2020: Chapter Four

With every step, she feels a sharp pain shoot up her leg. It begins just to the side of her tibia – the shin bone – and rockets upward into her thigh and finally into her lower back before stopping. She keeps her face composed, but her palms have quickly become sweaty and her stomach is hot and contorted with discomfort and stress.

She looks around, taking in the opulent waiting room around her. The long room is adorned with stately windows on either side, while on the far sides are sets of identical doors, yet one leads to a very prestigious office while the other merely a reception area. Where there are not windows, the walls are adorned with stately wainscoting painted white and above them, a cool grey paint.

Large, plush chairs covered in cognac-coloured leather are accompanied by similarly decorated couches while between them sit coffee and side tables with marble tops. It is all in stark contrast to the light, airy nature of the walls. She stands before one of these tables, leaning over to pick up a magazine, desperate to distract herself. Yet, her leg has paralysed her in her movements.

Prior to entering the stately chambers she now waited in, she had been given a new set of clothes, and was shocked to find them perfectly fitted. A sleek black blazer with a feminine flare at the base covered an airy, pale-rose coloured blouse. She had been given a pair of black slacks that clung to her skinny frame and finally a pair of black heels to finish the outfit. With her otherwise unremarkable black hair preened to perfection and how hanging around her shoulders with a perfect wave, she feels she looks confident and smart, but in reality she feels sick and weak.

With an agonising movement, she procures the magazine and hops back into her seat. She looks down at the lump of bandages around her shin, protruding through her new slacks, and sighs. “It won’t kill me,” she assures herself, remembering the words of the Lieutenant Hashemi. Visions of her children pass before her mind and she leans back in her chair, “I won’t leave them yet.”

She shakes the thought from her head and looks back to the magazine in hand. It’s a tabloid, and the cover details, in large block letters: “WC CITY ATTACKED,” and “UN SECRETARYGENERAL DEAD.” She leafs through the journal, landing on less serious news: the band Five Seconds of Summer will be touring the World Confederation after getting the green light from the Office of Public Security. “Well, Dhruv will definitely want to go,” she muses, smirking ruefully at her son’s not-so-secret adoration of the Western band.

Her mind wanders as she flips through pages for what seems like an eternity, but eventually, the pair of doors to her left are abruptly opened. Out step four individuals armed with assault rifles and wearing sleek black military uniforms including flak jackets, barrettes and the silver star of the World Confederation over their hearts. They take position around the entrance they have opened, and after a moment, one looks over at Ishana and nods.

She procures her crutches – something she wishes had used when picking up the magazine she now left on the plush chair’s armrest – and slowly stands up with the plastic implements under her armpits. She moves toward the entrance, taking note of the extreme grimness of the guards. Heavily armed and serious, they were the result of the tension rising between their World Confederation and the United Nations.

She passes between them and enters a spacious office. The three walls before her are covered in windows and look over both the area colloquially known as “World Confederation City,” the area west of Beijing where WC government is run and recently witness to a terrorist attack that she shudders to remember. In the centre of the office is a large glass desk with metal legs and ornamentation. Upon its surface sits a computer, a phone, and a numerous stacks of paper and pens. There is a sitting area off to her left, comprised of sleek, modern furniture which is so clean that its white fabric seems to glisten.

To her right is a large TV sat on an angle which, though mute, plays the news. Seated at the desk is an aged Chinese man. Ishana is taken aback at how unimpressive he truly looks. Clad in a black suit and silver tie, he has on a pair of narrow, framelesss, rectangular glasses and his parted black hair is streaked with grey and white. The eyes behind his glasses are adorned with dark bags, making him look remarkably tired and old, and his slow movement to stand only exacerbates her impression.

“Chancellor Zheng,” she says, as though to both greet him and confirm it really is him. Only after a mildly surprised look passes over his face does she realise the error of her ways. She quickly falls into a deep bow, her upper body dipping forward awkwardly considering the crutches under her armpits, “Forgive me, Your Excellency, I did not mean to offend.”

She does not rise and thus only hears his footsteps as he moves around his desk. “It’s quite alright, Ms. Chaudhri,” his voice is quiet and calm, entirely unlike how he acts on TV. She rises, grateful to not have her crutches jammed into her shoulders, and finds him to also be fatter than he is on TV. “Not what you expected?” He inquires with a rueful tone.

