Locôtville, Côte Noire
10 February, A.C. 422
Sldt. Basile Coste
Locôtville, Andéramboukaneville
Locôtville, an abbreviation for 'Logements Côtiers', or 'Coastal Housing Developments', is the newest residential development being constructed in the downtown of Andéramboukaneville - once just Andéramboukane, the capital of the Republic of Kassalo, before it's annexation by Gallia last year. Kassalo has since been transformed into the Gallian "protectorate", in reality colony, of Côte Noire. The influx of Mederune businessmen to the diamond-rich protectorate necessitated in the eyes of the new administration the construction of new housing - in the delightful pre-Calamity architectural style of the Gallian capital of Frênis.
"Stop!"
Another day, another shift guarding the checkpoint on Avenue Adelard Beauchêne, one of the main streets of the new housing zone of the city, that which had been termed 'Locôtville'. For Soldat Basile Coste, it was a fairly alright post to be assigned to, if he was to be stationed in Andéramboukaneville with the rest of the 27e Chasseurs. It was at the edge of Locôtville and closer to the slums making up most of the city, that was true, but the way that the bureaucracy handled the neighborhood's construction meant that the sections of it slated to be built along the ocean would be built last. The sections built furthest into the city, like the area he helped to guard, were already constructed and thus were actually considered less active. That was to say, they wouldn't need to perform patdowns of many of Locôtville's construction workers (who lived in the slums) and could simply check instead the identification of the drivers coming too and fro. The Gallian administration was rather unashamedly racist in how it treated potential security threats, something Basile didn't necessarily agree with, and so the 'natives' tended to be singled out.
The commander of Basile's section, numbering five men in total including the commander himself was the one performing identification checks today. Sergent Rémy Perrin was a very amiable character. He was funny, he worked well under pressure - Basile admitted that was something he himself could use some work on - and he was understanding of how one could easily despair about being deployed to a backwater like Côte Noire. He tended to turn a blind eye if his men hit the bars, though to a certain extent the section knew not to cross. The Gallians held a rather conservative position on bonding too much with fellow soldiers, in comparison to the Euphemians, and to a certain degree had a bit of a well-earned superiority complex about themselves.
Leaning into the window of this vehicle - it seemed Hesperian, though Basile didn't really give a toss about Ophiric vehicles - Rémy rattled off the usual procedural introduction. "Identification card, please." The driver didn't seem to understand him, saying something in response in one of the local tongues whilst giving a shrug. The combination of refusal to learn Gallian among the locals and refusal to learn what the Gallians referred to as 'Kir-ian' made communication very limited outside of a few default, robotic-like phrases. "Utambulisho?" Rémy replied. This got the desired response, the driver reaching into his wallet.
In the background, another one of Basile's comrades, Claude Paternoster, returned from the shoddily-constructed 'guardshack' - it was only being held together by piles of sandbags, and the only source of shade - with a notebook and pen in hand. A recent uptick in shootings had resulted in measures involving the logging of inspected driver's intended destinations, names and other relevant information meant to curtail it. Alot of the security measures they enforced were actually directly ripped from the Vrystadt Reinersland, located in the southern tip of Kir. It was often joked that the only thing they didn't share was ethnicity.
The squad commander looked back to Claude, scanning the ID card the Gallian administration had only started seriously issuing out recently. "Jata Akinteka. Height, six-foot, birthplace is..." he paused, looking back again. "Mgandu Prefecture, East Kassalo Province." He turned his attention back to the driver. "Kwenda?" he said. The driver rolled his eyes - these laws were unpopular.
"Ninakwenda Shongo." he curtly replied. Hostility was just something natural about the state of things, Basile supposed. "He's heading over to Shongo." Rémy said, Claude diligently writing information down in the notebook. The section commander took a step back towards the car, handing the ID card back to the driver. Wordlessly, the driver nodded and headed off.
Now they could mostly just sit back and watch people walk by as they awaited the next vehicle. Basile certainly could note how each passing week there seemed to be more and more Gallians walking the sidewalks. Imperialism, the Union State of Tangaliro would've called it. Basile wasn't even alive when Eric I, Emperor of Gallia had launched his revolt. It felt almost like he'd missed out. The older people he knew told him that he was lucky to not have to have seen the Union State around, though.
BOOM
The entire section was startled and jolted by the sound of a large explosion somewhere off in the city, hitting along with the shock wave. Everyone raised up their weapons, pointing them around in circles as civilians removed themselves from the streets and vehicles stopped. It seemed like the beginning of an ambush by rebel forces - there was a variety of factions who could pull those off. The MPCN[1], FGCN[2] or AUICN[3] all had the blood of Gallian soldiers on their hands at this point.
