2012 10 07

Sun Oct 7 2072

Two thousand eight hundred strong crowd of predominantly ork men and women fill the Denver fairgrounds, the whoosh of their voices coalescing into a singular call for metahuman rights, influence, and recognition in the plutocracy of Denver, and through that, a voice on the national stage.

The outdoor park area brims with a microcosm of factions- gangers, street corner preachers, working and unemployed, the young, the old. Drum circles bang out exotic rhythms, food stalls fill the air with the scent of fatty street food, KE provide strict security, and Falloon's private security guards weave throughout the crowd jacking anyone up with even a hint of malice. Placards wave like colorful coral in a sea of metahuman despair.

At the front towards a small outcropping of buildings with stages designed for performances wait the radical ork group the Tusk Liberation Front. Cameras surround them and broadcast the Soybeer Summit as it's being nicknamed by the media. Brother Mouzone sits at a table with a microphone, on the other side is none other than Jeremy Falloon.

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