Delun Zheng moves toward the sitting area and takes a seat in a chair sat against the wall to Ishana’s left. “Come,” he pats the couch sat perpendicular to his own seat, “Sit.” She complies and moves to it, now on the other side of the corner in which they sat. She leans her crutches against the couch and returns her attention to the man she never expected to meet.

He motions to the TV, “What a ridiculous turn of events. The UN Secretary General was killed along with scores of innocent people, and the UN wants to blame us.” Chancellor Zheng’s brows knit in frustration and he looks over at her, fist clenched on his knee, “Tell me, Ms. Chaudhri, do you really think that’d be kill so many people if we wanted to get rid of Fournier?”

Ishana looks from the news broadcast, a roundtable between politicians, academics and pundits, and the beleaguered chancellor. “No,” she begins, “No, sir.” He lofts a brow, evidently curious of her reasoning. “I only know you as how you’re presented on TV, Your Excellency, but from what I have seen now, I don’t think you’re the kind of person to do something so evil.”

He nods, but a smirk breaks over his lips and he chuckles sadly, “My dear, you don’t need to call me “Your Excellency.” As you can tell there’s absolutely nothing ‘excellent’ about me.” He shakes his head of the idea and continues to speak his mind, “But you are right, partially.”

“Partially, Chancellor?” She inquires.

Zheng looks to the entrance and snaps his fingers. “Doors,” he instructs tersely. The guards standing in the entrance shut them, leaving the room silent as he considers his next words. “If it were up to me, no, I would not do this. But it is not up to me, I am, after all, just a puppet…” He sighs, returning to his melancholy he had initially presented, “Even still, the powers that be would not have allowed it anyway.”

Ishana remains silent for a long time, debating on whether her next question is an appropriate one. She decides that, since he brought it up, it would not be inappropriate. “Sir, the powers that be?”

The Chancellor of the World Confederation, whom on TV she found to be grand and impressive, often delivering rousing speeches to huge crowds, and whom now seems so small and average, simply nods, his gaze distant. “Ms. Chaudhri, are you aware that, despite the WC including both India and China, our spending power as a transnational government is still smaller than that of the UN?”

However remaining silent, she nods. “Well, that means that when it comes to any posturing, when we match the UN’s spending on some idiotic project, it hurts us more than it hurts them. This has meant that, over the years, we’ve become more and more reliant on the charity of big businesses in China and India.” His words come out so matter-of-factly, but yet shock Ishana.

“The WC government is taking bribes and loans from big business?” The words seem absurd, theirs was supposed to be the morally upright nation! “I know the look on your face,” Zheng comments wryly, “it’s the same one I had when I learned about this. How idiotic is our world when we indoctrinate our children to think that the WC is the best thing to happen since sliced bread when in reality it’s not better than the UN with their silly notions of democracy.”

“Anyway,” the man begins, “I didn’t call you here to bemoan the problems inherent in our system of government – that is for the scholars to debate.” He looks from the TV to her, “I call you here to discuss your future. A touchy subject I’m sure, but bear with me.” After a pause, he begins anew, “Daniel Lim, my secretary and your boss, has quit, and I cannot tell you how much that thrills me – and probably you.”

“Oh,” Ishana begins, trying desperately to not hide her joy at this news. “Well, sir, he was… very testy and difficult to work for,” she says, struggling to find the appropriate words for how she feels, “Are you looking for me to get a list of suitable replacements?”

Zheng shakes his head, “No, no, nothing so arduous like that. I’m offering you the job. I know your future’s up in the air, but I need someone by my side that knows how to keep all the administrative business in order and won’t get a swollen head over it.”

Ishana falls silent, her mind turning to her family. “I’ll be home so little,” she immediately realises, “Is it fair for me to do that to them?” She looks to Chancellor Zheng, though finds no help in the impassive visage he has. “But,” she looks down at her leg, her mind alive with worry for her own future, “Shouldn’t I try to help? But what about the kids?”

“I’ll…” She begins slowly, “I’ll do it.”

Chancellor Zheng stands and offers her a hand to help her up, “Excellent.” He seems genuinely relieved, “This does mean, of course, your family can move into the Executive Residence – you’ll be living here, too, and going wherever I go.” He smirks, a feeling of brevity overcoming him once more, “You’ll hate it as much as I do.”

Ishana looks at the man, her eyes widening in deep belief before she bows in her seat. “Yes, Your Excellency.”