The section's radio, carried on the back of Jean Courtemanche started buzzing, Jean quickly increasing the volume to allow everyone to hear what was going on. The information was rather confused, but the message at least was clear. "There's been a blast at the airport!" it buzzed. "Gunfire, gunfire! Delphi-2's being attacked!" to confirm the words of the anonymous fellow soldier on the line, Basile could faintly hear the cracking of guns. Rémy reached over to grab a telephone-like appendage coming off the radio. "Who's going over to the airport?" he asked, the section raising it's rifles in all directions, alert. Basile felt slightly worried.
The pressure on whoever Rémy was talking to showed slightly in his voice. "What- what station are you guys at?"
"Avenue Adelard Beauchêne." he replied, a few seconds of silence on the other end, before the section commander's response was given. "You guys work the LR, don't you? Go over there!" 'LR' was slang for 'low risk' - everyone stationed in Locôtville was considered to have a low-risk assignment with not much of a real worry about being attacked on a daily basis. This typically earned a mixture of envy or disdain among the fellow soldiers of the 27e Chasseurs stationed in the slums, which most were.
"We're heading to the airport!" Rémy announced, going over to the section's VBC-132 Bouclier[4]. The Bouclier was originally an ancient Tangaliroan design, entering service in the year 132 A.C. - 290 years ago. The only thing about the vehicle that was at all re-assuring was the fact that Gallia only sort of used the Tangaliroan design. They kept the vehicle, but added entirely new electronics and weapons to the vehicle, made it from much more efficent and protective armor, changed the chassis slightly and made it in Gallian factories. It was essentially a whole other vehicle, though confused Euphemians often got them mixed up.
There were still drawbacks, of course. The section only used a Bouclier because they weren't important enough to get their own IFV or vehicle, and thus were forced to physically hitch a ride on the back of the turret and engine. The turret opened up, their assigned Bouclier's commander turning out. "The hell're we going?" he asked, slightly confused at the moment.
"Airport's being attacked hard! We're going to reinforce," Rémy replied, assuming a decently comfortable position leaning up against the turret. This earned a nod from the commander, who turned in to give his orders to the driver. Within seconds, the slight jolt of the vehicle rocked the section as they began driving off. The fifth member of their section, and the squadron's machine gunner, Roch Beaulieu chimed in. "Airport's supposed to be protected as hell. They shouldn't need reinforcements..."
"Must be fucking bad over there if they need us." Jean replied, warily looking around as they moved into the poorer, more typical sections of the city. "Guess we needed to get some action," Basile joked. Nobody here was particularly willing to get into a gunfight, risk dying in a god-forsaken shithole like Côte Noire. This earned some eye-rolls from the rest of the squadron, Basile realizing that the quick attempt at humor hadn't resonated as well as hoped. "I don't think we need action." Rémy commented.
Things have gotten chaotic quickly for the Gallians.
Arriving at one of the road entrances to President Malhar D. Kassamali International Airport - it wasn't called that anymore, now it was AFB Asaret, though the lettering of the airport's old name still hovered on the side of it's main terminal, the scene had clearly turned chaotic, and the gunfire sounded like it was being shot in the direction of the section. Troops hurried about at random, some of them carrying a couple of wounded men off hurriedly to the airport's medical facility - things seemed grim. Dismounting from their Bouclier, parked next to another section of troops moving around crates of ammunition, they were confronted by a officer of rather high rank, donning a blue beret and wielding a rifle in his left hand, it's sling hanging off it carelessly.
"Finally! A fucking vehicle." he observed, moving over to peer into the vehicle's hatch. Catching the driver's attention, he gave out his orders. "We need something that doesn't get killed by bullets over on the left side of the airstrip! This is the biggest attack I've fucking seen, have no clue where they got this shit from. They're using a nearby bidonville to sneak right up to the airfield. You will be proving support to first company of the 182nd Detachment, rush your ass over there and help us out!" His attention turned to the infantry, who he seemed to have forgotten. "What section did you guys come over from?"
Rémy handled the reply. "Locôtville." This elicited a sigh from the officer. "I am Colonel Jacques Paquet. I got permission to requisition the checkpoint guards to my unit as long as I need you..." he was interrupted by a large explosion, causing him to turn his head back. "You're green. Don't get yourselves killed! Mount back up on your Bouclier, and get fighting!"
His orders were wordlessly acknowledged by the squad, who reassumed their positions on the back of the vehicle, though their attention was now all focused towards the front of the vehicle and any enemies that might try to engage them.
