The soldier was angry beyond words. It was his duty to defend. The peacekeepers had been slaughtered. An observer was crouched in a corner ranting to himself, then blubbering, then stiffening, then speaking rationally--excuses, he chided himself as he knew he would be, or presumed he would be. The sound of boots stalk-walking the sounds of a man "losing it" included stepping on glass, something hard sliding in something viscous, hard surface floor or ground. Breathing, slow, steady rhythmic breathing.
There is no reasoning with what they are doing. Everyone had been warned. Knights from both sides of the European pantheon had signaled no easy end in sight. Soldiers weighed their insight more heavily than all of the media coverage combined.
"You cannot," a woman in tactical gear stayed behind the lead and answered, "Can I leave now?"
Deep underground came the sounds of rumbling. The steam, where it found outlet, blew objects up into the air. An entire sack of potatos hiccuped. The rumble moved off.
Because it is and it isn't an org right now. A mediator spoke on a sat phone conference call from the field. The little piece of tore up plywood in front of him was not really "armor". It is being used as a vehicle. Soldiers quietly surrounded the mediator. One gave a swift, short kick at the bottom of the plywood. It fell over. The mediator looked like he was on a toilet. It was a bucket. And after the team captain vented his anger in the comment, that's in neutral on the stick then, he tossed some loose gut, stop it up pills over to the man. Another soldier said, "That could be a grenade." The little cluster of militarized left.
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