~*~

Black flags of mourning hang from the curved wall of the horse-shoe shaped United Nations General Assembly Hall. The dais upon which the podium stands is also draped in black. In the centre of the raised platform is a golden dove, defiant in its flight, though it presides over such morbidity. Two huge doors stretch two stories tall and flank the stage: soon they will open. Here in London, the transnational government mourns the sudden loss of their Secretary General.

Shari stands upon a balcony in the back of the huge assembly room. It is out of camera shot, for it is where the TV cameras operate. Around her, her coworkers, blissfully unaware of her actions a few weeks prior, shift in their seats impatiently, chatting amongst one another lightheartedly. Next to her, lounging in a seat, is a young man from Canada.

“When are they going to get here?” He whines impatiently. She looks over at him: short brown hair, brown hair, unremarkable looks. He is the epitome of average. Shari considers his likeness for a moment and guesses he’s no more than sixteen. “This is ridiculous…”

She sighs, “Josh, don’t you think you should be grateful you’re even here? They don’t let interns into the viewing gallery often.” She looks back over the expansive structure before her. Over the centre of the chamber is an enormous chandelier. From its many branch-like appendages hang crystals of various likenesses: many are five pointed stars, some are crescents, one is a maple leaf, while another is an anchor, and so on. Each represents a member nation of the United Nations.

Facing the stage are seemingly endless rows of seat, each seat accompanied by a desk equipped with a small screen and a skinny microphone, each row further back rising a step higher than the one below it. Each nation is allowed a number of representatives for various reasons, though exceptions have been made. The American delegation sits directly before the stage and has double the number of delegates. Shari considers it all, and still cannot find herself to care about it all.

“Testy, much? Yeesh…” Josh grumbles, leaning away from her once more. She likes the boy, but cannot shake from her head the horrible thing she had taken part in. “It wasn’t anything deadly,” were Nayr’s words when she called him, tear stricken and with a chest slick with anxious vomit, “It was a test.” His next words only served to confused her more that fateful day: “You passed the final test. Shari. You’re one of us.”

“One of what?” is her thought at this moment as she looks over the empty stage. Finally, she’s drawn out of her reverie as the doors, in perfect unison, open silently. “I’m sorry Josh,” she says earnestly, worried her tone had been needlessly terse, “I’m just a little stressed.”

He looks over, his eyebrows high on his forehead, “It’s all good. Don’t worry about it.” Shari offers him a smile and looks back over to the parted doors, seeing a huge crowd of people outside of their sheltering entry. “Oh look, they’re coming!” Josh squeals with delight, now half standing over his chair, only to receive an irritated ‘Hey!’ from someone behind him. He sits down, face flushed with embarrassment, but still watches on eagerly.

Two twin processions enter the hall, headed by one man and one woman, clad in white suits with golden doves on their right deltoids. As they move down the corridors between the seats, those following them, men and women in expensive suits split off and enter the rows of seats, the first of which stops directly in the middle of the first row and takes a seat, followed by the one behind them in line taking a seat next to them, and so on.

Without much time, roughly two hundred people have taken their seats. “I almost killed you all,” the thought passes almost lazily over Shari’s mind as she watches them sit. “I could still do it… right now,” her eyes, sad and tired, drift down to her purse, a cheap product of fake leather sitting at her feet, wherein inside is a terrible weapon she thought she had many weeks prior to the current day.

“There he is!” Josh points at a black haired man seated three seats away from the American delegate. The man is animatedly waving at some of those entering the room between shaking hands with those around him. A smile is perpetually on his youthful face, and his grey eyes gleam with vim and vigour. “It’s Matthaeus Kingsley!” The young intern lets out an ‘oooh’ of excitement before continuing his thought, “Just saying his name sounds epic. “Matthaeus Kingsley” – his parents named him right!”

Shari can only blink, confused. She knew the man’s name but had no idea why a teenager would care about somebody in the American delegation, even one as politically learned and odd as Josh. “Wait, Kingsley? Why get excited over him?”

The young Canadian looks over at her, his face aghast with what can only be described as horror. “What do you mean ‘why’?!” He gestures at the man, who is still greeting people, “He’s the genius that owns Facebook and turned it around after Zuckerberg left to raise his family. He’s the guy who, while being a social media mogul, also sits on the American delegation for the UN. Not to mention his vines are hilarious, his Twitter is lit as fuck, and he’s just really cool!” Josh’s gushing over the man’s impressive social media presence only serves to confuse Shari evermore, and she looks to her coworkers for support, but finds them all in their own worlds as they chat, ignoring the excitable teenager.

