Now he hurries down the same halls
he Fournier and he had spoken in. His dress shoes clack noisily on the richly
hued hardwood below his feet before being muffled by the occasional long rug –
something he had learned to watch for in order to avoid spilling coffee and
haphazardly tossing documents in front of himself before falling face first
into the annoying rug.
The wide hallways are a pale blue
hue with white wainscoting. Doors often interrupt the stately pattern, and
between them are paintings, portraits and pictures of various places, people
and even concepts of importance to the United Nations.
Josh follows the current hallway
as it turns left and comes face to face with an all too familiar sight. UN
Guards, armed with assault rifles. They wear blue beret with a black rim around
the base and a medallion over the left eye of a world map, though only the
countries part of the UN are displayed, giving the berets a decidedly
incomplete look. Their uniforms are a ceremonial white in colouration, with
black boots and a bulky utility belt of ammunition, a radio, and various other
compartments he cannot immediately identify.
Those who worked here and did not
simply intern had often prided the government complex on being free of
militaristic protection – Shari had once said that was the way the World
Confederation did things, and not the United Nations. Yet, here these guards
are, and here Josh stands at the start of the hallway, unsure of how to address
them.
He takes from under his left arm a
thick stack of paper and holds it in his right before running a hand through
his fine brown hair. Moving up to the two guards stationed outside a set of white
double doors, he clears his throat. “I have a delivery for the minister’s
office,” he says as blandly as he can. The guard to the left of the doors
wordlessly extends his hand, evidently wishing to deliver it himself. “I was
told to bring it directly to him.”
The man before Josh lets out an
irritated sigh and speaks tersely: “I.D.” Josh removes from his suit jacket’s
inner pocket a small slip of plastic. The I.D. card is handed over and the
guard looks it over for a long minute. The guard looks to his counterpart and
nods before returning the card back to the young man. Doors part and Josh steps
in.
Before him is a wide room with
three contemporary metal desks facing the doors. Each one is manned by a sullen
looking secretary, none of whom even look up to acknowledge him. “Great,” Josh thinks to himself glibly, “These people.” They are the grubby side
of politics: the gremlins that work for important men and women, the people who
get drunk off the minor power they have in being able to decide who does and
does not get to meet the much more important person.
“Hi Cheryl,” he walks up to the
woman in the desk to his right. A woman in her late fifties looks up, reading
glasses on the bridge of her nose and fingers not even having left the desk. “I
have delivery for the minister from the Tourism Office,” he keeps his tone
lighthearted, but does not allow himself to phrase his statement as a question,
lest he give her room to stop him.
She removes the glasses from her
nose and places them on the desk before her. Her monitor obscures most of her
torso, but over it Josh can see she’s wearing an ill-fitting grey blouse – the
same one she wore yesterday, no less. “Leave it on the desk, I’ll bring it in
when I have time,” she says flatly.
“These people,” he thinks again to himself, baffled at how
irritating they are. “I was instructed to bring it directly to the minister,”
he explains for the second time, still holding the pile of paperwork tightly.
He runs his thumb over the large clip that binds it all together, watching the
woman consider what he has said.
She shrugs and places her glasses
back on her nose before beginning to type once more. “He’s in his office,” she
remarks absently. He wastes no time and moves past her desk and into the area
behind what he likes to call “the three stooges.” Before him is another set of
double doors, though they are narrower. He raps a loud knock on the right door,
as the left one is ajar.
A muffled “Come in,” is the reply
and he pushes the single door open, slipping into the room and shutting it
behind him. Before him is a spacious office. In the centre of the room is an
old oak desk, heavily ornamented with flowing designs carved into its sides and
front. Placed on it is a Macbook and a monitor hooked up to it, as well as a number
of neatly placed stacks of paper. To Josh’s left is a set of filing cabinets,
to his right a small sitting area consisting of two tan chairs and a table,
while behind the desk is a series of five windows, each with semi-circle tops
and thin lengths of wood separating panes.
The evening sun has fallen behind
the nearby British Parliament, giving the room a decidedly dim, warm aesthetic,
despite the bright walls.
The man seated at the desk looks
to be in his sixties: his thin hair has given way to a large forehead, and
where there is hair it is white. His face, while looking youthful for his age,
is more fatigued than usual. His suit jacket is slung over his chair, revealing
a light blue dress shirt akin to the colours of the wall and a checkered black
and white tie.
“Minister Schmidt? I have a
delivery from the Tourism Office,” Josh explains as he moves up to the desk,
finding the man entirely consumed by whatever is on his laptop’s screen. The
teenager places the stack of documents on Schmidt’s desk, and only now does the
latter seem to notice.
