Resuscitation of Conflict - Small Excerpt.

This is a small excerpt of my novel 'Resuscitation of Conflict'. If you enjoy it, please consider buying the full book. This website has places where you can buy the book in your region, including Australia, United States, Germany, Denmark, Hungary, and South Korea, with more possibly on the way (depends what the lovely folk at Ingramspark, a self-publishing tool my novel is being published through, are up to).

Remember, the book releases on November 5th. Pre-orders are available until then. Although the book is technically $19, I have no say in what retailers sell it for. Sorry. I endorse Dymocks for Australian buyers as it's the cheapest way to buy the book through (before shipping).

https://www.dymocks.com.au/resuscitation-of-conflict-by-cj-gowell-9780646725673

Resuscitation

of Conflict

C.J. Gowell

ISBN: 978-0-646-72567-3

First published in 2025

Wordpress: https://cjgowellbooks.wordpress.com/

Heads up:

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any characters and events that take place are entirely made up. Any events that happened in the real world, and people exist, are entirely a coincidence.

WARNING: This book contains heavy topics of violence, brief suicide topics, and brief themes of terrorism. Victims of violent actions and suicide ideation are advised to read safely.

July 2024

Five and a half months after the establishment of Messland…

Permanently Sealed

Cherilym Offices is a booming company, but it wasn’t always like this. Despite the collapse of Belgium two months prior, and the fact the economy had effectively restarted, it had expanded considerably well, even for a start-up. This facility was home to three businesses, all operating within one building: The mobile network F-Reception, a storage company named Funyiers United, and the ever-successful mining business, Stones ‘4’ Us.

Messland, formerly Belgium, is home to its new capital city, known as Cherilym. This city was built on top of the ashes of Brussels. The ones who lost everything in the riots were able to find jobs at the office building in the new city. There were around 70 people working in the one building alone. The other former citizens of the fallen nation had either fled, committed suicide, or were killed in the riots, which dramatically reduced the population of Messland as a whole. The office building was formed by people who had nothing, with the goal in mind to give people job opportunities, one position opening at a time. It was located in the heart of the city of Cherilym, just across the street from the national garden.

Brussels, the original capital city of Belgium, doesn’t exist anymore. Rioters spilt throughout all of the streets. It wasn’t hard to see why either. In 2023, the year the nation collapsed, the riots got to a destructive standpoint rather quickly. The clinically insane, the pyromaniacs, and the restless all flooded the streets of the once flourishing city. Many rubbish bins were set alight, windows were shattered to the ground, car alarms sounded from all angles, smoke and ash filled the sky, fumes were the only thing that could be smelt, etc. Tensions and civil unrest were beyond high. Belgium was doomed. The fate of the city was sealed: anarchy. Pure anarchy. The thick, smog-filled air, combined with sparks of flames coming from the crowded street created a genuinely apocalyptic feel. All that could be heard was the sound of chanting and car alarms. It was inevitable: Belgium was, by all accounts, going to collapse.

Audible, on the radio, and on television screens, played the national anthem of the shattered state. On the radio, that was all that could be heard, no matter what station someone was tuned in to. Even stations that ceased to exist were brought back by the state for the purpose of playing the national anthem. On the TV screen, however, it was either the National Anthem of Belgium with either text that read “the end,” or just the lonely look of static. To the misfortune of the nation and its citizens, this was the end.

The economy, on top of the unstable government, was not in a good place either. Society in the collapsed Belgium, while in a bad place, was just as bad as the economy. The Government had the idea that printing money in mass would help fix poverty rates in the country, neglecting the fact that other nations in past fell to hyperinflation, such as Germany and Zimbabwe. However, due to the bad logic, prices for pretty much everything went up. From food, to drinks, to petrol, housing, and even children’s sweets. Nothing was safe from inflation. Nothing.

October was one hell of a month. The most violent month in the history of Belgium since World War Two, and now the nation was going to collapse. 2024 happened, and the remaining citizens had formed Messland. But the worst was yet to come.