As the delegates and representatives took their seats, a solitary figure stepped up the three steps necessary to ascend the stage. The brilliant chandelier dims respectfully as the individual, now revealed to be a middle-aged woman clad in a burgundy skirt and matching jacket. Her dirty blond hair, cut in a perfect bob, jostles as she moves across the stage. The clack of her heels becomes more and more noticeable as the room quiets.

She reaches the podium and a spotlight slowly comes into existence upon her. The room erupts into polite applause. “Ms. Angela Merkel really commands respect – but I suppose you’d expect that from the former Chancellor of Germany, eh?” Josh comments as he applauds the woman. Merkel raises a hand and makes a few waves, though keeps to her stoic reputation and remains reserved.

“Thank you, fellow representatives, delegates. I am Angela Merkel, President of the United Nations Security Council,” she begins, her strong voice commanding immediate silence. “It is my solemn duty to oversee the United Nations General Assembly today in the stead of our friend and colleague, the late Secretary General, Lance Fournier.” The room becomes tense at mention of the assassinated Fournier, the wound still very fresh and coldly visible in the empty seat in the Canadian delegation, behind the American delegation.

“If it pleases the honourable members of the General Assembly, I would like to call for a minute of silence, so that we may mourn Secretary General Fournier, before we begin today’s proceedings.” The lights dim further and many of those in the chamber bow their heads. Silence is absolute and the moment begins.

Shari, too, bows her head and shuts her eyes. She had never met Fournier, but knew him to be a kind man, even if he was known for being something of a ditherer. “Even still,” she thinks to herself, “The way we did that… It was messy. One bullet would have solved everything, but the Vancouver cell killed hundreds…” She gives her head a mental shake, “No, I can’t think like that. It was necessary. It sent a message to the UN and the WC! We need to show them they’re each other’s worst nightmare… It will fix everything.” Her eyes clench close ever tighter as she feels a hot anger erupt into life in her chest. It’s hot, stifling, scary, and yet so invigorating. “They can all die and then the world will be safe… We’ll see to it.”

Through her eyelids she sees a growing brightness and opens her eyes to find the minute of silence over. “Yes,” she thinks as she looks around her coworkers, all of whom have spurned and hurt her in some way, “You’ll all get what you deserve.”

“Thank you, everyone. Let us move forward to the next matter on the itinerary. We cannot operate without a Secretary General and the vote held last week has determined the honourable members believe it pertinent to relieve me of my duties as interim Secretary General and elect a permanent successor for Secretary General Fournier.”

Merkel looks around the room, her piercing gaze making small even the haughtiest of men and women in the crowd. “We will begin with a motion to nominate candidates, will anyone –“ she pauses as a figure shoots up in the crowd. It’s a young woman, looking to be no older than thirty. Her hair is jet black and her figure is full and healthy. “The General Assembly recognises Janine Reed, Representative for Canada.”

Polite applause sounds, and the woman nods to her peers. “Thank you, President Merkel. And thank you for acting as both President of the Security Council and acting Secretary General. The Canadian delegation thanks you for your service,” her words are echoed with a roar of applause. “The room’s really eating up this shit, aren’t they?” Shari thinks to herself. “The Canadian delegation nominates the delegate from America, the Honourable Matthaeus Kingsley.” Once more, her words are received with even louder applause and even cheers.

Kingsley stands briefly and smiles, nodding and bowing to those present before sitting once more. Reed, too, takes her seat. “Thank you, Representative. We will continue.” She scans the crowd and nods at a man standing near the back, “The General Assembly recognises the delegate from Columbia.”

“Man that’s not even slightly surprising, eh?” Josh comments, smirking at Shari. She nods ruefully, agreeing. “Of course Kingsley’s nominated. He’ll definitely win – everyone loves the guy!” The young intern gushes once more, his face alive with glee.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Shari questions, the small smile on her face a thoroughly confused one. She looks over at the man, now seated, though quietly conversing with his fellow Americans while the delegates and representatives consider new candidates. “I suppose he is an impressive fellow. Wasn’t he born into a poor family or something?”