With a startled jump in his chair,
Schmidt gives Josh a bewildered stare. “My god, thankfully no one’s coming for
my head,” he says, shaking his head, “Killing me would be easier than sneaking
up on a sloth!” Schmidt lets out a relieved laugh, and Josh chuckles along.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Jagger. I take it Kingsley’s office isn’t running
you too ragged, having you run from office to office?” The minister leans back
in his chair.
Josh smirks at the use of his
surname. “Anybody who names their kid
Josh Jagger is an utter twit,” he thinks to himself wryly. “Oh it’s
certainly different, that’s for sure,” Josh begins lightly, trying to ignore
the truth that Alexander Schmidt’s keen gaze displays indicate she already
knows. “Secretary General Fournier’s office was busy, but, well, not this busy,” he explains after a pause.
Schmidt rises from his chair to
his surprising height of six feet and seven inches. The tall, thin man moves
around his desk to a phone seated on the far corner. He presses a button and
picks it up, “Cheryl, can you get Mr. Jagger and I coffee? Thank you.” Josh
cannot hide his delight at this, and it’s evident his ministerial counterpart
is amused by it too, given the devious twinkle in his tired eyes.
The two take a seat at the small
seating area in the corner of the office, though Schmidt seems a bit oversized
for the chair with his long legs sprawled out before him. Silence falls over
the two of them, but is quickly broken as the doors part and a silent Cheryl
enters, a tray in hand. Upon it are two mugs filled with black coffee, as well
as a small carafe of cream and a dish of sugar. She places it on the table
between the two of them before giving Josh a withering gaze and departing.
“I knew she’d hate to do that,”
Schmidt says deviously as he pours a copious amount of cream into his coffee.
Josh too takes a cup, neither skimping on sugar nor cream, given the bitter
drink’s taste having yet to be one he’s acclimated. “But I think she forgets I
can hear the conversations she has with visitors when I leave the doors ajar,”
he explains before taking a sip.
The younger of the two nods, but
remains silent. His fingers drum against the mug between them as he
contemplates. Anxiety turns his stomach slightly as indecision fights against
worry. He wants to tell Schmidt, but he also knows it’s dangerous for his job.
“Kingsley’s a different leader than Fournier, that’s for sure,” the minister
says, his gaze over the River Thames outside the windows from which they sit
across.
Josh blinks, surprised the
minister would be so honest. “He’s got his plans, that’s for sure… This war
with the World Confederation – he wants tanks, bombers, fighter jets, infantry
– the lot of it from the member nations. It won’t just be Japan that he’ll
invade, it’ll be all of the WC,” Schmidt’s words stun the young intern.
“War?” The word had seemed so absurd to him before, but now with the
Minister of Defence simply admitting that they were gearing up for a huge
conflict, it all seemed to real. Josh places the mug on the table to his side
and looks at his hands. The cuffs of his dress shirt poked out from under his
suit jacket, and his dress pants had a few wrinkles. It all seems so unreal, so
fantastical, as though it’s a TV show or a book.
“I don’t mean to worry you,”
Schmidt says sadly after a long pause, “But I’ve seen you around here: you work
your ass off and they pay you shit. Yet, you keep doing it.” The aged man looks
over at Josh and offers him a small smile, “Lance noticed it too, you know.
He’d never have said anything but he noticed things like that.” He looks down
at his watch and blinks, “Shit! I need to get going. Stay as long as you’d like
Josh, I have to meet with the American Secretary of Defense about preparations.”
Schmidt pushes himself to a stand
and Josh follows. “Thanks for your time, Minister,” Josh says earnestly,
honoured that the man who confide in him such a serious state secret. “I won’t
tell anyone.”
As he exits his office, the
minister laughs and looks back to speak: “Tell anyone you want,” he explains,
“I’ll be out of a job soon enough, I’m sure.” With that, he closes the door
behind him, leaving Josh alone in his office. He’s been in plenty of important
offices alone before – dropping off documents and the like – but this time it
feels taboo.
A sense of foreboding hangs over
the room as it darkens with twilight. Uncomfortable, Josh pushes the double
doors open and exists, consciously avoiding the withering gazes of the three
secretaries. As he moves back into the hallway, he finds the two guards have
left. The hallway, too, is silent. “So quiet,” he remarks to himself.