The Worst Was Yet To Come

James awoke from his sleep. The bright early morning sun shone through his unclean windows. Due to the former government collapsing, most citizens never recovered – about 90,000 citizens who survived worked through the economic struggles, even if most lived pay check-to-pay check. In contrast, the others who survived the riots (i.e. those who did not commit suicide, get murdered, or didn’t flee the country) were below the poverty line. These people lived in poorly constructed and barely furnished homes, with conditions that were potentially comparable to before the Industrial Revolution.

He stood in front of his fireplace, which was placed just under the massive gap in his ceiling, the best infrastructure James had managed to get access to. His house had a bed made from only a wood slab in the corner, a fireplace around the middle of the house (under where the gap was), filthy windows, a floor made of loam soil, and the closest thing you could call to a roof. James’ house stood out in the city of Cherilym – it was one of the poverty-ridden houses that was mostly built. The man let out a contented sigh before he slipped on his shoes and sprayed on a can of deodorant. This can was badly burned, and retrieved from the apartment James used to live in before his apartment caught fire during the devastating protests.

James had short brown hair, brown eyes, slightly pale skin, thin and long eyebrows, and was a bit on the scrawny side, all things considered. He always wore plain white t-shirts, jeans, and light grey running sneakers. James was the type of guy to be depressive and have a severe alcohol problem, except he could not drink alcohol at all – he was poor. His job did not do him wonders either – he could barely afford to pay the bills on some weeks. The only good thing is that he at least had warmth, even if the warmth wasn’t too reliable.

Before he left, he opened his journal and read his recall of what happened during the riot.

Tensions were high, and the air was hard to breathe. Over the horizon, nothing else could be heard but thunderous chanting. Chaos at Brussels, it was a protest. A riot. People were screaming for various reasons – political changes, the devastated economy, Belgium’s debt, and the significantly higher taxes. Well, over ten thousand citizens were chanting for at least two of four of those reasons.

My name is James Sproutt. I’m a journalist, recording the events of the Brussels riots of 2023. I’m in the safety of my apartment, watching the riot intently through the window. This riot started seven hours ago. I’m not too sure what to make of this, however, this riot has resulted in absolute chaos, with no sign of stopping any time soon. My bills are extremely high as of right now, and I’ve seen my friends already fall into homelessness thanks to our government becoming greedy. I don’t blame them, though – the debt they’ve accumulated is downright stupid. They’ve borrowed just too much, and can’t repay. They forgot the golden rule of loans: Never borrow what you can’t return. As simple as that rule is, many people just don’t follow it, downright.

James let out a heavy-hearted sigh, then kept reading his writing in his head.

Ok, not even thirty minutes later, a car just blew up outside. The loud bang left cracks in the window I’m spectating this riot from, and might lead to the destruction of this apartment building. I, myself, don’t have many options right now. Maybe a news website or something would pay me a lot to give them this story. I know a journalist named Tom. We used to bowl together every Friday until we both found out we both love writing. Ever since then, we’ve been proofreading and editing each other’s various works. I haven’t seen him in a while. Maybe he’s down there, in the riot crowd. I know he’s been affected severely by the bills, having to sacrifice a lot of freedom just to stay on the surface. I don’t blame him. I’d be very upset if this was my life too, having to sacrifice my humanity to stay alive.

I had to evacuate the apartment room due to the building catching fire. The car that blew up was caught in flames, which set the building on fire. Smoke and fumes spilt throughout the air, and I experienced the misfortune of breathing all that in. I didn’t realise until I could smell smoke. I’m in the safety of the park now, a bit far from the hall. Though I no longer have to worry about being in immediate danger, I can still hear the protestors chanting. It’s only a five-minute walk from what was my apartment to the park, after all. Leaving nearly everything behind, I only had enough time to grab my phone, journal, pen, and some money. I could not have expected much, however. It’s a bloody riot after all. Any riot is bound to end in something being blown up, a riot is simply not complete without one.