Josh nods, “Yeah, his father left his mother after she got pregnant. She worked like three jobs to put him through school, and he still had to take huge student loans to get through college.” The room quiets once more and the two employees of the UN Capitol Building turn their attention to the stage. “I don’t even know why they’re having a vote, Kingsley’s definitely going to win.”

“Thank you, everyone.” Merkel’s strong voice once more sounds over the speakers on the walls. “Please look to your screens and cast your votes.” She once more falls silent as the delegates and representatives turn their attention to the small screens on their desks and cast their votes. Behind the President of the Security Council, upon the wall between the two entrances, two stories up, a projection lights up on the wall. A simple white rectangle first exists, and then a blue bar appears with the number 184 inscribed in white. The number steadily rises: 189, 195, 201, 206, 210, and finally 223.

The screen changes screens, displaying three names in a column: Kingsley, Moya, and Albertson. “Figures: Kingsley from North America, Moya from Latin America, and Albertson from Europe. Some things never change,” Shari comments. The factional nature of the UN, she finds, is a great weakness.

Bars similar to the last one abruptly grow from 0 and move out to the right. The first to stop is that of Albertson at 32, the next is Moya at 57, and not for a long time does Kingsley’s bar stop, but it is clear he has won. Only finally does it stop, dwarfing the competition at 134. Representatives begin clapping and shouting “Kingsley!” repeatedly, smacking their desks and cheering.

“Silence, please!” Angela Merkel calls out, and reluctantly, the room complies. “The United Nations General Assembly has decided. The new Secretary General shall be the Honourable Matthaeus Kingsley, of the United States of America.” The assembly once more explodes into furious desk slapping, applause and hooting. This time, Merkel does not stop them, and simply nods to Kingsley, who rises from his seat, smiling and waving at all those as he moves down the first row and into the aisle before moving toward the stage.

He wears a form fitting navy blue suit with a black tie and a golden pin, which Shari expects to be in the likeness of a dove. His black hair, tall, sleek and parted, compliments his athletic frame well and shines with luster as he steps into Merkel’s spotlight. He grasps her hand and shakes it, offering her a respectful nod of his head. Merkel steps to the side and gives him the podium. Kingsley steps up and gestures to the woman, “The indomitable Angela Merkel everyone! Let’s give her a roaring “thank you” for all the hard work she has done, doing double duty!”

Kingsley steps back from the podium and eagerly applauds her, the German woman actually smiling for a moment before waving to the crowd. Minutes pass as she does so, and only finally when Kingsley stops clapping does the crowd follow suit, and Merkel makes her way off stage to the dwindling applause.

“Thank you for the rousing confidence which you have placed in me,” he begins seriously, “I am honoured, humbled and deeply grateful to serve our wonderful United Nations. Let us work together for a more peaceful world.” The crowd applauds once more, but he raises a hand, “Ladies, gentleman, gender non-binary individuals, if you clap for every word I say, we’re going to be here for a long time.” The delegates and representatives laugh as Kingsley grins wryly.

After a moment, he continues his speech. “Admittedly, today would be a happy day for me, if not for the black flags that hang in remembrance for Secretary General Fournier,” he looks over at the black fabric draped over the walls, and places a fist over his heart, his expression sombre. “I admired him. I respected him. I saw him as a role model for calm thinking during crises. Above all, he strived for peace…”

Shari looks over at her coworkers, finding them silent and rapt with attention. “They’re eating up all this shit! How dumb do they have to be to believe all of this crap he’s saying?” She deadpans to herself, shocked that such cold people could be so enthralled with a man they were watching wax melancholy for the sake of showmanship. “This is insane…”

“My friends,” Kingsley begins, “Many of you expressed your desire for a new style of leadership when I expressed a desire to try to run for this post. You told me yourself that you wanted something different, that you want leadership that is not afraid to act and react appropriately.” The new Secretary General, young, handsome and stern faced, claps the podium, “My friends I will do everything I can to live up to your expectations, and I will begin today!”

The room cheers and applauds Secretary General Kingsley.

“A brutal act of evil, perpetrated by the World Confederation, has robbed us of our beloved Secretary General Fournier, yes, but also hundreds of innocent men, women, and children. They bombed a graduation ceremony! How many of those caught in the debris would grow up to help cure cancer, to end world hunger? What kind of potential was lost? What kind of loss must we now feel for our slain friends and family?” His words were agonised and he stretched his hand forward, clenching it as he spoke with raw emotion.

