Everything was burning.
Bran's eyes flickered back and forth, as he sat huddled in the cellar. Smoke wafted down the stairs, along with a token amount of light from the crack under the door. He couldn't see anything outside, but the smell hung in the air. He could tell what was happening. The Rebels were storming the city. From what had started as a small insurgency of a few Soviet holdouts, quickly spiraled out of control into a full-blown civil war.
He'd absorbed what he heard and saw, which wasn't much. A patrol of soldiers would be bombed one week, or maybe a government air-patrol would fly by the next. His parents never seemed to be worried about it. They lived in the capitol, hundreds of miles from the front-lines.
"Bring them out, now!" He heard a voice shout hoarsely, muffled through the thin, cracked windows of the basement. "The scum will know justice!"
Once the front-lines began to fall apart, things became more dire. Food started to rapidly vanish from the table (Yet Bran's mother still found a way to make waffles every week or so), and power was even cut for a few days a week. The war finally reached them when a bomb went off under a government BMP parked down the street, as Bran and his sister were playing in the snow outside. They'd barely made it out of the blast, on account of a rabbit attracting their attention away from the blast. It was a lucky break, but it brought the war to their front door, nearly literally.
His teeth chattered, Bran's frail body huddled up next to the old heater, sweatshirt blackened with soot. "M-mom? Dad?" He asked into the darkness. His parents still hadn't joined him in the basement to hide. Where were they? They said they'd come down! They just needed to hide their belongings!
And now the rebels were victorious. It'd only been weeks after the bombing, and the rebels were already in a position to storm the capitol. The Army had either retreated to the north, falling back to the island of Sarima. The only forces left in Brangrad were token amounts of National Guardsmen, and a few police officers who were either too scared to abandon their posts, or were acting on some sort of sense of patriotism for the collapsing democracy. President Maksov had committed suicide earlier in the morning by blowing his brains out onto the flag (And walls, and floor), and Ministers and Parliament were shot down as they fled the country in an Air Force transport. The rebels were victorious, and had begun to sack the city.
The young boy, no older than 6, remained hidden. His eyes were watering with fear, but he had to be strong! Like his country! He was named after it, after all. His parents had lovingly named the boy after the country during the Velvet Revolutions of 1988, and 89, where Branriechians all across the nation rose up against their Soviet Oppressors at the end of the cold war.
Like his country, Bran was finding it hard to feel courage. He pushed himself further into the wall, his back pressed into the uneven bricks, digging into his taught skin wrapped over his gaunt form.
"Drag the rats out! That's it!" The raspy voice shouted again, jubilantly. "Bourgeoisie pieces of shit!" Another shouted.
Bran's ears perked up, his eyes widening, only increasing the flow of tears as he stumbled up to his feet.
The boy limped over to the window, only a few inches tall, but a few feet wide. It was cracked down the middle, and a draft of cool air washed over his face. "N-no . . ." He whimpered. The limber forms of his parents sat, crumpled in the lawn. His mother's formerly stunning face, covered in blood and bruises, as the butt of a kalashnikov met her face, followed by the salty spray of one of the soldiers, spitting on each of his parents in turn.
"Lev and Sashina Nikanor." A man with a rather horrid peaked cap spoke as he paced back and forth in front of the couple. "You have been convicted by a Revolutionary Tribunal of interfering with Revolutionary Forces. The penalty is death."
His father's blackened (And purpled) face twisted into a look of horror.
"C'mon, dad . . . Get em'!" Bran whispered with as much vigor as he could manage. He knew his dad, and while he was a kind man, Lev Nikanor wouldn't take someone hitting Bran's mom! Was it just Bran trying to convince himself that things could still go alright?
"You lying sack of shit! We've done nothi-"
BANG!
Lev's body fell to the sidewalk, blood oozing from a hole in his forehead, staining the sidewalk, and soiling his mother's already ruined sundress. "Y-You bastards! Natiya! Bran! I'll always love you!" His mother screamed, before grunting in pain as her husband's body slumped back into her. She was out of breath, and as much as she wanted to resist, she breathed heavily as the rebel's commissar put a round into her chest, collapsing a lung, until she breathed no longer.
Bran, who still wanted to believe that things could still go alright, was crushed. His hopes might as well have been dragged out and shot too, for they died with his parents as the boy let himself fall back onto the floor.
A sharp pain jabbed into his head as he fell, and he let himself retreat into the sweet darkness of unconsciousness, his head colliding with the heater's edge.