Over the horizon, I can hear sirens blaring. Belgium is now in total anarchy, and all I can do is watch as my home country is destroyed, and falls, before my very eyes. I am not ready. I’m going to go find a new place soon. I don’t know where don’t know when. I think Cherilym has a place there. I know it’s always peaceful in Cherilym. Maybe I’ll find a job and get back on my feet in that city. Until then, I’m effectively on the run.

And that was that. With a heavy sigh, James closed his journal, slid it into his backpack, and stepped out of his house.

Work

Outside of his house, a light drizzle of rain had started to come down. It wasn’t pouring, but it wasn’t sprinkling down either. James left his small house and swiftly paced from where he lived, down to his workplace. His house was just around the corner from the office. All he had to do was turn right from his door, then step down the footpath. Then make another right turn once more. From there, he was already at the doors to the building. The scent of the rain was the only thing he could smell.

Slouching from exhaustion, he made the walk from his house to his workplace. James worked for Funyiers United. It was just upstairs the F-Reception, which was upstairs on the reception floor – his workplace was on floor two. The man scaled the stairs and made it to his desk, which sat in the right corner of the left side of the building, just across from when he came up the stairs. He opened the lid of the laptop, which was securely bolted to the desk, presumably to stop theft, He logged in to the company website. From there, James clocked in, climbed up to the Funyiers United floor, and got to work. The shift he worked consisted of sorting out different things and making sure they were all in the right place. There were always new things to sort out every day, and when he finished, James usually slacked off.

This time, things were different. He had finished sorting things out and laid down on one of the empty shelves, settling in comfortably. Faintly, the sound of keys jingling could be heard coming up the stairs. No mistaking it: this was James’ boss. Jingling the keys was something he knew his boss did, whether to show intimidation or just fidgeting. Without any time to spare, he leapt out of the shelf, and with maximum panic, he came up with the bright idea to act like he was working. Like he was working.

Without his skills needing to be pointed out, James’ acting just wasn’t good – the “acting” consisted of making small humming sounds while staring off into the wall aimlessly. His boss, nicknamed Hugo, picked up the horrible acting skills relatively quickly.

“I see you’re practicing for a film, eh?” spoke Hugo. His voice was dripping with sarcasm. “All that acting you’re doing, it’s stupid really,” he spoke with a tone that could only be described as mocking.

Hugo had medium brown hair, swept to the right side. He had unique, bright green eyes. Hugo was slightly taller than James and had an average build. He’d always wear unzipped jackets, a plain t-shirt for an undershirt, jeans, and black leather sneakers. He was the type of guy to appear charismatic on the outside, with those beautifully trimmed eyebrows and smooth, silky skin of his, while looking like he had a major coke problem at the same time. Though, he had no issues with drugs in his life at all.

“Who, me?” asked James, acting oblivious. “I’m just trying to sort out these assets.”

Hugo didn’t show approval of his antics. He stared daggers at his employee. “Keep this up, and I’m docking your pay. We both know you don’t want that,” he spoke in a stern tone. “Not in this economy or your position.”

James gave a small and sheepish thumbs up and a small soft smile, indicating to Hugo that he got the hint. His boss nodded and left. He took a sigh of relief the moment he was out of view.

When it was time, James stepped downstairs, clocked out of his shift, and went home, reversing the route he followed to get to work earlier that day. He received a few strange looks right his way from other civilians. Standing in his small front yard, James pushed his door open, which lacked a proper lock and key system thanks to his impoverished conditions. Though this wouldn’t matter as he didn’t have anything worth stealing.

Now in his humble house, James kneeled in front of the firepit. He opened his journal and began to write.

These few months have been hard for me. The gap in the ceiling and the roof was essentially letting the dead cold of the night in. What is there to live for anymore? What is there to love? Is there even such a thing as miracles? I stopped believing in luck a long time ago, when my bills just kept rising back in Brussels, with no sign of stopping.