He looks over the crowd, once more gripping the edges of the metal podium. “Ladies, gentlemen, gender non-binary individuals, we must mourn, yes, but we must not let this heinous, evil, act go without a response. If we do not act, then what is the purpose of this great council of nations? If we cannot defend our people, then why do we exist?” He slams his fist into the podium’s surface.

“I put forward a motion to declare war on the World Confederation! For too long have we sat idly by as innocence is put to the sword! For too long have we let our friends and family be killed and done nothing in the name of peace!” He shakes his head, a few strands of illustrious black hair fall loose, “My friends I hate war more than anything else, but it is not peace we have now. It is a state of paralysed panic, and I know you cannot let your beloved friends and family – your honourable citizens – exist in such a state.” He pauses, “I call for a vote on my motion.”

Behind him, the screen, which had gone blank, now lights up with two words: “Yea” and “Nay.” Josh looks to Shari, “This is amazing! He’s going to bring the fight right to the World Confederation. What a hero!” She can only blink, baffled at his response. “He said it, alright. We can’t live in a state of constant fear – we need to have peace!”

Shari, speechless, watches the “yea” bar rocket past the “nay” bar, the latter of which stopping at a measly six.

Matthaeus Kingsley looks back at the projected screen and then back over the crowd. “Thank you, friends. With your brave action today, we will soon have peace.”

~*~

He can smell it. It’s the smell of burning flesh. It’s incredibly strong; so acrid he feels bile rising in his throat. He can’t see, but he knows he’s near. His hands flail out before him as he stumbles blindly onward. “Mom!?” He calls out, “Dad!?” Suddenly the dead silence is filled with noise. Screams. They’re coming from every direction. “I can’t find you!” He calls out desperately.

His foot catches something, and he collapses downward. His eyes abruptly open and he looks over a horrific sight. A hand is inches from his face. Down its arm looks the horrified visage of his mother. Blood pours freely over her face, and her lower body is simply missing, in its place a bloodied mess of intestines and organs. Her eyes, wide and panicked, stare into his own, boring into his soul.

He drags himself forward, around her arm and places his hands on her shoulders, “Mom!” He cries, heartbroken. “Wake up!” Her still form stirs and with an inhuman unevenness to her movements, her hand grasps his shoulder. “Mom?” He questions, worried.

“Logan…” She rasps, her voice hollow and cold. “You left me to die…” She slowly hauls herself upward, despite her lack of legs, her pale, dead likeness growing ever closer to his own. “You left us both to die!” Her eyes open ever wider. Bloodshot and maddened, they look hatefully up at him. “You killed me, Logan! You killed me!”

Her hand, cold and wet, grips him ever tighter and he tries to pull back, but finds his body immobilised. Logan looks back and finds the ruined corpse of his father, the man’s head crushed beyond recognition blankly looking over at him, collapsed over his legs. His hands claw at Logan’s legs, tearing at his flesh. From his shattered head, his father’s voice escapes: “You killed me, Logan! You killed me!”

He looks back at his mother. “No!” He shouts desperately, “I tried to find you! I couldn’t! I couldn’t find you!”

“LIAR!” She screeches and digs her fingernails into his flesh, scraping away flesh. “You killed me!” Her words sound once more, “Murderer!” Her words are echoed by his father, the two of them ripping the flesh of his arm and legs.

“Please!” He screams, shoving them off and stumbling away. The two ruined corpses drag themselves across the floor, his mother’s intestines trailing after her like a macabre cloak while his father’s ruined head hangs limply to the side while his body crawls toward Logan. “I’m sorry!” He calls out to them, “I didn’t mean to!”

“Murder!” His mother cries furiously.

“Murder!” His father screams.

“NO!” Logan shouts, his eyes opening abruptly, though immediately squint at the foreign, bright light above him. His gaze, bleary and unclear, leaves him struggling to understand his surroundings. His hearing detects a hurried beeping and he looks at the source.

To his right is a heartrate monitor attached to a rolling stand. Needles are bored into the veins on his arm. He looks down at it and notices that he is in a hospital bed, the white sheets crumpled around his waist. He looks across from the bed, finding a blank white wall.

Looking left, he sees his immediate area has been cornered off with a blue curtain and, in the space between the curtain and his bed is a plastic chair, evidently not meant to be there. Slumped over in this chair is a blond figure, lithe and trim and clad in a grey windbreaker, black jeans and converse. Even though his face is hidden by the manner in which he rests, Logan recognises the figure.