As any millennial would, he takes
from his pocket his phone and finds a few missed messages, one of which is from
Alisha. He unlocks his phone to find the message reads: “hey babe check this
out!” and a link below. As he walks down the empty halls of the UNHQ, he opens
the link. It’s a news article, the thumbnail being the picture of a man with a
mask that covers roughly half his face and has the emblem of a tree on it. The
headline reads “Who is Greenpeace’s New
Leader?”
“Lacertus?” Josh reads, confused.
He skims the article to find that the mysterious man who only goes by a single
name has achieved huge popularity online with his social media campaign
decrying the warmongering of the WC and UN, and his opposition of
environmentally unfriendly projects, such as the product of oil, deforestation,
overfishing and water pollution. In a poll, the article reports, 86% of those
aged 18 to 30 approve of his stances, while the support dwindles to only 32% of
those aged 60+.
The youth pauses in his ambling as
he reads the comments.
“Best thing since Trump 2016!”
“Bernie’s got his work cut out for him if he wants to stay relevant.”
“LOL good luck to this loon, screen crazy bastards like him before,
they always fade out.”
“Hey fuck you! Lacertus is the only one making sense.”
From then on the comments become
more and more abusive and hostile as the old argue against the young. “It is an awful lot like when Trump won in
2016… I wonder if America would still be in the UN if he hadn’t gotten shot on
his inauguration day…” Josh shrugs, finding American politics to be
horrifically confusing.
Instead, he simply texts Alisha
back: “Seems like a cool guy, but what’s
up with the mask? Wanna meet up? I’m off work now.” With that, Josh finds
himself passing by the bureaucrats that run the UNHQ like any other day, and
finds comfort in their presence.
“Something about this Lacertus guy just isn’t right… Why hasn’t he done
anything since he made his debut?” The teen muses as he exists UNHQ.
~*~
Crescent Road had been cleared,
but the huge pile of rubble still struck out against the bleak grey skies.
Where a textured blue wall had once bent around to form the curved interior of
the Chan Centre, now there were only bent pillars and girders sticking
awkwardly out of the ground, like sentinels watching over the fallen.
Most of the structure’s impressive
height was now gone, sprawled inward, obscuring the fallen two balconies and
stage. What is most disturbing is the complete lack of students. Normally there
would be a busy sprawl of young adults moving between classes on this side of
the UBC Campus. Now there was only the steady beat of the rain typical of the
Pacific Northwest.
“They bulldozed most of the debris
that fell out and not in, as well as collapsing some of the dangerous walls
in,” the voice next to Logan explained in a calm, measured voice. For his part,
the grieving youth cannot seem to care about these details, and instead focuses
his haunting gaze on the ruined hulk of a building.
It was here that his future was
supposed to begin: where he would ascend the steps to the stage a boy and
descend them a man. Yet that was all taken from him. A happy graduation, the
will to live, his parents, his future, his friends. It all seemed so ephemeral.
“I wonder whether Aidan, Jeremy,
Sammy, and Yousef suffered,” he says quietly. His words force silence over the
vehicle in which they sit. He and Nathan sit in the back booth of a spacious,
beige leather-clad interior with a man garbed in a black suit with a solid
green armband drives. Once again, the sound of rain becomes the only audible
noise.
Nathan seems to struggle to be
supportive, able to only make small noises as he attempts to break the silence.
He sighs and resigns himself to the silence. Logan does not blame him: he has
been terrible company ever since they met at his dorm. It seemed entirely
unnecessary to drive to the Rose Garden, but Nathan had insisted.
Now, all Logan wishes is to be out
in the rain. “I want to feel its cold
wetness against my skin…” he contemplates, “If only then can I feel something other than emptiness.” The
thoughts he has are destructive, melancholy, and not indicative of someone
moving on from a tragedy, but he does not care. “Depression is all I have left, now. That and…” The memory of
clutching tightly to Dirk in the hospital resurfaces, and with it all the
misery and hopelessness that had accompanied it.
The young man shudders and shakes
the thought from his mind, trying to avoid at least reliving that experience.
Dirk had been a loyal friend and perhaps something more in that moment, but the
circumstances around his display of loyalty were too sad for even Logan to
dwell on.
The car stops in the roundabout
before the Rose Garden. Already they can see the gathering of somberly dressed
students, staff, and relatives of those lost. “Nearly an entire graduating
class died,” Nathan remarks sadly, “It’s horrifying to see how many people its
affected.”
Logan only looks at his strange
friend and nods. Nathan has dark bags under his eyes, and his wavy black hair
is greasy and needing cleaning. “Even
he’s been feeling it,” the grieving student thinks to himself, surprised
that even someone as driven as Nathan can be hurt so. “Nathan,” he speaks up,
“Did you lose anyone in the attack?”