After a hum of finishing his work, James closed his journal, stood up, and sat on the wooden slab he called a bed. That big block of wood was the closest thing he had to a proper bed. James tossed himself to the “bed” and faced the wall.

“Let me tell you all I can do,” spoke a creature. James and the creature were in a dark corridor. It was hard to make out the shape, but looked like a skeleton, deep blue build, and had bright glowing mouth and eyes, and it was starting. Additionally, ice started to form around the corridor, surrounding the helpless man.

“What is happening?” asked James. “Who are you?”

The creature did not talk yet. It floated towards James. It then spoke. “The Wraith.”

He woke up, emotionless. A nightmare, all about a weird monster. Nightmares were weird, but this one felt like a typical horror movie if anything. James did not like that. Who would?

Over the next few weeks, work was essentially the same – clock in, organise stuff, slack off, lunch, go home, and so on. For the £1,200 a week James was given, it was not hard to see that organising things for a living was a decent job (at least in terms of difficulty). To James, it was almost impressive that a job with moderately minimal effort involved like this was even a thing, all during the height of inflation. After the collapse of Belgium. With one-third of the population making the death toll, and the sixth-eighth of the survivors fleeing. Previously, Belgium had 11.6 million. Now remained a rough estimate of 100,000 citizens.

While he slacked off on his job, James reminisced and reflected on everything: his job, the riots, everything. Ever since his life turned around, he had significantly less time to do what he truly cared for: writing. Maybe, someday, James would have a place to go. The feeling of the cold, somewhat air-conditioned building stuck to his skin.

Preparations

Belarus was worse off than its ally, Russia. It had to deal with more corruption and civil unrest. Because of the unrest, this country was a prime target for terrorists, and it almost always had some sort of terrorist threat targeting the nation. Such threats included kidnappings, sieges, massacres, shootings, and even missile threats. The corrupt state was not in good shape internally either – a government that is, supposedly, unaware of its own corruption (they play dumb to minimise the risk of a riot), civilians who are mostly oblivious to corruption (with some choosing to keep silent to avoid unruly arrest), and sanctions from all angles. Overall, Russia’s ally was just a bad place to live in. Though, neither country was good in any sense.

The Leader of Belarus, who went by Vladimir Ivan Grongle, was responsible for the state of his nation (which his administration always played dumb to the effects of). In the past, he’d written an autobiography. In summary, it served as a propaganda tool to make him seem like a glorious leader to his citizens, who acted none the wiser (whether clueless or choosing to play along with the corruption). The leader was ruthless in his rule, and on top of being the president of the horrible nation, he was also the leading judge of the Belarusian Supreme Court. This court was the only court in the nation, and on top of the president being the Leader of both the court, as well as the country entirely, Grongle got to give whatever punishment he saw fit for the convicted criminals in his country, from mere small-time offenders to hardened criminals. Essentially, the ruthless man was an established dictator.

Ivan had blue eyes, a full bald head, a bit on the bulkier side of things, and what was known as a “resting bitch face.” He also had a bit of a big nose, and a frown at all times, as well as a charcoal-black suit, black leather shoes, and a blood-red tie (quite literally looked like it was painted with blood). His tone was sharp, and the tyrant that was Ivan Grongle was always straight to the point, never having time for filler when making conversation. Ivan started as a businessman, then transitioned to become a lawyer, and after that, he ended up running to become the leader of Belarus. He was the kind of guy that, by no means, you’d want to annoy if you knew what was good for you.

The midday sun was in full effect, beaming down over the northern nation. The clock mounted on the wall ticked quietly in the background. Ivan sat in his office chair, resting both elbows on the dark wood desk, and rested his hands on his head. Lethargically, he reached for his coffee mug and took a swig. He preferred double-shot coffee. After taking a swig of his beverage, he resumed typing on his computer.

