latter than the former but enough of the former that, not five meters into the facility, he saw a length of steel pipe on the floor and picked it up to use as a weapon. Radič passed through the corridors and past the rotting decay of the building. Patient rooms were thrashed, debris was everywhere. Office desks had been destroyed and the rubble thrown about, chairs were upended, and graffiti covered the walls. Windows were smashed nearly everywhere, the walls were full of holes, and the ceiling was falling apart in dozens of places. It was precisely what an abandoned building would look like after eight years of urban decay, accelerated by frequent trespassers and exposed to the elements. Radič stepped over heaps of junk and the scattered detritus of the facility's past. He ignored the steel bedframes missing their mattresses, many of which were nothing more than twisted puzzles of jagged metal. The stairs to the upper floors were full of holes and he chose not to ascend them out of fear of falling through the floorboards. Instead, he went downstairs, towards the basements, of which there were two. The first level had been for records and it looked as if a hurricane had passed through the entire floor. Bookshelves sat empty and paper was strewn everywhere. He picked up a few pages as he walked and read, seeing that many were pages from patient files haphazardly left behind in its shuttering. He continued onward, looking at the concrete walls and ceiling where paint peeled away and electrical switches sat in a variety of positions, some in the on position where the lack of electricity rendered them inoperable. What hit Radič most of all, as he moved through the ruins of the building, was just how empty it was. He heard no sounds but the ones he made, saw no signs that anyone lived there, and felt with each step more and more alone than he'd ever felt. It was almost like a crushing weight coming down on Radič as he ventured deeper into the facility as if, by entering, all of the sins of this place had suddenly piled onto his shoulders, as if he were there to bear the brunt of the misery and the loneliness that its patients must have felt. It hit him so rapidly yet so thoroughly he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever find happiness again and yet, as compelled as he was to leave and go somewhere else, he continued to venture deeper and deeper until he found himself in the lowest of the basements. While the first basement had been for record keeping it was in the second that the worst acts of inhumanity had taken place. Radič found himself along a single corridor with rooms on either side and what struck him most immediately and most profoundly was how untouched and "clean" this level was, as if some sort of otherwurldly spirit was protecting it from the wrecking ball of its trespassers. Radič didn't understand it as he walked past open door after open door. There were patient rooms, undisturbed from how they'd been left in 1979, and rooms that looked like exam rooms. He stopped to look into one and thought that it resembled a dentist's office with a large chair in the center, a light hanging over it. Straps hanging off the chair would have been used to tie down a patient's arms, legs, head, and torso immobilizing them. It was here that the "doctors" performed the worst operations and it was here that the abuse was levied out room-by-room. Radič had felt uncomfortable the moment his steps first landed in this level. First it was because of how untouched everything was, how clean - as in not destroyed - the rooms were but then, as he proceeded further and further inwards, by a sense of sluggishness that enveloped him like a coat. By the time he was halfway down the corridor, each step felt more tiresome than the last, as a powerful exhaustion came over him. Its onset was so rapid that he stumbled into the nearest open room and crumbled face down onto a thin, dirty mattress. His eyes felt heavy and he gave a feeble attempt to shove off his backpack only to be met with failure as he felt himself quickly going limp. In the last few microseconds of consciousness, Radič could have sworn he heard a girl's voice speaking to him afar, her words barely audible, "I just want to be forgotten…" Return to Introduction Return to Contents • • • † • • • Edited September 9 by Poja (see edit history) 5 Link to comment