Another day, another shift guarding the checkpoint on Avenue Adelard Beauchêne, one of the main streets of the new housing zone of the city, that which had been termed 'Locôtville'. For Soldat Basile Coste, it was a fairly alright post to be assigned to, if he was to be stationed in Andéramboukaneville with the rest of the 27e Chasseurs. It was at the edge of Locôtville and closer to the slums making up most of the city, that was true, but the way that the bureaucracy handled the neighborhood's construction meant that the sections of it slated to be built along the ocean would be built last. The sections built furthest into the city, like the area he helped to guard, were already constructed and thus were actually considered less active. That was to say, they wouldn't need to perform patdowns of many of Locôtville's construction workers (who lived in the slums) and could simply check instead the identification of the drivers coming too and fro. The Gallian administration was rather unashamedly racist in how it treated potential security threats, something Basile didn't necessarily agree with, and so the 'natives' tended to be singled out.
The commander of Basile's section, numbering five men in total including the commander himself was the one performing identification checks today. Sergent Rémy Perrin was a very amiable character. He was funny, he worked well under pressure - Basile admitted that was something he himself could use some work on - and he was understanding of how one could easily despair about being deployed to a backwater like Côte Noire. He tended to turn a blind eye if his men hit the bars, though to a certain extent the section knew not to cross. The Gallians held a rather conservative position on bonding too much with fellow soldiers, in comparison to the Euphemians, and to a certain degree had a bit of a well-earned superiority complex about themselves.
Leaning into the window of this vehicle - it seemed Hesperian, though Basile didn't really give a toss about Ophiric vehicles - Rémy rattled off the usual procedural introduction. "Identification card, please." The driver didn't seem to understand him, saying something in response in one of the local tongues whilst giving a shrug. The combination of refusal to learn Gallian among the locals and refusal to learn what the Gallians referred to as 'Kir-ian' made communication very limited outside of a few default, robotic-like phrases. "Utambulisho?" Rémy replied. This got the desired response, the driver reaching into his wallet.
In the background, another one of Basile's comrades, Claude Paternoster, returned from the shoddily-constructed 'guardshack' - it was only being held together by piles of sandbags, and the only source of shade - with a notebook and pen in hand. A recent uptick in shootings had resulted in measures involving the logging of inspected driver's intended destinations, names and other relevant information meant to curtail it. Alot of the security measures they enforced were actually directly ripped from the Vrystadt Reinersland, located in the southern tip of Kir. It was often joked that the only thing they didn't share was ethnicity.
The squad commander looked back to Claude, scanning the ID card the Gallian administration had only started seriously issuing out recently. "Jata Akinteka. Height, six-foot, birthplace is..." he paused, looking back again. "Mgandu Prefecture, East Kassalo Province." He turned his attention back to the driver. "Kwenda?" he said. The driver rolled his eyes - these laws were unpopular.
"Ninakwenda Shongo." he curtly replied. Hostility was just something natural about the state of things, Basile supposed. "He's heading over to Shongo." Rémy said, Claude diligently writing information down in the notebook. The section commander took a step back towards the car, handing the ID card back to the driver. Wordlessly, the driver nodded and headed off.
Now they could mostly just sit back and watch people walk by as they awaited the next vehicle. Basile certainly could note how each passing week there seemed to be more and more Gallians walking the sidewalks. Imperialism, the Union State of Tangaliro would've called it. Basile wasn't even alive when Eric I, Emperor of Gallia had launched his revolt. It felt almost like he'd missed out. The older people he knew told him that he was lucky to not have to have seen the Union State around, though.
BOOM
The entire section was startled and jolted by the sound of a large explosion somewhere off in the city, hitting along with the shock wave. Everyone raised up their weapons, pointing them around in circles as civilians removed themselves from the streets and vehicles stopped. It seemed like the beginning of an ambush by rebel forces - there was a variety of factions who could pull those off. The MPCN[1], FGCN[2] or AUICN[3] all had the blood of Gallian soldiers on their hands at this point.
The section's radio, carried on the back of Jean Courtemanche started buzzing, Jean quickly increasing the volume to allow everyone to hear what was going on. The information was rather confused, but the message at least was clear. "There's been a blast at the airport!" it buzzed. "Gunfire, gunfire! Delphi-2's being attacked!" to confirm the words of the anonymous fellow soldier on the line, Basile could faintly hear the cracking of guns. Rémy reached over to grab a telephone-like appendage coming off the radio. "Who's going over to the airport?" he asked, the section raising it's rifles in all directions, alert. Basile felt slightly worried.
The pressure on whoever Rémy was talking to showed slightly in his voice. "What- what station are you guys at?"
"Avenue Adelard Beauchêne." he replied, a few seconds of silence on the other end, before the section commander's response was given. "You guys work the LR, don't you? Go over there!" 'LR' was slang for 'low risk' - everyone stationed in Locôtville was considered to have a low-risk assignment with not much of a real worry about being attacked on a daily basis. This typically earned a mixture of envy or disdain among the fellow soldiers of the 27e Chasseurs stationed in the slums, which most were.