His office was a luxury form of fine, deep wood, with corners and outlines made from solid gold. In his office lay a soft red carpet, a large desk made from a darker shade of wood, and a chandelier made from (again) real gold, with 22 electric candles. The door was perfectly centred and had beautifully frosted glass. You could hardly see through the glass, but it looked exceptional either way you looked at it. In the front corners stood bookshelves on either side, leaving enough room between the door and each bookshelf for a pot plant on either side as well. These pot plants contained lovely geranium plants. In the opposite corners sat pot plants as well, with those plants holding coral bells. Behind Grongle’s desk was a massive, frosted window, overlooking the horizon of his nation. It had yellow curtains, which were usually closed. The dictator was paranoid of spies and stalkers.

Ivan’s secretary, named Louise, opened the door and stepped into the office. The tyrant looked over at her. A wicked smile formed over his mouth.

“Ah, Louise,” spoke Ivan in a condescending tone of voice. “Please, have a seat.”

Louise made her way to Ivan Grongle’s desk and took a seat in front of him with a stern and numb look on her face. Being the secretary and spy of a dictator, she had an adamant and no-bullshit attitude.

“Mr President, I’ve located a known trio of terrorists,” she spoke in a firm tone. “One of which was identified to be of Russian citizenship,” she continued.

Louise was your average one-of-a-kind secretary. She had blonde hair tied in a bun, the deepest of blue eyes, a serious tone on any occasion, and a purple rose parted to the left side of her head. She looked right out of a spy film.

Ivan looked her dead in the eye. “Do you have a photo of them?” he asked.

She nodded silently and proceeded to pull out four photographs. One of the photos contained what looked like a Russian marine.

“His name is Doomo,” she said and slid the photo to Ivan.

The second photo showed a guy in a ghillie suit and a noticeable grenade belt.

“This is Greene,” stated Louise, and gave him the photo.

The third photo was a guy in a black suit and helmet, with red outlines and patterns.

“That is Crimson,” she said as she slid that one through to the ruthless leader.

“And here’s all of them together,” she said. Louise passed over the fourth and final photograph. The fourth photo contained all of them discussing stuff. Crimson was holding a double-barreled pump shotgun, and Greene was holding a grenade launcher.

Ivan nodded and searched through each photo individually. He then placed the photos into his drawer, located to the left of his desk. After sliding the drawer closed, he glared at his secretary dead in the eye.

“And what are their plans?” asked Ivan, as if this were an interrogation.

“I don’t know,” Louise replied.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, as if he were checking to make sure he wasn’t in a dream. “Just… get these three to me.” He spoke in an irritated tone.

Louise nodded and left the office.

“Like, RIGHT NOW!” shouted Ivan, being the hot head he was. Louise was already gone.

Located

Minutes turned to hours, and hours stayed as hours. After five hours, Louise returned with all three of the suspected terrorists, as well as a few bodyguards for good measure.

“Here,” she said. The suspected terrorists stepped towards Vladimir Grongle’s desk.

Knowing what to do, they all stood in front of the desk. They all raised their hands in the air to indicate that they weren’t intending to cause harm. They all got on their knees as well, as if to sell the idea to the dictator that they all weren’t a threat to his safety at all.

“All right, you three. Let’s start the talk,” spoke Ivan. In unison, they all gave the leader their undivided attention. “Ok, Louise, get out of my office.”

She nodded and left the office. The two bodyguards remained, standing in front of the pot plants by the door, to make sure that none of them had any chance to escape or threaten the leader’s physical safety, not that it would’ve mattered since they were unarmed. Ivan stood up from his office chair and eyed them.

“Tell me,” he spoke in a condescending tone as he looked down at the trio. “Who are you three?”

Crimson was the first to talk. “It’s Crimson. The guy in the ghillie suit is named Greene, and the marine in the spy hood is Doomo.”

Ivan nodded in satisfaction with the honesty. Then he proceeded to speak. “Good, I knew you guys wouldn’t lie.” Grongle stood up and paced around the room from the safety of behind his desk. “Not to my face.”

