This story isn’t going to make much sense if you’re just popping in.
We had all heard of the manic, dancing purges of the post-script. Made the guillotine seem civilised. After all, a bullet in the brain is an effective method of death, but to send the man’s family the bill for the round is barbaric. Not so barbaric as the Republic’s other methods.
I had yet to see a gibbet, or the killing fields, where a traitor to the Revolution would be taken, his leg removed and left to the jungle, like some ancient sacrifice.
To rise above your station and keep your head, in such blood-encrusted chaos, to not become an un-person, to survive, is a challenge that proves a man’s most fiendish talents.
It’s always nice to know where your first bullet is going.
I caught his eye, and held it – his outward calm dissolved, for an instant, as he flashed his gold-flecked smile in my direction. The sort of man who’s life ghosted passed, ignored between the fleeting, joyous riots of unpredictability. The man who mounted chaos and directed it, riding above the storm, divorced from it, serene.
An opponent to be reckoned with.
Like a scorpion he circled,drawing patterns on the cool, checkerboard floor. I felt the murmuring protest of the crowd as well-trained hands pulled them closer, human riot-shields.
“Lower the carbine, Doctor,” he didn’t raise his voice above a whisper, as though hoping to go unheard, as though hoping to unleash violence into the crowd.
Written using some of Chuck Wendig’s random words – scorpion, divorce and Republic. Comments and criticisms (and votes!) always welcomed.
Tune in next time for MORE ADVENTURE!