Bran's eyes flickered back and forth, as he sat huddled in the cellar. Smoke wafted down the stairs, along with a token amount of light from the crack under the door. He couldn't see anything outside, but the smell hung in the air. He could tell what was happening. The Rebels were storming the city. From what had started as a small insurgency of a few Soviet holdouts, quickly spiraled out of control into a full-blown civil war.
He'd absorbed what he heard and saw, which wasn't much. A patrol of soldiers would be bombed one week, or maybe a government air-patrol would fly by the next. His parents never seemed to be worried about it. They lived in the capitol, hundreds of miles from the front-lines.
"Bring them out, now!" He heard a voice shout hoarsely, muffled through the thin, cracked windows of the basement. "The scum will know justice!"
Once the front-lines began to fall apart, things became more dire. Food started to rapidly vanish from the table (Yet Bran's mother still found a way to make waffles every week or so), and power was even cut for a few days a week. The war finally reached them when a bomb went off under a government BMP parked down the street, as Bran and his sister were playing in the snow outside. They'd barely made it out of the blast, on account of a rabbit attracting their attention away from the blast. It was a lucky break, but it brought the war to their front door, nearly literally.
His teeth chattered, Bran's frail body huddled up next to the old heater, sweatshirt blackened with soot. "M-mom? Dad?" He asked into the darkness. His parents still hadn't joined him in the basement to hide. Where were they? They said they'd come down! They just needed to hide their belongings!
And now the rebels were victorious. It'd only been weeks after the bombing, and the rebels were already in a position to storm the capitol. The Army had either retreated to the north, falling back to the island of Sarima. The only forces left in Brangrad were token amounts of National Guardsmen, and a few police officers who were either too scared to abandon their posts, or were acting on some sort of sense of patriotism for the collapsing democracy. President Maksov had committed suicide earlier in the morning by blowing his brains out onto the flag (And walls, and floor), and Ministers and Parliament were shot down as they fled the country in an Air Force transport. The rebels were victorious, and had begun to sack the city.
The young boy, no older than 6, remained hidden. His eyes were watering with fear, but he had to be strong! Like his country! He was named after it, after all. His parents had lovingly named the boy after the country during the Velvet Revolutions of 1988, and 89, where Branriechians all across the nation rose up against their Soviet Oppressors at the end of the cold war.
Like his country, Bran was finding it hard to feel courage. He pushed himself further into the wall, his back pressed into the uneven bricks, digging into his taught skin wrapped over his gaunt form.
"Drag the rats out! That's it!" The raspy voice shouted again, jubilantly. "Bourgeoisie pieces of shit!" Another shouted.
Bran's ears perked up, his eyes widening, only increasing the flow of tears as he stumbled up to his feet.
The boy limped over to the window, only a few inches tall, but a few feet wide. It was cracked down the middle, and a draft of cool air washed over his face. "N-no . . ." He whimpered. The limber forms of his parents sat, crumpled in the lawn. His mother's formerly stunning face, covered in blood and bruises, as the butt of a kalashnikov met her face, followed by the salty spray of one of the soldiers, spitting on each of his parents in turn.
"Lev and Sashina Nikanor." A man with a rather horrid peaked cap spoke as he paced back and forth in front of the couple. "You have been convicted by a Revolutionary Tribunal of interfering with Revolutionary Forces. The penalty is death."
His father's blackened (And purpled) face twisted into a look of horror.
"C'mon, dad . . . Get em'!" Bran whispered with as much vigor as he could manage. He knew his dad, and while he was a kind man, Lev Nikanor wouldn't take someone hitting Bran's mom! Was it just Bran trying to convince himself that things could still go alright?
"You lying sack of shit! We've done nothi-"
BANG!
Lev's body fell to the sidewalk, blood oozing from a hole in his forehead, staining the sidewalk, and soiling his mother's already ruined sundress. "Y-You bastards! Natiya! Bran! I'll always love you!" His mother screamed, before grunting in pain as her husband's body slumped back into her. She was out of breath, and as much as she wanted to resist, she breathed heavily as the rebel's commissar put a round into her chest, collapsing a lung, until she breathed no longer.
Bran, who still wanted to believe that things could still go alright, was crushed. His hopes might as well have been dragged out and shot too, for they died with his parents as the boy let himself fall back onto the floor.
A sharp pain jabbed into his head as he fell, and he let himself retreat into the sweet darkness of unconsciousness, his head colliding with the heater's edge.
And now we have the ultimate post to reference back to if Bran ever goes into how his parents died, I feel glad that I did that, and it's my first one-shot!