Doomo’s eyes darted around the room, then he glanced at Crimson, followed by Greene, and then back at Ivan. “So, why’d you get her to bring us into this office?” he spoke.

“Because I want you guys to do something for me,” the dictator responded. “I want you guys, with the help of my armed men, to help take Messland off the map.”

The three men looked at each other, then shrugged.

“Wait, us?” Greene broke the silence. “Why us?”

Ivan looked toward Greene, frustrated, letting out a sigh, then spoke. “Because you three have shown to be quite capable. My secretary, who’s also my spy, has been watching you all, as well as reporting back to me.”

Collectively, the trio exchanged glances once more and collectively raised an eyebrow. All were bewildered.

Crimson opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t talk as Ivan continued to speak. “You guys have proven to be unstoppable. Wiping out villages, leaving no survivors, bombing stuff… yeah. Don’t you dare assume I’m oblivious to this,” he said that last sentence in a harsh, threatening tone.

Crimson was the first to respond. “Don’t you have a military?”

Ivan gritted his teeth. “Did I stutter when I said your goodie two-shoes looking ass would be wiping Messland off the map, along with my armed men?” he yelled in frustration. “Are you actually stupid?” he continued. “Like, c’mon, at least try to comprehend what I have to say. We speak the same language for fuck sakes.”

Crimson gritted his teeth too and looked as though he was about to lash out. However, he chose the smart route to contain himself. Probably for the better, considering he was right in front of the leader of Belarus himself. If Ivan so chose, he’d have his staff turn their heads into decorations.

After they leave the president’s house, they exchange looks with each other. They then study the weapons they were given. Crimson was given an AR-15 with no scope, Greene was given a Glock-17, and Doomo was given a bolt-action sniper rifle.

They jump into a jeep, with Doomo being the nominated driver. “So, to Messland…”

As Doomo got ready to set out, a helicopter pilot stepped in front of the 4x4 wheel drive.

“You three headed to Messland?” he spoke, in a pilot-like tone.

Doomo got out of the car. “Yeah.” Crimson and Greene followed behind.

“Well, hop in,” said the pilot, and paced toward a helicopter. This helicopter was built for the convenient transportation of soldiers, as established with no visible weaponry to be seen. And so, they climbed into the passenger bay, just behind the cockpit. The driver climbed into the cockpit of the helicopter, starting up the rotary blades soon after.

Airspace

The rotary blades started to spin. Gradually building up the pace, one thing became clear: They were about to launch an attack on Messland. Similarly, multiple other helicopter blades started to spin as well. Behind them, the garage doors opened. Everything from tanks to jeeps was being serviced. They were going to come into the mix later, possibly after the first attack, whatever Vladimir Ivan Grongle had planned.

Doomo’s portable radio started to crackle and static, and then a voice replaced that static.

“Can you hear me?” spoke a voice. It was the voice of Vladimir Ivan Grongle himself.

Doomo spoke into the portable radio. “Loud and clear.”

Ivan responded. “Your first mission is to bomb the residential streets of Cherilym City.” Static. “Then, you need to shoot up the Office building. If you get captured, commit suicide.”

Crimson was writing this down on a notepad. They all grimaced at being told to end their own lives if they faced prosecution. Doomo responded with an unstable “got it,” then an “over.”

“Excellent,” spoke Ivan, a hint of malice audible in his tone. “Don’t fuck this up.”

Then silence.

The helicopter pilot looked behind him to see Crimson, Greene, and Doomo in the passenger bay.

“Are we clear to launch?” he asked.

The three of them glanced at each other and then nodded. “Clear. Ready when you are.”

The captain nodded. Soon enough, the helicopter was airborne. Take-off. “You all have code names? For like, missions and stuff?” he asked.

“Oh… no,” spoke Crimson, followed by a “nope” from Greene.

“I see… well”, the pilot pointed at Crimson. “You’re Blazefront.”

Then, the pilot pointed at Greene. “You’re Mosscrack.”