Poja Posted September 13 Author Share Posted September 13 (edited) [ CANON ] [ PAST ] The Death of a President • • • † • • • Tuesday, 12 August 1986 | 11:15 hrs [UTC-3] Chernarus, Novigrad Pasha squeezed the trigger and the first thing that struck him was just how loud the gunshot was. He'd certainly heard things described as "louder than a gunshot" or "as loud as a gunshot" but until this moment, he'd never experienced it before. It was louder than he expected and the sheer violence that erupted in his hand sent a lightning bolt up his right arm and into his chest, dumping into his lungs. "Wow," he said aloud, his ears rigging despite the earmuffs over his ears. As he turned to his left a hand immediately shot out and grabbed his wrist. "Keep the muzzle downrange sir," came the instruction and the immediacy and authority of the voice paralyzed Pasha into immediate compliance. "I'm sorry," he pointed to his earmuffs, "my ears are…" "Yes, it's very loud sir, especially in here," the voice was shouting. "Go ahead, fire again. This time make sure you keep both of your eyes open; I saw you close one eye," he pointed to his eyes and Pasha nodded. Pasha reset his stance and his grip, just as he'd been shown for the past hour-and-a-half, and set his sights on the paper target not ten meters away. His first shot had gone a little wide and missed the silhouette by about ten centimeters. He took a breath and fired again and the small revolver bucked in his hand just like before but this time, when the paper swayed back, he saw a mammoth hole not a centimeter from the center ring. "Great shot!" The instructor said as he watched closely to make sure Pasha didn't swing the muzzle back around. Thirty minutes and four boxes of ammo later, Pasha put down the hot, smoking revolver, the cylinder open like he'd been shown, and he stepped back. The instructor, a man roughly his son's age, stepped forward and picked it up and the two of them left the shooting range through a thick double-door setup that created a dead space between the range and the shop. Pasha took off his earmuffs and listened to the ringing. "My ears are ringing," his voice was loud, elevated, and it echoed across the store. The instructor nodded and took off his own earmuffs, "Was I yelling?" The instructor nodded again and went behind the counter where he put down the revolver onto a felt pad. "It's to be expected when it's your first time. You did well sir, I'm glad to see you paid attention in our class today. So how did it feel?" Pasha felt his skin itch with tingles of excitement, "I've never felt that before." He was giddy, like a school child. "It was so powerful." "Well, that's the .357 Magnum sir. It's no .44 but sir, if you ask me, I'll tell you I'll take the .357 every day. I never miss with a .357 sir and neither will you with enough practice. Much more controllable and it does more than enough damage to the target. So, would you like me to get started on the paperwork? We'll put through the license documentation and then move forward with the ownership certification. Like I mentioned earlier, it takes about three months end-to-end. For the time being, we need a Đ100 deposit but we will hold the weapon here for you. While it's under our care it is insured and, should anything happen to it, we would refund you the full deposit and provide a Đ100 credit on a replacement as an apology. No one will be able to utilize your weapon while it's in our possession and you will be able to use it on premise as long as we are open for business and there is a licensed instructor on site." "Yes," Pasha put down the earmuffs on the counter and reached into his pocket for his wallet, "yes that is all fine with me. I intend to become very proficient with it." The instructor smiled and nodded. "Of course, we'll also clean this for you after each time it is used at no additional charge but if you'd like to do that, we would be more than willing to ensure it is done properly." "I think I'll take you up on that too," Pasha handed over a pair of Đ50 bills and put his wallet back into his pocket. • • • • ‡ ‡ • • • • Tuesday, 8 October 1985 | 22:07 hrs [UTC-3] Chernarus, Novigrad "Personally, I want to thank the Pojački people for believing so strongly in our message. Three decades ago, when the MOP came to power, no one knew we were on the verge of complete and total change in our country. We suffered through a twelve-year crisis and nearly suffered a second one not five years later. Three decades of single-party rule is simply too long and I for one am more than happy to be the peoples' chosen candidate to bring forward a new era in our country," the man in the suit said before the television cameras to a cheering crowd of people. The speech had been recorded many hours earlier when the Pojački House of Magnates officially certified the electoral victory of now President-Elect Radoman Vladić whose Pojački Democratic Party (PDS) swept to power throughout the entire country for the first time since the 1955 election. Vladić was something of a showman and he'd certainly harped on Modern Poja's thirty-year hold on the presidency, conveniently leaving out that his party had held it for thirty-five uninterrupted years prior. Since the 1920s, both parties vied for power and