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Mr. President
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The leaves that are green turn to brown
Jul 2001 time: 15:20
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Washington
Instinct tells me that I am too close to the war zone. Curiosity tells me that I am not close enough to the interesting events.
But I suppose the city itself is interesting. Aside from Lincoln's palace district, torched from the inside as American guards fell back before the advancing Apolytonian troops, there is almost no damage. It looks much as it did before the invasion.
Not that there are no signs of war. A chicken scurries across the cobbled path in front of me, hopping over a discarded helmet; the strut holding up a shop awning has three black-shafted arrows jutting out of it; a broken spear shaft lies expressively in the gutter.
And the inhabitants are clearly affected. They look . . . afraid. And in shock. The speed with which the garrison was swept aside meant that the citizens of Washington had no time to adjust to war. They went from their earlier lives to occupation almost overnight. The marketplace is subdued, people speaking in whispers like mourners at a funeral. Pedestrians walk fast and stare at the ground.
Life goes on, though. Though they cast glances of hatred at anyone who may be even remotely related to Apolytonia, they are also finding that our young soldiers are not monsters. Servicemen purchase vegetables and souvenirs, and drink the same ale as Americans. I doubt the bordello even noticed the change in government.
A beam from the setting sun is projected through the gutted window of Lincoln's palace several streets away, falling as if by design on an Apolytonian guard post, and the burnished armor of the soldiers shines like a star of destiny. For the land of the Banana, this evening is but the beginning of a long and bright day.
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All times are GMT. The time now is 05:20. Apolyton Time is 00:20. |
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