After that, he pointed at Doomo. “Your name is Sharpsnipe.”

The pilot then pointed a thumb at himself. “It’s Skips, as cliché as that is.”

Crimson, now unofficially Blazefront for missions, looked Skips dead in the eye. “Very cliché, yeah.” Crimson then rolled his eyes, making his annoyance known.

The helicopter flew overhead, first flying over the land of Poland. The pilot’s portable radio, mounted next to the GPS, started to crackle.

A male voice with a thick Polish accent spoke.

“This is Poland Air Control. You’ve been identified as an unknown aircraft. Please confirm your status. Over.”

The tone of the male’s voice was easily distinguishable. He was not playing around. The mission could very well end before it starts if Skips didn’t give a valid explanation in time…

Skips turned on his radio and spoke into it.

“Ground control, this is A1-353. We’re headed to Messland from Belarus for military drills. Over.”

The male voice replied after a firm three minutes’ worth of static. “You’re free to continue. Over.”

And continue flying over Poland, Skipper did.

“You’re good at lying,” Crimson chimes in.

Skips laughed. “I wasn’t always this good.”

“And also,” said the Polish voice, “while we were at it, we informed German traffic control. You’re clear to fly through German airspace, too. Your fleet of aircraft has been pinged to avoid future confusion. Over.”

Pinged. “Clear. Thanks for the assist. Over,” spoke Skips, then turned off the radio.

This wasn’t a good situation for Skips, Crimson, Doomo, and Greene. They’re expected to land in Messland now. But as long as they kept the mission anonymous, it would not matter. Right?

They all flew over Germany, pinged. While it was a good feeling knowing they’d successfully deceived the government, any mistakes and the mission may be compromised. They had to play their cards right, between now and landing in Messland, wherever they end up landing in the new country.

The trip was coming to an end as the helicopter started to descend slowly toward the Earth’s surface. They chose to land in a forest, away from Cherilym to avoid suspicion. Deprived of access to the outside world, Crimson, Greene, and Doomo hopped out of the helicopter, weapons readied. The helicopters took off soon after. As they took off, it became clear that the other two helicopters were decoys in case things went south and Plan B needed to be enacted. Plan B was to fight against enemy aircraft in pursuit of them. For the Belarusians, that plan never came to be utilised, and thus, a (mostly) smooth landing.

The trio looked around at their surroundings. A large temple, which was clearly in a state of decay, is visible. Crimson steps closer and feels the heat.

The temple was built a bit like a church, constructed with dark grey and black bricks, with spires on the left and right side of the entrance, the left one out of commission entirely – likely from weather decay. The spires have gold traces on them. Behind the temple – presumably attached to it – was a large structure with lit flames on top of the wall, as well as more traces of gold. This behemoth of a structure looked to be where either cage fighting happens, or if a sleeping deity was resting inside of it.

Crimson stepped away from the temple and turned towards the other members in his squad.

“It’s a temple,” he said.

Doomo steps towards Crimson. “Well, no shit.” He had anger issues.

“All right, let’s just do our mission. Then we can fuck out of here,” said Greene, then he pulled out his Glock-17. “Seriously, this place does not seem right… It feels like there’s something supernatural around here.”

Greene was the type of guy to be cautious, albeit a bit paranoid. Especially in foreign environments. However, he always blamed it on his gut feeling, and could never have picked up on paranoia.

Doomo looked toward Greene, picking up on the paranoia he was showing. “You good there?” he asked and raised an eyebrow.

Greene looked at Doomo. “I’m fine. Just…” He took a deep breath. “This temple? It doesn’t seem right.”

Doomo tilted his head and shrugged. He failed to see the big deal in the temple. The thought was nothing but mere paranoia…The thought of a deity, existing. Sleeping. Living. In the temple. It could not be real.

After traversing the forest for a few hours, they hear the sound of cars travelling. As if driven by instinct, they sprinted towards the source of the noise, and they laid eyes on Cherilym City.

