St. James Square
Imlen, Kingdom of Loughmar
28 July 1980
At 12:01 pm, The War ended.
Perhaps it once had a different name than "The War," something better for the history books. But for those that trudged through the daily misery and death that it wrought, it was simply The War. The War had begun so long ago that most people didn't remember how it started, or why. Something about the working class struggle against the privileged elites. Some kind of religious dispute, perhaps. It was all academic at this point.
In any case, no one seemed to have won. The nation had been devastated and brought to its metaphorical knees. The battle lines became so confused, the various warring factions blurred to the point of absurdity, entire cities were turned to rubble under pointless and unceasing shelling. Eventually, the stalemate became so unmovable and the once-raging flame of wartime fervor finally sputtered out, leaving everyone feeling somewhat like they were shaking the national equivalent of a particularly bad hangover. A ceasefire came as quickly and unexpectedly as peace had vanished all those years ago.
A monarch was more or less chosen at random from the surviving royalty, the nation's basic institutions were re-established under new inoffensive identities, and a glimmer of hope reappeared that Loughmar might rise from the ashes of near-total devastation.
Lieutenant Marcus Stevenson checked his pocketwatch and tucked it back into the pocket of his dark blue tunic. Stevenson wore the austere, somber uniform of the Royal Loughmar Security Forces, or RLSF.
"Right, lads," he spoke to his assembled squad, cracking a grin, "Let's get to work."
The officers of the RLSF left the relative safety of their armored van and stepped into the midday light. The RLSF had been stood up as the national police force to keep the peace in the uncertain days following the ceasefire. While it seemed the major armies had grown tired of war and were willing to lay down their arms in disgust, numerous paramilitaries and criminal groups appeared all too happy to take advantage of the uncertainty and chaos. Labelled collectively as "terrorists," these groups meant that the RLSF had its work cut out for them.
Today's mission was to protect the newly-opened town of Imlen, once a no-man's land where most civilians had gone underground or fled. In the days following the ceasefire, it was essential to establish civilian confidence in the new government.
The main avenue of Imlen was largely intact, though some buildings here and there crumbled from disrepair or bomb damage. The squad of ten officers fanned out, scanning the area. Beleaguered and miserable civilians trudged around the streets, looking for missing family members and hunting for basic food items at the small merchant stands that had sprung up overnight.
The civilians regarded the men of the RLSF with a mix of suspicion and indifference; the sight of armed men in the streets was not new to them, though these men were in unfamiliar uniforms. Policemen did not normally patrol in heavy flak jackets with rifles and sub-machine guns at their side.
Lieutenant Stevenson nodded grimly at those he passed, as if to give an air of friendliness tinged with the seriousness of his duties. He kept an eye on his squad and listened carefully to the radio headset that sat over his left ear. Despite all this, the scene almost seemed like a return to normal life.
For now, it seemed, peace could take hold in this devastated land.
