Post by ozy on Sept 16, 2012 16:19:02 GMT -5
Just landed on Veilstone. Head to western construction site. Let’s build this thing. His tardiness was excused. For about a week now, his colleagues had been presenting new styles of nox propaganda: commercials, supermarkets, etc. Anywhere the free market was found, the Canalave’s propaganda initiative was there to strike. Their efforts were judged by Byron himself and gauged on monthly enlistment and citizen aid to the war effort. So, Mustapha found himself judging these new styles alongside older, wiser evaluators. Their age didn’t equal more say, which made the writer a bit prideful of his place in the journalistic hierarchy. He knew it mattered little; most of his concern was directed towards a working novella titled “Abysmal Blue.” He hoped it would be his fiction debut, but first the chores given by the Canalave state needed addressing. Veilstone was a close ally to the city of another coast. Mustapha managed to get his unemployed family jobs through this rebuilding initiative. In fact, his patriarchal uncle was just the person he was texting.
The fisherman Knight clan now tried their hand at architecture. Well, Veilstone had the blueprint and civil engineers on the job; the Knights were just the needed muscle. Alongside other volunteers, the clan would pour their soul into the work hoping to impress the big man and get a pretty penny. Mustapha was simply glad that his family found work, but he was chipping in for another reason entirely. The reconstruction of the wall would make for an excellent feature in the newspaper back home. Ninety percent of the time, he’ll be getting down and dirty, but in those extra moments, he’ll be jotting down notes on the story of the season. This would make for front-page grandeur. He thought as he hailed a taxi and made his way to the site. His excitement abruptly stopped at the sight of the work that was to be done. Lots of supplies, men, and pokemon. He noted that few women were present but figured that in wartime gender roles couldn’t really be an issue of discussion.
A fairly known name, Mustapha was given appreciative looks by commoners and his family members alike. He was among the very few leaders of this task. The other, a shocking individual according to some, was surely on his way. Whether he arrived or not, the young journalist was readied to spring into action. A man covered in protective gear carried a pair of steel-toed boots and a uniform his way. Mustapha recognized him from pictures sent by Byron. This was Reggie, one of the engineers that drew up the plans for this project. He was bald with red facial hair, an imposing goatee. He was smiling though which managed to make him seem almost friendly.
“Mustapha, is it? I’m Reginald, but everyone calls me Reggie. Here’s your gear for today. Your folks are already starting the foundation. They’re a funny bunch, you know. Strong too, for wrestling Gyarados and whatever it is you boys do.” Reggie even sounded gregarious. Mustapha could only nod and smile as the man talked. The older man pointed to a changing tent near a line of portapotties. After about ten minutes, Mustapha was back outside and looking like labor incarnated. He headed over to the his brothers’ position and was greeted with lots of mockery. His family was all burly and stocky while he was somewhat skinny in comparison. The boy was built though and could handle carrying building materials. Just in case, he unleashed Guadeloupe, his own little boulder. The mystical rock read his thoughts and psychically sent him flying to the second story of the wall. At the top his uncle waited. The Solrock followed. The day began.