The Greenpeace member lofts a thin
brow. “A friend, yeah. We weren’t close, but,” he shakes his head, chuckling
hollowly, “Well, you know better than I what I’m about to say. I’ll just save
you the frustration of hearing it again.” The car has stopped and the driver
exits, then opens Logan’s door, the latter of whom steps out into the rain.
Nathan slides across the seat and steps out, too. Only then does Logan notice
the green armband on his friend’s left bicep.
“Why the armbands?” He questions.
Nathan only shrugs, “Something
Lacertus wanted to do. Show our solidarity. Greenpeace stands with the victims
of this horrible event and we want the relatives of the victims to know we’re
with them one hundred percent.” Logan nods, but does not say anything else on
the topic.
The Rose Garden is a rectangular
field situated at the north end of the Main Mall on the UBC campus. It is
bisected by two paths: one east to west and one north to south. The north to
south path joins Crescent Road’s concluding roundabout with the sidewalk on NW
Marine Drive. Conversely, the east to west path leads to the ruins of the Chan
Centre on the former side and the UBC Leon and Thea Korener University Centre
on the latter side. Upon entry to the garden from either east or west, one is
sheltered by a pergola, accompanied by raised and rounded concrete flower
boxes. Where the paths conjoin in the centre is a circle of rasied and rounded
concrete flower boxes interrupted only by the paths. In the centre of this is a
circular display of flowers.
This area is not large, but Logan
can estimate easily one hundred people are gathered inside it, and many more on
its fringes, while even more look on from the University Centre and from the
steps down to NW Marine Drive. The central area is empty, save for a muscular
soldier armed with an assault rifle and donning the white ceremonial regalia of
the UN’s governmental defence. Atop their heads are the sky blue berets of the
UN and their signature insignia over the left eyebrow.
Standing just to the side of this
central figure and inside the encirclement of roses and guards is a tall,
handsome man. Like those come to mourn, he wears a black suit, white dress shirt,
black tie, but unlike those gathered, in his lapel is a single white rose. His
black hair is swept back over his head and shimmers with moisture from the
weeping grey skies. His piercing dark eyes look over the crowd and his hands
are folded before him.
As Nathan and Logan take position
on the steps down to the Rose Garden, the latter notices that even more people
are walking up Main Mall toward them. His gaze drifts over the scene behind
them. In every seemingly inconspicuous corner is a man in a black suit and with
his hands behind his back: “Secret Service?” Nathan suggests after following
Logan’s gaze.
They turn their attention back to
the garden and find that a strange hush has fallen over the crowd. “I thought
you said Lacertus would be here,” Logan whispers to the youth next to him.
Before them, Secretary General Kingsley speaks quietly with those fortunate
enough to be directly across from him, just outside the protective perimeter of
the central flowerbeds.
“He will be,” Nathan assures him,
“He just doesn’t like to make a fuss over himself when he’s in public. He’ll
show up once Kingsley’s done, I’m sure.”
Logan nods, and once more falls
silent.
Matthaeus Kingsley’s tall,
athletic form moves from person to person, and with each he reaches over the
flowers and places a hand on their shoulder, cups their hands in his own, gives
a nod or shakes someone’s hand. His movements are smooth and welcoming, and
though his tone is a sombre one, his presence magnifies the crowd. Everyone is
eagerly watching this handsome, young leader of their United Nations woo those
nearby.
Finally, he moves back into
position, just off-centre with the southward path so as to not be blocked by
his guard. “Citizens of the United Nations,” he begins, his voice raised
louder, yet still composed, “We are here for a truly awful reason.” The rain
begins to increase, and many of those in the crowd do their utmost to
discretely open umbrellas. One young woman, likely a student, offers hers to
Kingsley, who smiles and shakes his head.
“A few weeks ago, the University
of British Columbia, Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada, and indeed the whole
of the United Nations was rocked to its foundations. In total, we lost 627
colleagues, friends, family, peers…” The Secretary General, only in his early
40s, looks abruptly haggard at such a staggering loss of life. “We lost almost
an entire graduating class of students. Part of our future was stolen from us,
and we will never get it back.”
His words are so ruthlessly
correct that they cut deeply into those surrounding him. Logan watches as many
in the crowd move to hold tight to their loved ones, while many dab at their
eyes with their sleeves and Kleenex. Kingsley pauses in his speech, his folded
hands before him clenching.
