This is my first AAR so I have no idea what I'm doing or how any of this works.
It's from the perspective of a native Sinhalese officer who rose through the ranks of the british military system and is in Columbo during a communist revolt.
Inspired by several things that happened in a run I did as British Ceylon.
Colombo looked like it was burning. On every street corner, every window, red banners and flags snapping in the fierce wind. In the distance a storm was brewing over the ocean, but Major Akila Mohan was far more concerned with present matters. Beside him, 200 of His Majesty’s Royal Ceylon Rifles stood at attention in their brilliant yellow uniforms, and ahead a mob of people marched towards the Governor's palace.
“Shit,” muttered the Major, “They have rifles”
The clattering of hooves on stone snapped him out of his trance. Lieutenant Duncan of the Mounted Rifles reard his horse up next to the Major.
“Sir. Sir! Kandy is under siege by the rebels. They’ve taken Tricomblee and Lord Hayworth’s regiment is pinned.”
Akila nodded numbly, blood draining from his face. There would be no reinforcements. He looked up at the lone flag flying above the Palace.
“Now, Major Akila,” the Governor had said a few days ago, standing in front of that very flag, “You’ve come to me several times requesting something as frivolous as a police force here in Colombo. Now I can assure you that such a thing simply isn’t necessary. The local populace is far too docile to rise up. And if they do, well I’m sure it’s nothing your regiment can’t handle.”
“Ready!” Yelled Akila.
The crowd shifted. Several people ran away. But just as many held their resolve.
“Aim!”
The rifles aimed down at the crowd. Smooth. Efficient.
“Fire!”
He heard the crack of the rifles firing. Someone was screaming in the distance. He was saying something. He heard the crack again. He looked down. His chains were broken.
He was crying. His brother led him out of the slave’s quaters and into the sunlight.
“Akila.” He said. “We are free.”
Akila didn’t bother looking back at the infuriated face of the white man as he left. He was free, nothing else mattered anymore.
“Fire!”
There were shouts and screams from the factory. Smoke billowed from the upper windows, and people stumbled out coughing. Akila ran out on the street from his office. He looked at the desperate, pleading faces covered in smoot and ash beside him. His brother was not there. He ran into the burning building. Akila had to save him.
“Advance!” said Akila, barely hearing his shouts over chaos.
“Advance!” yelled the captain.
The Turks were relentless. In all his years of fighting for the Royal Celon Rifles, Akila had never seen an enemy so detirmed to win against impossible odds. He looked over at his squad, exhausted from weeks of fighting on the barren Anatolian steppe. But they had almost pushed to Constantinople. They were almost-
Crack!
A stone hit Major Akila in the head. He stumbled to the ground, covering his left eye with his free hand in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Around him red and yellow figures danced a bloody dance. He wasn’t the only thing on the ground.
He looked up. There was a lone red flag flying in the wind. Damn Turks, thought Akila. They’ve won. He heard a horse screaming somewhere.
Akila saw the Queen on a horse above him, saber flashing at any limbs who dared stray within her range. She was wearing a yellow uniform, and calling out to him. He didn’t listen.
The Queen had come to Columbo one year. He remembered that. The Governor had welcomed her to Her Majesties’ most loyal colony. She had gone on a procession down this very street.
Rainwater dripped down onto his face. He opened his eyes to see the barrel of a gun. It was storming, and around him dead were everywhere.
Akila looked up at his brother, his hard set lines and face turned into a look of hatred he had never seen. He wanted to ask him where he had been, it’d been so long, the last time they’d seen each other was before the fire.. But his mouth would not work, and whenever he opened it a drawn out, ragged scream escaped his lips.
The face of the man who stood over him shifted. It hardly looked like his brother anymore. Akila tried to smile, to bring back the face that had given him comfort from the lashes in his youth, the face that could turn into a look of pure mischief with a slight tilt of a lip, the face that had vanished, burnt beyond recognition, one day in a textile factory.
The man above the Major pressed the gun to Akila’s head and pulled the trigger.
