亚洲综合中美

In much the same way, following the current trend of days and weeks – the date eventually read 6th of September X131. “Pressure of battle has increased tension along the shared border of the Wracia Empire. Alphia’s leadership seems to have fallen onto the Empress’ shoulder. Nothing is confirmed thus far – the attack to capture the whole of Emria has been met with many deaths. Konak’s offensive is pyrrhic, they won’t quit lest the last man dies. Thus, the terror of the north began six months ago. Diplomatic efforts have ended in silence – much of the world has turned their eyes onto Hidros. What will their king do? The economy in the war-torn regions has crumbled. Families are forced into drinking poisonous muck to survive. We saw King in action, he showed much power in countering projectiles able to destroy countries. After that, nothing – the poor people of Wracia have nothing to look towards. Shredded homes, destroyed cities, and famine are on the rise. Alphia’s bombing runs over the shared border haven’t done any favors either. People wish for a change, and to the Kingdom of Hidros, I beg of thee, as a daughter of Wracia, I beg of thee, please act. Do not hide behind the cushion of diplomacy, there’s no peace to be found, no peace,” Stephanie from Antom News read a banner of acknowledgment. The camera panned onto the truth of battle – a village, sadly forced into the forefront of the offensive, no longer stood, there laid signs of civilization – tanks, trucks, and moving armies to count the few ‘working’ things. Beside carried broken walls, torn houses, and the charred remains of unlucky survivors. Shot farmers laid dead in drains separating walkways and sugarcane plantations. Children, small toddlers barely over five, hushed by their mothers, silently entered broken huts, if lucky, a standing house, to prepare meals and entertain the guests. Soldiers in black army uniforms patrolled. Scattered bodies were carried to a safe place, priority soldiers and second the villagers. Tension was high, the women hid, and the elder women glared from their broken hovels. The reporter, Stephanie, was a curious sight for the grudging bystanders.

“Don’t look them in the eye,” said an accompanying soldier, “-Stephanie, you’re brave to come into the frontlines.”

“Am I?” she rose a disappointed gaze and continued following the laid path, “-I’d have died without support from you. This isn’t the frontlines, there’s barely any gunfire,” to which she lifted her chin as if to point in the distant horizon. Faraway explosions, the striking fast blast of a military jet passing overhead, a sonic boom, followed by little dots, correctly assumed as a squadron of helicopters, just over the natural range.

“You’re not,” returned the soldier, “-sorry it has to be this way. War is an awful thing, no one deserves to see how cruel humans can be towards one another. If it was me, I’d have said no, but, Hidros is a strong kingdom, the people deserve answers and here you are. An icon of our screen trotting in mud and witnessing what war can do,” a harsh left at the well led to a fortified military compound. Walls were tall and gates heavy, she breathed a sigh and followed. Chatter, constant lookouts – makeshift camps and the worse of it all, the first-aid area. The cameraman motioned to rise his weapon, a lens armed with the ammunition of hundreds of thousands of viewers, “-no,” she interjected, hanging her hand on his shoulder, “-don’t film.”

Outside swapped for much of quietness, “-sure hope the cafeteria is to your liking,” said a well-decorated officer.

Stephanie had her sharp gaze wander table to table, “-excuse me,” she pulled her curiosity and looked at the officer, “-tell me, officer Charles, why is there so much difference to the outside?”

.....

The officer, dressed in a lighter uniform, removed his hat and calmly placed it on the metallic table, “-our soldiers fight day and night. Some of them never return to the battlefield due to heavy injuries. Not exactly easy to call an evacuation, especially here in a prime location for an aerial attack. This place serves as a medium towards heading home.”

“Okay, what about magic, can’t they use potions?”

“Supply is low as is. Understand, lady Stephanie, rationing is one of the reasons our kingdom can afford to fight this war. Not exactly good for business when half of the world is against the other half. You had questions,” he politely crossed his fingers and looked into the camera, “-please, speak your mind.”

“I have to ask,” she pressed forward, “-the women in the village, why were they scared? Most of all, why were the younger, prettier ones placed on the steps as if merchandise? Where are the men, where are the little children, what is happening here?”

Charles calmly caressed his beard with reflection in the gaze, “-I will not comment on the local practices. Understand, lady Stephanie, our forces have only just recently taken hold of the region. We’re still considered in enemy territory. The birds you heard earlier were headed to Chiad, a major stronghold responsible for controlling the region. I’ll tell you what happened, and what will happen; the women are treated like stock, and the previous army, the Revolutionists, were not kind to the locals. Have you ever heard of Deathmarches?”

“No, what is that?”

