thefictionvixens Chapter 87 Perhaps, you could try to unite.
Chapter 87 Perhaps, you could try to unite.
Chapter 87 Perhaps, you could try to unite.
When the camera focused on Alka Punk, he was sitting in a folding chair.
The room was very small, like a temporary partition in a warehouse.
The walls are bare cement, there are no windows, and the only light source comes from an LED work light overhead.
The light was so white that it made people's faces look bluish.
Alka was wearing a black jacket and had a bandage wrapped around his left hand.
The bandage was dirty, oozing dark red bloodstains, and you could vaguely see that the index and middle fingers were missing.
He faced the camera and adjusted his posture.
"Hello, brothers all over the world."
The voice was steady, but a hint of fatigue could be heard.
"I am Alka Punk, the leader of the Red Panthers in Detroit, Michigan."
Pause for two seconds.
"When you see this image, either I will be dead, or I may be being hunted down by Mr. Saint."
When he said "Mr. Saint," the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if he were mocking him.
The camera zooms out slightly.
You can see six people standing behind Alka.
The three on the left are Black:
Jeffrey King stood at the front, hands in his pockets, his face expressionless; the other two were younger, one with a scar on his face, the other missing an ear.
The two in the middle are of Mexican descent, both wearing leather jackets. They are not tall, but have broad shoulders.
The older one was about fifty years old, with a gray beard and a wary look in his eyes.
The man on the right is Irish, with red hair, fair skin, and an old scar on the bridge of his nose.
All six people stood there, and no one spoke.
However, they all share a common quality on their faces, which is the quality of condensation nuclei.
Let me introduce you.
Alka turned to look at Jeffrey.
"This is Jeffrey King. The boss of the Black Car Gang."
He paused, then added, "Six years ago, he killed my father. He shot him through the heart with a Colt revolver."
Jeffrey looked at the camera, nodded, and didn't say anything.
"He is now my ally."
Alka turned back to the front, "We share ammunition, we share food, and we'll defend the South together."
The camera then shifts to Mexican Americans.
"This is Gene Jose, the president of the South District Mexican Mutual Aid Association."
Gene Jose raised his hand and made a simple gesture as a greeting.
"He has more than two hundred men under his command, most of whom are armed. We had a firefight on South 12th Street before, and three of his brothers died, along with two of mine. We almost got shot this time too."
Alka's voice was flat, like he was reading a list.
"This morning, I went to his territory. We talked for four hours. I came out missing two fingers, but I got the alliance agreement."
He raised his injured left hand and waved it at the camera.
The cross-sectional outline under the bandage is clear.
"This is Sean O'Malley."
The camera then shifts to the Irish.
"The people in charge of the Irish community. They are few in number, but they control several warehouses in the port area, which contain the medicines and fuel we need."
Sean O'Malley didn't move, just stared at the camera with a cold look in his eyes.
Alka continued, quickly introducing the remaining three:
A representative of an Arab grocery store alliance, the head of a Puerto Rican construction workers' gang, and a leader of a motorcycle gang remnant who fled from Cleveland.
"These,"
Alka said, "It was the brothers who hadn't evacuated from Detroit yet. I had to use a lot of persuasion and effort to convince them."
He lowered his left hand.
"This video wasn't made for any kind of promotion; it's just for record-keeping."
There was a slight coughing sound in the room.
"Facing that approaching Saint, and those KKKs who will absolutely not let us off the hook."
When he mentioned KKK, he looked in a certain direction outside the lens of his glasses.
"Even if we originally harbored hatred—like Jeffrey and me."
Jeffrey stirred slightly behind him, but said nothing.
"Even though we originally had different skin colors, different languages, and even believed in different gods."
Gene Jose whispered something in Spanish, like the beginning of a prayer, but didn't finish.
"But in order to survive, we managed to unite."
"For my brothers, for my family, for my mother."
When Alka said "Mom," her voice softened slightly, but quickly returned to normal.
He turned his head and looked at the person behind him.
"Brothers, wish us luck in surviving."
A brief silence.
The room was silent for a second.
Then Gene Jose spoke first, his voice short and curt: "Hmm."
Sean O'Malley continued, with a slight Irish accent: "God will bless us."
Jeffrey King spoke last, his voice low: "Yes."
Others also spoke up, some in English, some in Spanish, and some just mumbled incoherently.
Everyone spoke very briefly, without much emotion, as if they were completing a necessary procedure.
The voices weren't loud or in unison, but everyone spoke.
Alka looked at the camera and waited for the last person to finish speaking.
"it is good."
He said.
"that's all."
Then he paused, as if thinking about what else to say.
He then leaned forward, bringing his face closer to the camera.
"Brothers who see this video, you may encounter a situation similar to mine in the future. This can serve as a reference for you."
He looked directly into the camera, his eyes shining brightly in the strong light.
"Perhaps, in order to survive, it's not impossible to give up some prejudices."
After saying that, he leaned back in his chair.
The person recording the video shook the camera slightly, as if preparing to end the recording.
Just then, a gunshot rang out from outside.
It was very loud, and not far away.
Everyone in the room turned their heads at the same time to look at the doorway.
Then came the second shot, the third shot, followed by a continuous, dense barrage of gunfire, like popping beans.
Someone shouted from outside, the voice growing louder as they approached: "President! They've attacked! The South District's defenses have been breached!"
The shouts stopped abruptly at the door, turning into the sound of the door being pushed open and hurried footsteps.
The camera shook violently, capturing the concrete ground, the legs of a folding chair, and then a pair of boots rushing past.
Alka's figure flashed briefly at the edge of the frame as he stood up.
"Location!"
He shouted.
"Block B-7! They're cutting in from the west, at least thirty men! They have heavy machine guns!"
"Upload the video now! Everyone else, let's go!"
The footsteps were chaotic.
The final frame of the shot is:
The folding chair was lying on the ground, the LED lights were swaying, and the light and shadow were trembling wildly on the ceiling.
Then the screen went black.
The recording has ended.
"Tsk tsk tsk, they even have this kind of publicity? It's still not chaotic enough!"
Qian Liren, who was waiting for the boring Noah AI iteration, spotted this video.
Then a little inspiration struck.
Under Noah AI's dissemination matrix, it spread directly throughout America's online media network.
For a time, a large number of the non-white people who had been killed went wild.
"Let's make this even bigger, and see if I can use it to climb the ranks!"
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