"And when the company drenched even the salt red, the people thought, 'no more.' But when the protests broke out, a thousand gunmen stood in their way. The state had demanded that the violence be kept to a minimum, not knowing how deep the independent thought of the company was entrenched."
Gene Conti watched the close-up of himself on the big screen.
"Hands worn and cracked, used to the labor of harvesting nutmeg and mace, were wrapped around stones and sticks."
A shaky breath escaped his lips.
"But the company demanded loyalty." A sidelong glance seemed to look into the past. "It was said that the order came directly from Heeren XVII."
His fingers twitched, clutching his knees dearly.
"When the flag with those three letters—VOC—flew high, no one questioned the course history was about to take."
He could hear the gunfire as if it were yesterday. He should've been used to it, but the screams and the cries didn't sound human that day.
