Caution: Independence War At Work

[Caerlannach]

Prologue: Tine Beo

 

In the Basement of an Unknown Pub

Dúnradh, Protectorate of Caerlannach – 5:16 A.M., 12 December 1972

Thud. Thud. Thud.

"Oi, Aodhán, it's me, Seán!" called a rugged voice from above the pub.

The cellar door creaked open, revealing a wiry man with a rifle slung over his shoulder. Aodhán, the man in charge, shot him an irritated glare. "Yer goddamn late, Seán. Grab yer rifle and get set up on the roof. Don't make me repeat myself."

Seán muttered an apology, scrambling to join the others already checking their weapons and finalizing their positions.

Aodhán turned to the group, his voice steely yet calm. "Alright, lads, listen close. At 0600 sharp, we begin. No mistakes, no hesitation. The watchword is Tine Beo. May luck be on yer shoulders, boys. History's watching."

The rebels nodded in grim determination, gripping their weapons tighter. The room filled with the quiet clinks of rifles being loaded, knives being sharpened, and last prayers being muttered. This wasn’t just another raid, it was the moment the Caerlanni Liberation Group had been building toward for years.

 

6.00 A.M.

---

Dúnradh General Hospital

"Come on, Aisling, ye have to understand. We need this building. It's critical." A rebel soldier pleaded with a young nurse blocking the entrance.

Aisling Luathach, her arms crossed firmly, shook her head. "Absolutely not! Do you hear yourself? Sick children and recovering patients are in there, and you want to turn it into a garrison? Are ye mad?"

Another soldier, younger and clearly nervous, stepped forward. "We don’t want to disturb anyone, miss. But your brother, the Ceannaire, ordered us to secure the area. He said... he'd explain it to you later."

At the mention of her brother, Aisling’s frustration boiled over. "That bloody idiot! Off gallivanting for years, shooting dust with his rifle, and now he's dragging me into this mess?" She sighed, her resolve softening. "Fine. I’ll talk to the director, but I swear, if one child so much as cries because of this..."

"Thank you, miss," the soldier replied earnestly, his comrades nodding in gratitude.

---

Dúnradh Post Office

Inside the post office, chaos reigned.

"I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR YE IDIOTS!" bellowed Mr. Cormac Ó Dálaigh, a postmaster with an unshakable commitment to his job. He slammed a stack of letters onto the counter, glaring at the two rebel soldiers before him.

"Mr. Ó Dálaigh, we’re not asking, we’re telling ye. This is for the greater good!" one of the soldiers insisted.

"Greater good?" Cormac scoffed. "And what 'greater good' takes precedence over me job? Letters don’t deliver themselves, ye know!"

The soldiers exchanged weary looks before another chimed in, holding out a small package. "Mr. Ó Dálaigh, wait. Here’s your mail from your uncle."

Caught off guard, the old man softened slightly. "Well, at least yer not all useless." He grabbed the package and muttered under his breath, "That Ronan better not be stormin' me front porch next."

---

Dúnradh Governance Hall

The true heart of the operation lay in the Governance Hall, the symbol of @Gotneska control in Caerlannach. Rebels swarmed the building’s perimeter, taking up positions as the first rays of dawn painted the sky.

Inside, the Lord-Governor, Sir Malcolm Armitage, paced anxiously, the distant sounds of gunfire and shouting growing louder. "What in God’s name is happening out there?" he demanded of his guards.

"Sir, it’s the rebels. They're everywhere," a panicked officer replied.

As the clock struck 6:30 A.M., the main doors burst open. Smoke and chaos flooded the grand hall as Ronan Luathach, flanked by his most loyal fighters, strode in. His once-ragged appearance had been replaced with the demeanor of a commander who had weathered the storm.

"Sir Armitage!" Ronan’s voice echoed through the hall, cutting through the chaos like a blade. "Your reign over Caerlannach ends today."

Armitage, though visibly shaken, attempted to muster authority. "You’re a terrorist, Luathach. This insurrection will not stand."

Ronan stepped forward, his piercing gaze fixed on the man. "Terrorist? Is that what you call a people fighting for their freedom? Look around you. Your soldiers are defecting, your officials are fleeing. You’ve lost control of this city. The only way this ends peacefully is if you surrender."

The tension was palpable as silence filled the hall. Ronan’s fighters stood ready, their weapons trained on the guards. The Lord-Governor hesitated, glancing at his dwindling forces.

"Do you think this is bravery, Luathach? You’ll only bring chaos," Armitage spat.

"Chaos? No," Ronan replied, his voice unwavering. "I bring a fire, a living flame, that will burn away the chains of oppression. Sign the surrender, and you might live to see the dawn of a free Caerlannach."

Finally, the Lord-Governor’s resolve crumbled. With trembling hands, he motioned for his secretary to bring the official documents.

As the surrender papers were signed, Ronan raised his fist in triumph, his voice ringing out: "Tine Beo!"

From the streets below, the chant echoed: "Tine Beo! Tine Beo!"