though they'd gone on long stretches of holding down the presidency, they often traded back and forth every five to ten years on the local level. In fact, this election, which had just been held on 14 September, was the first time in a long time that one party controlled not just the two executives but also had a majority in each region's legislatures. The sweeping victory that brought PDS into power was nothing short of miraculous but it was a long time coming. The Pojački people had tired of MOP's center-right policies, isolationist views, and legislative stalemates. They wanted progress for the Konfederacija Poja and the PDS was promising progress. Vladić was just shy of fifty-seven and much younger than his predecessor who was just over seventy-one when he took office and was now fast approaching the age of eighty-one. His age and his refusal to step down in the election had certainly cost the MOP and the younger, more agile Vladić not only crushed his opponent in each debate but had gone further to call for an age limit on politicians. That would hardly go over well with the ruling class but it was highly popular with the Pojački people and for Pasha Semenov personally, he hoped that Vladić's ascension to power would mean major policy changes for the country. Pasha had "immigrated" to the Konfederacija Poja in 1975 just after the Chernarussian Conflict had ended. In reality, Pasha had snuck into the country illegally. Having found out that authorities were looking for him, he'd fled his native Garindina and managed to buy his way to Chernarus aboard a fishing vessel. There, he hooked up with a small community of highly resourceful Garindinan ex-pats who managed to get him some fake documents. At that moment, insofar as the Pojački government was concerned, Pasha Semenov was a naturalized Pojački citizen. For Pasha, the move had been difficult. He'd left behind his family, two adult children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces, and nephews but luckily, despite the lack of normalized, diplomatic relations between Garindina and Poja, Pasha was still able to get mail from his family, once again thanks to the ex-pat network. Without it, he would have surely gone insane with loneliness by now but, with PDS taking power, Pasha was filled with hope for the first time since he'd fled his home country. Throughout the election season, Vladić had been deeply critical of the government's policy towards refugees, a policy that prevented Pasha from getting his family out of harm's way now that his country had been enthralled in a raging civil war. He stood ready to use his ex-pat network to get them out of Garindina, to get them to safety in Chernarus, and to return to his former life. But luck would not be on Pasha's side. Standing before the cameras, Vladić was asked how his government would treat the Garindinan Civil War and the burgeoning refugee crisis growing in the Mediargic region. Vladić began to answer right away but in his lengthy word salad response, he said absolutely nothing. Noncommittal, he more or less said that the government approach wouldn't change, at least insofar as he could envision. His words cut through Pasha like a knife who felt a sudden and personal betrayal at the President-Elect's non-response. Vladić had been hoping for a change, hoping that he could get his family out of Garindina, away from the bullets, the bombs, and the ethnic cleansing of the civil war that had now been raging for more than two years. Vladić's words deflated all of Pasha's dreams and in silence, the man sat in his chair, staring at his television, mentally cursing the Pojački government. Six months later, Pasha was sitting in the same chair when his phone rang. It was late at night, much later than he expected to receive a phone call but something compelled him to reach for the handset on the table beside him. He listened to a voice on the other end, both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time and tried to comprehend the words that were being spoken. He wondered if it was a scam caller, if it was some prank, because what he was being told wasn't real, couldn't be real. The man spoke in his native Garindinan, the familiarity of it echoed in Pasha's head. "I'm sorry," the voice said in closing, "I'm sorry to have to tell you this." The line went dead and Pasha took the handset away from his ear and looked at it in disbelief, tears welling up in his eyes. If he'd thought he was alone before, now he was truly alone for his entire family was now dead, his son, his daughter, his daughter-in-law, his two grandchildren, his brother, and his nieces and nephews, were all dead. • • • • ‡ ‡ • • • • Sunday, 17 May 1987 | 13:24 hrs [UTC-3] Konfederacija Poja, Rugi Pasha felt himself pushed from behind and before he realized it, he was pinned