“Dirk?” He questions uneasily, his voice hoarse and throat dry. The strange youth from Lichtenstein does not stir, and so Logan tries again, “Dirk…?”

The enigmatic roommate twitches in his sleep and raises his head, his blond locks out of place and deep bags on his face. Only then does Logan notice the bandages on his hands that lead into his windbreaker, obviously up his forearms. The cool blue eyes Logan had once found to give such an unsettling stare don’t seem to affect him today as Dirk gazes at him, momentarily confused. A flash of clarity happens over Dirk’s eyes and he stands swiftly.

“Logan,” he begins, “Are you okay?” His tone takes the bedbound youth by surprise and is made speechless by it. Dirk places a firm grip on his shoulder, much like the one his mother had in his dream. Logan shoves himself back, releasing the hand and receiving a confused stare from his friend. “Logan…?” Dirk drops his hand and simply stares at him.

“Sorry, Dirk,” he begins, still thoroughly confused, “I had a horrible dream… My parents were dead and… Nevermind.” A chill crawls up his spine as his foggy brain fails to comprehend reality. He looks around the tiny area that he called his own in what appeared to be a hospital. “Why am I here?” Logan looks back to his roommate, who quickly looks away, though does return his attention after a pause.

Silence falls over the two of them. A cold, uncomfortable silence that sucks the warmth from the room, of which there was little to begin with. “Do you… not remember?” Dirk’s words are strangely awkward and quiet. The detached confidence he constantly exudes temporarily gone. “Your graduation ceremony.”

Logan feels his heart slam into his chest and his stomach turn in knots. His dream comes rushing back and he abruptly recalls the surroundings: the huge, broken balcony, fallen and collapsed into its neighbour below, which had then fallen once more. The mangled and broken bodies, the stench of death and the pools of blood mixed with rain water.

Bile rises in his throat and Logan sags forward, retching. Had he eaten recently, his stomach would have surely been emptied, but all he can do is cough hoarsely. Finally, his mind reopens and he feels a lurching, terrible pain in his chest. The bodies, the death, his parents… A hot stinging erupts in his eyes and he clenches them. “Oh, god…” He whispers, “My parents are dead.”

The outside world drops away and darkness engulfs Logan’s vision as he remembers everything. The explosions erupting in the balconies, the horrific groan as concrete and steel gave way and sent tonnes of balcony crashing downward… directly onto where his parents were sitting. Screams and shouts of horror had erupted and been quickly silenced as countless people died right before him, and he had been powerful to save anyone, to save his parents.

“They’re dead…” Hot, anguished tears streamed down his face and he felt his hands tremble on his thighs. His stomach churned and his heart beat loudly in his ears. “They’re dead!” He screams brokenly, drawing his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms tightly around them. His mouth opens and he feels a choking sensation in the back of his mouth.

A tense pain in his throat, a dam, breaks way and he lets forward a tidal wave of wracking sobs. Logan’s body trembles and he hugs himself miserably, lost in a sea of his own misery. “I’m sorry!” He cries into his chest, “I’m so sorry!” His words are broken and his tears fall freely down his face and into his lap. All around him is darkness and pain as his body convulses with heartbreak.

His misery continues and he feels the hot tears turn cold on his face, despite the new ones joining them. Logan continues to sob, seeing the faces of his parents, hollow and broken, from his dreams haunt him, damning him, cursing him.

Logan abruptly feels a warmth on his back. A hand. Then an arm around the front of his shoulders. His torso is dragged out of its balled up position and into someone’s arms. He opens his eyes and sees a dark fabric. He feels it against his cold, wet face: it’s slippery. He smells a familiar cologne. Dirk’s arms have embraced him and, for a moment, the broken hearted youth can only sit there, stunned.

After a moment, he wraps his arms around his friend’s back and squeezes him tightly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into Dirk’s shoulder, “I’m so sorry…” Tears continue to fall, but his heart no longer pounds s furiously.

“It’s okay,” Dirk’s voice sounds after a moment. He falls silent again, but does not release the anguished Logan. Minutes pass like this as the tears begin to slow their torrential downpour from his eyes, and yet Dirk does not let him go. Minutes more move by and only once Logan ceases trembling is he let go.