“That looks like the target,” said Doomo. “Big, but not huge.”

Crimson and Greene nodded as they continued to look at the building. Then, they look at each other.

Doomo stepped between them, then another step, so that he was in front of them, and perfectly centred between them. “You guys,” Pause. “Can take this mission.”

Crimson and Greene exchanged looks. Then Doomo continued to speak. “Bomb the residential street, then massacre the office… whatever it was named.”

Greene put his Glock-17 away, then Crimson held his AR-15 with a firm grip.

Bruised and Scarred

The time was 1:42 pm. James had been at work for a couple of hours now. By now, he had finished sorting out the assets, and now he was slacking off, scrolling through Twitter.

Earlier that week, mobile services came back online, meaning the citizens of Messland could now use the internet. And go online they did, only to find people posting various memes about the collapse of Belgium, as well as people just replying to threads.

James got sick of the repetitive memes quickly. He closed the app and deleted it soon after. After that, he stepped to the other side of the floor and looked out the window. From there, he saw two foreign-looking people he’d never met before: one in a ghillie suit, and one in black and red. The guy in black and red was holding an AR of some kind – James wasn’t too sure about the type of weapon it was.

He wasted no time taking out his journal and writing everything: descriptions of the foreigners, what they were holding, what he assumed their intentions were, and so on.

6:12 pm. James walked back home. He had already turned the corner when…

A low and deep boom is heard. The ground beneath his feet shook violently. A few bright and burning spheres of heat expand at a rapid pace. James leapt back onto the road with little time to spare. He had no choice.

He woke up. Fire could be seen everywhere around. James sat up and looked around. His vision was blurry, his movements were weak, and his breathing was shallow. He could not remember anything that had happened. James came to his senses and looked around, then saw his house. The house, that was already due to be destroyed, was. He was devastated. James reached for his journal that he carried under his shirt. It was still there. He let out a sigh of relief. As he sat up, the man’s hearing was returning to normal from just being a series of constant ringing.

The ringing in his ears slowly faded away as air raid sirens could be heard in the distance. Whatever happened, it was severe enough to cause something like this.

James retreated towards the alleyway between Cherilym Offices, and the tavern. He slowly paced toward it, injured. Exhausted. Hungry. As he made his way towards the alley, James felt a weird burning sensation on his arm. He glanced at his arm and saw a nasty 3rd degree burn there, surrounded by a large scrape covered in blood. James only then realised that the blood that had been coming from his messy arm had been coming out since he stood up. He walked from the road to the alleyway between Cherilym Offices and the tavern. Behind him, a long trail of splattered blood. The nasty stinging burn on his arm persisted as silence and smoke filled the air once more.

He slumped down next to a dumpster and attempted to sleep. He could not sleep at all. The stinging pain was too strong for James to fall asleep with. What even was proper sleep?. James had no other option: stay awake until he eventually passed out from exhaustion.

The following morning, he woke up to a car speeding by the alleyway. James looked around, then saw the nasty burn on his arm once more, and a pool of blood on the ground between him and the dumpster. Some of the blood stained his jeans. But the main bleeding had stopped.

“Did I pass out from blood loss?” he slowly asked himself, realising that he had bled quite a bit.

Living in an alleyway was James’ life now. A depressing life in an alleyway, with quite possibly a permanent burn on his arm, having to survive off of scraps and rubbish in the bin, with little hope of ever having a stable roof over his head again. And with nobody to turn to, he was effectively alone in this world. Trying to move his arm, even a little bit, would be painful. Even getting up would be a lot to ask for without assistance. When he moved his arm a bit, a large stabbing pain could be felt where his burn was.

“Shit…” seethed James, the curse slipping out from between his teeth.

The homeless man was, now, in the worst spot in his life. Bruised and scarred. And this wouldn’t be the last time this happened either. He knew that too well. He could practically taste the lingering terror threat.

Want to read more Resuscitation of Conflict?

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(this one too)