against the barrier in front of him, practically immobilized as many hands reached over him and outwards. The barrier, hardly budging even against the massive weight and pressure against it, was nothing but a hindrance to the man as he fished around in his pocket and felt the cold, bulky metal of his revolver. Up until this moment, he'd been a ball of nerves, his stomach nothing more than a knot churning in on itself with surging anxiety. He'd spent almost an hour working through the layers of the crowd to get to this very point, slowly moving through each gap, gently asking people to let him pass, forcing others when necessary until he was at the barriers. Now, mere meters away from victory, failure was never greater, especially if he wasn't free to withdraw his hands - and by proxy the revolver - from his pocket. Pasha felt a rush of adrenaline and stepped backwards against the impossible weight that pushed against his back. He barely moved half of his foot's length but it was enough to relieve the pressure on his arms. With his arms now free, he reached with his left to take hold of the barrier and used it as a leverage point to hold back the pressing weight of those behind him. His right hand continued to fiddle in his coat pocket until the revolver was firmly in his grip. He pulled the hammer back, his finger resting on the side of the cylinder, and waited as the man approached, a smile across his face, shaking hands with those who were reaching forward. Ten meters Pasha thought. This day had been a long time coming for Pasha for it was the day he'd assassinate President Vladić. From the moment he'd heard of his family's death, he'd plotted revenge against the Pojački government, holding the government directly responsible because of its anti-refugee policies enacted by prior governments and continued by Vladić. If he could have shot Vladić's predecessor he'd done that as well but the man had long since retired from public life. Vladić was thus the only available target for Pasha's revenge and it didn't necessarily matter if it was Vladić or someone else, truth be told. Pasha wanted the Pojački government and the Pojački people to hurt like he hurt. He couldn't do much more than what he planned to do but, in his eyes, it was the ultimate act of vengeance for his family. Revenge had consumed Pasha to a cellular level since that fateful evening when he'd been told of his family's demise. He set out first to get a firearm and patiently waited for his legal ownership to go through, perhaps the most significant test to his false identity. In the meantime, he practiced constantly at the gun range, spending thousands of dinar on ammunition, range time, and cleaning supplies. He became more than just proficient. By the time his license went through, he was frequently putting all six rounds through the center ring from as far away as twenty-five meters. Whenever anyone asked, he simply stated that he found in himself a passion in shooting, that it helped relieve stress, and that he was proud of his accomplishments. To those at the gun range and the gun club he'd joined, Pasha was just another regular, someone who enjoyed shooting, who respected the weapon, respected the rules, respected those around him, and hardly seemed the revenge-fueled assassin he'd become. Interviews after the incident would shed little light on the man except for his illegally-obtained citizenship and the sophistication of the Garindinan ex-pat community to obtain false papers. His motive, on the other hand, would become known when he confessed it in court and though many people would point fingers at the Pojački system as being broken, in truth, it wasn't. The Garindinans had simply learned the loopholes and they had taken advantage of them, something that would be rectified in a future crackdown on forgers. Eight meters, Pasha thought as he looked at the approaching President. Bodyguards milled about nearby attentive but still at a slight distance. Pasha was doing reconnaissance as much as he was sizing up his target, everything he'd read about and been taught during the many conversations at gun club simply "shooting the shit" with the other members. It hardly drew suspicion because Pasha wasn't a suspicious man. At his trial, testimony would confirm as much and though he was a murderer who'd committed high treason against the Pojački state he was painted as a broken man, a product of the apathy of the Pojački government's approach to the humanitarian crises that exploded all over the wurld. Pasha wasn't painted as an evil man, necessarily speaking. Six meters, Pasha felt the cold metal of the weapon in his pocket, his finger still on the side of the cylinder, lest he accidentally fire it in his pocket. He'd had the weapon fitted with a hair trigger, lowering the pull pressure and making