Dear reader,
The story I'm about to relate, including my attendance as a foreign press member to a recent royal-military event abroad, is a matter bearing many details I am not, at this time, authorized to disclose. The identity of any specific persons, and places referred to in this piece, are protected in accordance with the terms of publication, including the identity of myself and my wife. Classified also, is the mention of any organization, landmark or political body that might render obvious the context of this story. The two corporations referred to in this article, DeBonair and Savoir-Faire are fictitious, albeit in name only.
These restrictions aside, I wish to express thanks to my foreign hosts, who have generously allowed me to cover this story within the aforementioned parameters, as an honoured guest of the district's royal military gala - a rare opportunity indeed for a outside observer like myself.
Signed: unnamed
Date: classified
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If you've read the preamble above and you are still reading, I thank you. I imagine you already suspect this article is some sort of joke or publicity stunt. I assure you it isn't. Alternatively, you may be questioning the journalistic integrity of this piece, (or any article for that matter), written anonymously and entirely bereft of context. I assure you, I empathize with this sentiment entirely. Nothing stinks of deep-fake journalism more than unnamed author. For the record, I would gladly reveal my identity if it weren't for the legal reasons aforementioned. They took from me my name, (a fair and lenient consequence I suppose), in exchange for this story.
My only appeal is that you'll seek my voice in this short piece and find in it, my humanity. For the story I'm about to recount, is one, I'm quite confident, no semi-sentient task-bot could ever replicate easily without sounding disingenuous. Like you, I suffered greatly through these last years. We were, after all, all of us, survivors of the Storm of Plagues, We, all of us, fought the wars within wars, drank the irradiated water and suffered the pangs of hunger and dismay. We, all of us, dragged around inside our hearts the unburied memories of loved ones. Some districts suffered more than others. What happened here, could have happened to any number of countries forced to turn to military rule in uncertain times. I hold nothing against them for that. In fact, now that borders were opening again and a new peace had begun to take root, I felt honoured to be among the first foreigners allowed to enter the country as a respected guest.
We sat across from each other, my wife and I, peering out through the window beyond the royal military flags mounted on our vehicle. I laid my hand on hers and she glanced at me, her big brown eyes betraying a look of excitement and nervousness in equal proportions. Outside, the remains of a city disfigured by years of plague and violent civil war, scrolled past our window. Much of the landscape bore the sad countenance of a vast ghost town, littered with the frowning mouths of caved-in buildings, shot-out windows and crumbling facades. In some places, the cityscape was so torn up the habitations resembled concrete termite mounds more than the modern edifices of the district's metropolis. Much had changed in the last five years.
And yet, there was a sense of renewal in the air, perhaps even a small breeze of hope. Even in this city, the infrastructure was being regentrified again at an impressive pace, where for years, nothing but weeds and thirsty saplings had pushed through the knuckled masonry. The savoury smell of street viands and incense wafted once more through bustling shanty markets. Places of worship were patched, painted, polished and reopened; commercial and government buildings were being hoisted to their feet once more by the chains of large, industrial DeBonair cranes. A newly-erected holographic billboard, several floors tall, flickered to life as our motorcade rolled past the crowded city plaza.