The specific event that gave me this story idea
Colombo at the time of the revolt
It's from the perspective of a native Sinhalese officer who rose through the ranks of the british military system and is in Columbo during a communist revolt.
Inspired by several things that happened in a run I did as British Ceylon.
Colombo looked like it was burning. On every street corner, every window, red banners and flags snapping in the fierce wind. In the distance a storm was brewing over the ocean, but Major Akila Mohan was far more concerned with present matters. Beside him, 200 of His Majesty’s Royal Ceylon Rifles stood at attention in their brilliant yellow uniforms, and ahead a mob of people marched towards the Governor's palace.
“Shit,” muttered the Major, “They have rifles”
The clattering of hooves on stone snapped him out of his trance. Lieutenant Duncan of the Mounted Rifles reard his horse up next to the Major.
“Sir. Sir! Kandy is under siege by the rebels. They’ve taken Tricomblee and Lord Hayworth’s regiment is pinned.”
Akila nodded numbly, blood draining from his face. There would be no reinforcements. He looked up at the lone flag flying above the Palace.
“Now, Major Akila,” the Governor had said a few days ago, standing in front of that very flag, “You’ve come to me several times requesting something as frivolous as a police force here in Colombo. Now I can assure you that such a thing simply isn’t necessary. The local populace is far too docile to rise up. And if they do, well I’m sure it’s nothing your regiment can’t handle.”
“Ready!” Yelled Akila.
The crowd shifted. Several people ran away. But just as many held their resolve.
“Aim!”
The rifles aimed down at the crowd. Smooth. Efficient.
“Fire!”
He heard the crack of the rifles firing. Someone was screaming in the distance. He was saying something. He heard the crack again. He looked down. His chains were broken.
He was crying. His brother led him out of the slave’s quaters and into the sunlight.
“Akila.” He said. “We are free.”
Akila didn’t bother looking back at the infuriated face of the white man as he left. He was free, nothing else mattered anymore.
“Fire!”
There were shouts and screams from the factory. Smoke billowed from the upper windows, and people stumbled out coughing. Akila ran out on the street from his office. He looked at the desperate, pleading faces covered in smoot and ash beside him. His brother was not there. He ran into the burning building. Akila had to save him.
“Advance!” said Akila, barely hearing his shouts over chaos.
“Advance!” yelled the captain.
The Turks were relentless. In all his years of fighting for the Royal Celon Rifles, Akila had never seen an enemy so detirmed to win against impossible odds. He looked over at his squad, exhausted from weeks of fighting on the barren Anatolian steppe. But they had almost pushed to Constantinople. They were almost-
Crack!
A stone hit Major Akila in the head. He stumbled to the ground, covering his left eye with his free hand in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding. Around him red and yellow figures danced a bloody dance. He wasn’t the only thing on the ground.
He looked up. There was a lone red flag flying in the wind. Damn Turks, thought Akila. They’ve won. He heard a horse screaming somewhere.
Akila saw the Queen on a horse above him, saber flashing at any limbs who dared stray within her range. She was wearing a yellow uniform, and calling out to him. He didn’t listen.
The Queen had come to Columbo one year. He remembered that. The Governor had welcomed her to Her Majesties’ most loyal colony. She had gone on a procession down this very street.
Rainwater dripped down onto his face. He opened his eyes to see the barrel of a gun. It was storming, and around him dead were everywhere.
Akila looked up at his brother, his hard set lines and face turned into a look of hatred he had never seen. He wanted to ask him where he had been, it’d been so long, the last time they’d seen each other was before the fire.. But his mouth would not work, and whenever he opened it a drawn out, ragged scream escaped his lips.
The face of the man who stood over him shifted. It hardly looked like his brother anymore. Akila tried to smile, to bring back the face that had given him comfort from the lashes in his youth, the face that could turn into a look of pure mischief with a slight tilt of a lip, the face that had vanished, burnt beyond recognition, one day in a textile factory.
The man above the Major pressed the gun to Akila’s head and pulled the trigger.
The specific event that gave me this story idea
Colombo at the time of the revolt