"We're heading to the airport!" Rémy announced, going over to the section's VBC-132 Bouclier[4]. The Bouclier was originally an ancient Tangaliroan design, entering service in the year 132 A.C. - 290 years ago. The only thing about the vehicle that was at all re-assuring was the fact that Gallia only sort of used the Tangaliroan design. They kept the vehicle, but added entirely new electronics and weapons to the vehicle, made it from much more efficent and protective armor, changed the chassis slightly and made it in Gallian factories. It was essentially a whole other vehicle, though confused Euphemians often got them mixed up.
There were still drawbacks, of course. The section only used a Bouclier because they weren't important enough to get their own IFV or vehicle, and thus were forced to physically hitch a ride on the back of the turret and engine. The turret opened up, their assigned Bouclier's commander turning out. "The hell're we going?" he asked, slightly confused at the moment.
"Airport's being attacked hard! We're going to reinforce," Rémy replied, assuming a decently comfortable position leaning up against the turret. This earned a nod from the commander, who turned in to give his orders to the driver. Within seconds, the slight jolt of the vehicle rocked the section as they began driving off. The fifth member of their section, and the squadron's machine gunner, Roch Beaulieu chimed in. "Airport's supposed to be protected as hell. They shouldn't need reinforcements..."
"Must be fucking bad over there if they need us." Jean replied, warily looking around as they moved into the poorer, more typical sections of the city. "Guess we needed to get some action," Basile joked. Nobody here was particularly willing to get into a gunfight, risk dying in a god-forsaken shithole like Côte Noire. This earned some eye-rolls from the rest of the squadron, Basile realizing that the quick attempt at humor hadn't resonated as well as hoped. "I don't think we need action." Rémy commented.
Things have gotten chaotic quickly for the Gallians.
Arriving at one of the road entrances to President Malhar D. Kassamali International Airport - it wasn't called that anymore, now it was AFB Asaret, though the lettering of the airport's old name still hovered on the side of it's main terminal, the scene had clearly turned chaotic, and the gunfire sounded like it was being shot in the direction of the section. Troops hurried about at random, some of them carrying a couple of wounded men off hurriedly to the airport's medical facility - things seemed grim. Dismounting from their Bouclier, parked next to another section of troops moving around crates of ammunition, they were confronted by a officer of rather high rank, donning a blue beret and wielding a rifle in his left hand, it's sling hanging off it carelessly.
"Finally! A fucking vehicle." he observed, moving over to peer into the vehicle's hatch. Catching the driver's attention, he gave out his orders. "We need something that doesn't get killed by bullets over on the left side of the airstrip! This is the biggest attack I've fucking seen, have no clue where they got this shit from. They're using a nearby bidonville to sneak right up to the airfield. You will be proving support to first company of the 182nd Detachment, rush your ass over there and help us out!" His attention turned to the infantry, who he seemed to have forgotten. "What section did you guys come over from?"
Rémy handled the reply. "Locôtville." This elicited a sigh from the officer. "I am Colonel Jacques Paquet. I got permission to requisition the checkpoint guards to my unit as long as I need you..." he was interrupted by a large explosion, causing him to turn his head back. "You're green. Don't get yourselves killed! Mount back up on your Bouclier, and get fighting!"
His orders were wordlessly acknowledged by the squad, who reassumed their positions on the back of the vehicle, though their attention was now all focused towards the front of the vehicle and any enemies that might try to engage them.
- [1] - The Mouvement Patriotique de Côte Noire (Patriotic Movement of Côte Noire, known as the MPCN) is one of three primarily paramilitary/terrorist groups that exists in the Protectorate. It's main objectives are the restoration of the Republic of Kassalo, entirely independent of Gallian interests and desires, and the expulsion of all 'exploiters' - that is to say, businessmen from Ophir and Mederum who arrived in the country after it's annexation.
- [2] - The Forces Génial de Côte Noire (Great Forces of Côte Noire, known as the FGCN) are the second of the three paramilitary and terrorist groups operating in Côte Noire. It's objectives revolve the re-establishment of the Republic of Kassalo, under a system inspired by Villarismo - the communist system envisioned by Manuel Bonifacio Villar.
- [3] - The Alliance Unie pour l'Indépendance Côte Noire (United Alliance for an Independent Côte Noire, known as AUICN) are ragtag popular militias which express many political views but have the goal of expelling Gallia from the region.
- [4] - The VBC-132 Bouclier is a heavily modified vehicle inspired by the A132 Dragoner, a vehicle most notorious for featuring a 'turret exhaust' pipe that infamously killed several vehicle crews through carbon monoxide poisoning whenever the turret was moved too rapidly. The Dragoner is universally considered a failure of bureaucratic Tangaliroan design.