“A word forged by the Aedric god themselves. Deathmarches are forced marches of prisoners of war, villagers, or otherwise, through the war-torn landscape. Starvation, dehydration, humiliation, abuse, neglect, thrown in whatever descriptive word you may find and I’m sure it’ll match what happened. Those who can’t walk are left to die or, if lucky, killed at the stop. Children are often left in remote villages, there are accounts of infant bones being uncovered in nearby firepits. The women are often taken in groups, tied by rope, and dragged. The prettier one, as you mentioned, has the honor of serving the brass, it’s a discussing practice, that turns my stomach upside down. The Revolutionist army is on worse rations than us, transporting prisoners isn’t a priority, you get the idea. Stephanie of Antom News, you wanted a story, here it is. Title it the grave reality of war.”

“What about our army, what offenses have we done?”

“War crimes?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot,” he vehemently said, “-goes both ways. Here’s a thought experiment – in times of difficulty, in times of extreme body deprivation and mental anguish, would you have the strength of mind to decide between good or bad? In a place where gunfire is white noise and the sight of a friend falling on his head, choking on his blood and suffocating etched into your brain, would you, Stephanie, have the mental capacity to think of something as vague and léger 1as war crimes?”

“I wouldn’t know...”

“Right, you wouldn’t know. I say this with only the utmost respect to your profession, Stephanie, not knowing is a boon. Knowing is a serious undertaking, tis a contract of bond, a pact, to be part of whatever lays behind the cloud of ignorant bliss. Would you jeopardize your life, your sanity, and your heart, to the taint of what lays in my memory, no, in the memories of the countless soldiers, the refugees, would you, Stephanie, undertake the monumental task of knowing and bearing witness to how bad humanity can get, TELL ME!” he slammed, the table roared to which the camera flinched. Veracity and sincerity cried through the bloated veins, Charles dropped his guard for a second, allowing the inner rage to shine – such as the mental toll upon the faceless heroes, the ones on the front-lines fighting for the sake of their kingdom, family, or other personal reasons.

Needless to say, the interview ended prematurely. She had her face in her hand, the terror of the encounter translated into short but coherent breaths. The reporter would later be introduced to the refugees, an elder with a wrinkled, tenuous smile, who welcomed the young lady and her gadgets into a specialized ward in what seemed a medical building. Her clubbed fingers calmly reached for a cup, took a sip of the lukewarm drink, and returned it to the counter. “Mamma,” said Charles, “-these here are people from Hidros, they’ve come to show the world the war. Would you kindly answer her questions, I promise it won’t be long.”

“Charles, you ruffian,” she smiled, showing her yellow pearls, “-call me granny, not mamma.”

“Oh, but you look so young,” they chuckled, he turned on his step, stared at the cameraman, and strongly grabbed Stephanie’s shoulder, “-don’t bombard her with questions. My assistant will be watching, just in case,” the heavy boots faded into the hallway. Before them, before the camera sat a mature figure of someone who’d seen many things. Some good, others bad – the way by which Mamma, as the compound so came to know, confidently kept her pace. Her regard crossed Stephanie many times without much care to speak. Her ears didn’t seem apparent, her skin, the wrinkles, and burn-line marks weren’t common, as for her tone and freckled skin, they didn’t speak natural either.

“Mamma, or should I call you granny?”

“Granny,” she grinned, fixated on the reporter’s lips, “-you have to speak up and articulate well, my hearing isn’t very good.”

“Granny, I’m sorry to ask, who are you exactly, why are you here?”

“Oh, my story is a long but common one. I’m a lucky survivor you see. I was, like many others, a slave taken from Arda. Didn’t know it at the time, I was born here. My parents were snatched, my mother actually, as for father, never knew him. Maybe it was the master, maybe even the master’s son, or countless friends, I don’t know. Oh, those days...” she firmed on the camera, “-is this broadcasted live?”

“Live?”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but how-”

“You pick up a few things,” she said, “-I’m surrounded by many talented and intelligent people.”

“Tell us about them, tell us about what happened here...”

“Oh, you mean the refugee? Stephanie, it’s bad to speak in undertones. Tell me frankly, honesty goes a long way, little one.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m a hundred and twenty-five.”

“Wow.”

“Not praiseworthy, my clan has a life expectancy of three hundred years. I’m still a cub compared to the elders.”

“Your wrinkles, your scars, are they natural”?

“No, no, god no,” she shook her head lightly, “-my fur, my tail, and my ears were taken. You see, my employer wasn’t fond of non-humans. He forced my hand and threw acid to ‘heal’ my deformities. Been like this since I was at the young age of sixteen.”

“So sorry to hear.”

“No one is sorry,” she sharply entered, “-no one is sorry, no one unless it’s a child who did his mother wrong. No one will be sorry, no one.”

“...” confused glances were exchanged. She even turned at the assistant, the man simply nodded with, ‘-continue.’ Stephanie, with a deep inhale, gathered her courage and spoke, Granny was pleased, her face lit, and what would be known as the Grave Reality of War, set on taking its first steps towards infamy.