The Second UprisingMature

Krasimir Dulka had built up a bit of a following among the Anarchists. He had held the occasional meeting in an old warehouse by the abandoned docks, he had met many people, from amateur hackers to veterans to artists, and had become an instantly recognisable face among the insurrectionary community. Those that had met him in person admired him, those that had heard his name adored him and sought him out, if they could find him. He had never been particularly precocious before the Revolution, but now he was almost as iconic a figure as Rouben Waletzko, Dragomir Possehl and Tatjana Kobliska, instantly recognisable from his dark blond hair and wire glasses.

At any rate, it was Krasimir that first heard of the notice pasted on the street corner. He was attracted to it as he made his way to the docks to deliver a speech on several Government files concerning the causes of deaths of inmates of the City Prison. He was attracted to it at once:

Treason is punishable by death, he read.

Krasimir read the rest of the poster with a growing sense of doom. It was obvious that the Police (who had commissioned the poster) were out of touch with just how widespread the rebel movement had become, nevertheless, thought Krasimir, they had a cheek to put up posters like this. He wondered why they had come about...perhaps someone here was a traitor...

For what reward? They were all oppressed by the Police, without mercy, without exception. They were all calling for change.

Krasimir decided that he would have to address this particular poster in his speech in the dock warehouse.

He continued, completely in his own thoughts. He did not notice that there were very many Police, and if he noticed that there seemed to be shouting coming from the other street, he ignored it only because there was always someone shouting in the City.

The air began to get heavy. His eyes began to stream. A kind of artificial mist had formed down the street, and Krasimir began to come to, and realise that, actually, he had been here before...

Tear gas!

How could he have been so stupid? He jumped suddenly as a canister fell to his feet.

At once the hood was up, his clothes pulled over his mouth. He was running.

He held the brown shoulder bag, which was empty except for a couple of sheets of paper: his cryptic research. The air cleared, and he was back out onto the street.

Krasimir stopped as the air began to get clearer, regaining his breath. Boy, he wasn't used to running like that...

Suddenly he was seized from behind. His head hit the ground before he knew it. 

He looked up and saw a policeman wielding the massive black baton, up against the white sky. In a flash he had rolled to the side, as the baton had swung down. Krasimir seized his bag and wrapped it round the police officer's ankles, and pulled.

The police officer struggled and faltered a bit, but did not fall. A vicious kick was aimed at his face, but Krasimir covered his head with his arms.

The kick was heavy. And so was the next, to the chest. Krasimir pulled himself up and scuttled a little way away, and struggled at last to his feet. The Police officer began to follow him, the baton at the ready. Acutely, Krasimir looked at the white belt around the man's waist, and saw a holster for a pistol, and a knife...

–Bloody hoodie, I'll beat you to death...

Krasimir wrapped his sleeve around his fist and struck the man's helmet. In shock, the police officer's grip loosened, Krasimir wriggled free, grabbed the man's baton and, putting all his weight behind it, gave the man the biggest hit he had ever dealt anyone in his life.

The helmet flew off. Krasimir saw a well-fed face. High cheekbones. Noble profile. Stubble as small as grains of sand.

The policeman lunged at him. Krasimir grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled it. The policeman cried out, and Krasimir threw him to the floor. He then began to run, before the man got up again. He could see three rioters running towards the floored officer...

Now Krasimir hit the floor, front first. His bag landed on the cobbles.

He let out a grunt, and rolled over. A knife was sticking out of him.

Now Krasimir felt the pain. The knife was in his ribs, the pain was impossible, and like nothing he had known before. He could hear a rumbling in the back of his throat when he breathed...

His mouth filled with blood. Red froth appeared around his lips. He felt the urge to cough, or to be sick, or to scream, but he couldn't make a single sound. He looked up again and saw the rioters...

There were four policemen now, two rioters were unconscious, and one had run for it...

Krasimir couldn't get up. Every ligament in his body was screaming, every muscle tensed. His vision was fading, fading into blackness. Distinctly he saw a policewoman run towards him, holding a box:

And then nothing.

The End

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