But being an officer of the Revolution meant upholding certain standards. One might wonder what the point in getting dressed up for an execution was after all, it wasn’t like the criminal scum who would be buried in a shallow grave in six hours would give a shit. And most crucially, the face that had sent a hundred foes to the grave with a word stared back at her, unflinching. Jacket cinched tight, trousers pressed and belted, saber at her hip, all without a trace of dust, lint, or rust.
Her black hair, severely short-cropped and oiled against her head, was befitting an officer. Officers of the Revolution answered a higher call. Civilians could be excused such craven bloodlust. She kept her focus on the image in the mirror as she straightened her uniform’s blue coat. Not like there was a hell of a lot else to do in Hightower lately.įor her part, Governor-Militant Tretta Stern did her best to ignore all of it: the crowds gathering beneath her window outside the prison, their voices crowing for blood, the wailing children and the laughing men.
Merchants barked nearby, selling everything from refreshments to souvenirs so people could remember this day where everyone got off work for a few short hours to see another enemy of the Revolution be strung up and gunned down. The firing squad sat nearby, polishing their gunpikes and placing bets on who would hit the heart of the poor asshole who got tied up today. And behind the walls of Revolutionary Hightower that day, there was an electricity in the air felt by every citizen.Ĭrowds gathered to watch the dirt, still damp from yesterday’s execution, be swept away from the stake. From the walls of Imperial Cathama to the farthest reach of the Revolution, there was no citizen of the Scar who could think of a finer way to spend an afternoon than watching the walls get painted with bits of dissidents.
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