The people gathered in the plaza of Ice Valley City had no idea they had narrowly avoided a bloody incident. They also had no idea that behind them, thirty battle-hardened armed operatives, equipped with advanced special-operations gear, had begun a textbook stealth operation and stronghold seizure.
The crowds joining the march in the city were closing in on the three-hundred-thousand mark, while the protesting workers gathered in the municipal plaza had topped fifty thousand. They had remained remarkably restrained and patient, shouting passionately and generously, and occasionally throwing rotten eggs and tomatoes at city hall. Their ultimate weapon might have been "small stones." For a strike protest with six figures in attendance, it was fair to say the whole affair had been remarkably mild-mannered and harmonious.
They were waiting for the workers' representatives and management to begin their third round of negotiations. Meanwhile, one labor leader had climbed onto a car roof to give a loud speech, while others had put on plays right there in the plaza. Whether it was a revised version of The Green Star Princess, a simplified The Cold Hill, or even an interstellar version of Thunderstorm, they were all essentially cursing out the management representatives to their faces.
The workers were having a wonderful time, bursting into loud laughter now and then. Some of them nearly cried even as they laughed.
The actors onstage were amateurs, but they were their fellow workers. And because their performances were so amateurish, they were all the more relatable to ordinary workers.
The small vendors in the city center had apparently realized that the old neighborhood regulars at today's march were quite harmless. Some had even driven their food trucks over and started selling fried dough, fries, churros, and ice cream.
By now, this massive workers' strike had taken