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The Resistance Pamphlet

John Connor

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'The Siege of Washington DC'


John stood far back from the seige lines seperating mankind from machine, every now and then bursts of plasma fire and heavy armour would light up the landscape as both sides traded fire. Standing over six feet tall and in his thirties, John was an imposing man, brutally scarred from years of fighting made looking at him quite difficult in the wrong light. He was heavily muscled and dark in the eyes, his beard cut and torn with thick scarring of the skin beneath. His clothes were faded and ripped in places, but the unmistakable patch of the US military on his arm, and the new, but not so new, 'TechComm' patch stitched to his red armband made him stand out amongst the leadership.


With the war for all intents and purposes over, the Resistance leadership was forced to convene to discuss the formation of a civilian Government, but years of battle had turned most civilians into soldiers. Connor sat and listened to his commanders debate the point for days and days until they simply suggested that he remain in charge and assign people he thought best to Government offices. With a sigh he agreed and returned to his quarters.


'So it has come to this' he mused mentally, staring at the ceiling from his cot.


The territory he now found himself responsible for was largely untouched by the future war, only its people were damaged. Since the transmission had gone out, tens of thousands of people had started entering resistance territory from the 'whitelands' surrounding the states. The population increasing daily as they registered with TechComm forces on the borders, issued passports and went on their way.


It would take years for him to return his people to their feet and former standing. He stood up and walked over to his locker and opened it, taking out a chest. Taking out the key around his neck, he opened the chest and took out the contents. The last relic he owned of what he knew to be the old world, an old, tattered, slightly burned from gunfire and plasma, old glory. The stars and stripes, like most things he owned were faded. But it didnt stop him walking to the top of his command bunker and running it up the flag pole.


Washington DC would fall one way or the other. He would send a delegate to the machines.





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