his shots that much more accurate. Of course, that meant even the slightly of taps could fire the weapon and so he'd practiced for hours with the weapon in his pocket, the cylinders empty, holding and positioning the revolver before finally pulling it out of his pocket. He put a little ink on the trigger and if he pulled out the weapon and he had ink on his finger, he washed his hands and started over, judging the run a failure. He practiced and practice over and over again, thousands of repetitions each day and each night until he could do it flawlessly. He didn't quit though, he kept practicing each and every night until this very moment before him. Four meters, the crowd was alive with energy and excitement. President Vladić was extremely popular with the Pojački people and every Sunday, when he attended mass, crowds gathered around the massive, Catholic cathedral that was the seat and symbol of Catholicism in the country. Outside of the Region of Adjinua, the Konfederacija Poja was predominantly Orthodox and so there weren't nearly as many Catholic churches as there were Orthodox but that had hardly stopped the construction of a Catholic cathedral in the nation's capital. It was convenient for the country's first Catholic President as it was but a stone's throw away from the Predsjednički Dvori. Outside of really horrid weather, the President and his family walked between the cathedral and Predsjednički Dvori with only a handful of bodyguards. It wasn't as if there were a thousand Pasha's lurking to kill him. In fact, the Pojački government assessed the threat against not just him but any President's life by assassination as incredibly low. They weren't wrong either, Pasha was the exception, not the rule. Two meters, the weapon was ready and the President was fast approaching. Pasha could hear his voice clearly now, saying "thank you" to people, saying "hello," wishing them well. Was he being genuine? Most people thought so; Pasha didn't care. He only had the faces of his son, his daughter, his daughter-in-law, his two grandchildren, his brother, and his nieces and nephews, in his head. Their images, their laughter, their voices, their cries, their screams, their agony, their everything bounced around Pasha's mind like a thousand pinballs screaming in a machine. For them, he thought to himself. One meter. The gunshot was loud and unmistakable, taking everyone by surprise, especially the President and his bodyguards. The second and third shots came in rapid succession and then a fourth. Finally, people began to react, their brains connecting the many dots. The President was falling backwards, his eyes wide and his face frozen in shock. A fifth shot and then a sixth rang out and then nothing. Less than two seconds had elapsed since Pasha pulled the weapon from his pocket, hovered his finger over the trigger, raised the weapon, and fired the first shot. He fired all six rounds and the revolver was now empty, smoking rising from the muzzle in his steady hands. The President had been not a meter in front of him, reaching up and over him, hiding Pasha and the weapon from everyone's view. He was so close that none of the shots missed, each one striking the President's torso from point blank range. Blood sprayed on Pasha's coat, on his face, and all around as each shot tore holes in the President's body and then he fell backwards, the bodyguards rushing to get him, screams echoing through the crowds. Pasha dropped the revolver, its empty cylinders useless now, and then he was tackled. He didn't mean to get away, didn't plan for it, didn't even consider it. At his execution, just before the hangman's noose was slipped over his head, he'd been asked for any final words. All he could say was, "I've avenged my family." It took Pasha seven-tenths of a second to fall through the trap door and reach the bottom of the drop. The noose drew tight and fractured his neck in one-fiftieth of a second. It was all the time it took for Pasha to become unconscious. He'd dangle there while a medical officer listened to his chest, hearing his pulse rapidly quicken as the heart beat faster and faster trying to pump blood to the brain meeting a blockage from the noose. Brain death came shortly thereafter and Pasha's pulse weakened until finally, twelve minutes after he fell through the trap door, his heartbeat was no longer audible. The few spasms he'd had were involuntary as the body's nerves fired at random signals and intervals. Ten minutes later, he was pronounced dead. He'd be taken down, given an autopsy as required by law, and buried a few hours later, the end of a man who'd lost everything except his revenge. Return to Introduction Return to Contents • • • † • • • Edited September 13 by Poja (see edit history) 3 Link to comment
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