Logan looks down at his hands which still shake lightly and then back up to Dirk, who’s half out of his chair and half standing. “I…” He begins, struggling to speak, “… Thank you, Dirk.” He wipes at his eyes, feeling more tears coming, “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” Dirk assures him before standing completely. “This hospital is freezing. I’ll go get you a blanket, and maybe some breakfast, I don’t think you’ve eaten since you got here.” Without waiting for a response, the strange young man hurries past the blue curtain and leaves Logan to himself.

He looks down at the blankets crumpled into his lap and fiddles with them, the silence of the room deafening. Only then does he look between the wall and the curtain, realising he is not the only person in the room. His face flushes with embarrassment at his loud sobbing being overheard by anyone else than Dirk.

Where there was once agonising pain, all Logan now feels is a hollow nothingness. Silent, still, like the room around him.  Where would he go now? What would he do? How many others had died?

His reverie is quickly broken as he hears a door open followed by the roll of wheels and quiet footfalls. The sounds grow ever closer and after a moment a trolley with a TV appears at the foot of Logan’s bed with a stout woman wearing pink scrubs pushing it. She has grey hair and pale skin, and offers him a polite smile before plugging in the TV to an outlet on the bare wall.

“Hello Mr. Greer, your friend tells me you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Her tone is pleasant, though she does not hold his gaze for long as she inspects the vitals present on the heartrate monitor, as well as another machine attached to the rails of his bed, next to the pillow.

He looks at the woman and tries to smile, but cannot seem to summon the willpower to do so. “I’m okay,” he lies, “Just…” He shakes his head, “Nevermind.”

“Just sad? That’s perfectly understandable, Logan – may I call you Logan?” She looks up at him as she records something on a clipboard she takes off the trolley. He nods once and she smiles again, evidently a trained habit. “We’ll have to make sure your friend gets some rest. Mr. Ritter refused to have his arms and hands taken care of until all the people he had dragged out of the hall were taken care of. Such a brave young man!”

Logan stares at her, confused. “He… Right,” he nods, remembering the mysterious Dirk dragging him out. “He saves people and I go back in and almost kill him along with myself…” He looks away, a stabbing bitterness piercing his ruined heart. “I’m pathetic…”

“Hey, now,” the nurse chastises, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. There’s a reason why what Mr. Ritter did was special: because only a few people are like that. There’s nothing wrong with not being able to see the forest for the trees in your situation.” Logan only nods, though feels nothing but pain and hollowness, for he is both unwilling and incapable of forgiving himself.

“Ma’am, how many people… died… in total?” Logan asks after a long pause as the nurse continues checking him.

She stops her machinations and looks up at him, “The number still isn’t confirmed,” she explains. “But it’s somewhere around 600 people.” The young man feels his stomach churn once more and his frame stiffens. He looks away from her and lets out an unsteady breath.

“I… see.”

The woman hurries to the trolley, picks something up, and comes back to Logan, placing a TV remote in his hand. “Try not to think about it. For now, we need to worry about you, okay? Try watching some TV, get your mind off things,” her words are cautious, but still an air of positivity remains her person. “I’ll be back in an hour. Just press the call button next to you bed if you need anything, Logan.”

“Thank you,” he says simply, his thumb grazing the rubber numbers on the remote. The nurse leaves, once more leaving him in silence. He fiddles with the remote for a minute before sighing and pointing it at the TV before pressing the power button. The screen lights up and reveals a channel guide. Despite her advice, he switches it to Global News and places the remote next to him. He props his pillow against the wall behind him and draws his blankets around himself, hoping Dirk will soon return with more blankets.

The news is playing, but the bulletin below shows it to be a special broadcast. The single newscaster is midsentence, but Logan listens in regardless: “… this announcement from the UN Capitol Building, we can confirm Matthaeus Kingsley has indeed been elected as the new Secretary General and for his first act called for a declaration of war on the World Confederation for the Vancouver bombing, which has killed over six hundred students and their families.”

Anxiety ripples through Logan’s body, but he clenches his jaw and keeps listening. “With this, the UN Capitol Building has released word that the UN Government is asking for anyone willing to enlist as reserve forces to help support the general military forces. As well, the…” Logan stops listening and slowly pushes the blankets dawn around his chest away from him.

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” he determines coldly, “Why not?” Logan, alone and cold, looks up from his reverie and says aloud: “I’ll enlist. At least I can be with mom and dad soon, then.”