“But,” he continues after an
agonising silence permeated only by the rain sounding against the stiff
shoulders of suit jackets, the slippery surfaces of raincoats, and the
moistened pavement. “We will not crumble in despair. I myself lost a dear
friend and colleague: a man I looked up to, admired. Many of you lost so much
more and I struggle to comprehend how you feel now.”
“Aidan,” the name moves through Logan like a knife. The face of his
awkwardly tall friend with his huge smile and bumbling mannerisms slices the
grieving youth deeply. “Yousef” is
the next name, and once more he is witness to the memory of his quiet, studious
friend who could always be relied on for notes and for counsel prior to an
exam. “Sammy,” a girl whom Logan had
never felt closer to in his twenty-three years of life, and who had been his
rock in his first year, too, was gone forever. “Jeremy.” The last name thunders through his head. “I pushed them all away this year – I wanted
to be productive… Now they’re gone.”
Only after feeling the stabbing
loss of his friends rent him asunder does Logan notice the tears streaming down
his face. He sniffs, pulling back snot, and wipes at his eyes with the hem of
his sleeve. “Know that I and my government are here with you every step of the
way as you recover,” he unfolds his hands and clenches a fist over his heart,
“And I swear to you, we will not let their deaths go unpunished.”
“We will lay low those who hurt
you so. We will bring righteous justice down upon the World Confederation’s
chief criminals,” he assures them with agonised ferocity in his throat. Muffled
applause is heard as one man claps his gloved hands together. He’s soon joined
by someone else, then a second, then a third. The entire crowd wordlessly
applauds Kingsley’s declaration.
Logan looks over his shoulder and
spies the news cameras recording, and shakes his head again. “It’s all just a
show,” he grumbles. “Just another politician’s game to get re-elected.”
Despite attending the rest of the
speech, Logan mentally checks out, focusing instead on watching the rain fall
over the crowd, blanketing them in the sky’s tears.
Later…
The crowd had dispersed about
twenty minutes ago, and now Nathan and Logan remain. They’re sat upon one of
the central flower boxes. The rain has only increased, leaving their suits
heavy and damp. Yet, it seems despite the former’s irritated fidgeting to free
himself from the cold press of his clothes, the latter is eerily still.
A few others still linger around
the Rose Garden and its surrounding area, all of whom wear the green armband
that Nathan now fiddles with. “Why did you join Greenpeace?” Logan abruptly
asks. His question catches his friend off guard, and the black haired activist
can only stare for a moment.
“It’s tough to find info on the
African nuclear bombings, right?” Nathan asks in response after a thoughtful
pause. The other nods in agreement. “I looked into it. I looked deeper. I found
the truth. Greenpeace was the only organisation brave enough to tell it like it
was. Both the UN and WC governments had killed millions of Africans and pretty
much gotten away with it because, by the time the death toll numbers broke,
they had censored the internet and normal media.”
Logan nods, but Nathan continues,
his tone angrier still. “The UN and WC got away with one of the worst
atrocities in history. They say the water table in central Africa is irradiated
and that millions of poverty stricken Africans will be born with genetic
mutations for generations to come,” he shakes his head irritably of the
thought. “Yet no one’s been brought to court, no one’s been charged for doing
such an evil thing. Now Americans, Canadians, Europeans – the whole lot of the
UN – are complaining about sending aid to Africa, like they did this to
themselves!”
“Do you even know what kind of
horror was done to the environment, too? There are species that no longer exist
thanks to those bombings,” Nathan gestures almost madly, so worked up at his
normally amiable expression is contorted in hatred. He goes to continue, but
the clack of a heavy, thick heel sounds behind him and he turns around. Logan,
too, follows his gaze, and finds a very peculiar figure approaching them.
He wears a floor-length grey
trench coat open. Underneath it is a black suit jacket buttoned to the
collarbone with a short collar that stands up instead of lying down like
lapels. His black slacks flutter with the movement of his legs and expose a
metal brace that runs up his right leg, giving his gait a distinctly uneven
sound. The mask upon his face conceals from the top left of his forehead down
to the bottom right of his jaw of his face and is streaked with rain. Dark
blond hair sticks up behind it.
His single eye, a blue even paler
than Dirk’s, focuses squarely on Logan, making him feel somehow better. As
though the attention of this eccentric man so popular with his peers coming to
see just him has honoured him. “Logan Greer,” Lacertus declares confidently. He
extends a hand clad in a leather glove, which Logan takes and has his own hand
shaken firmly.
“Nathan,” the strange leader of
Greenpeace begins, though does not look at his loyal subordinate, “Thank you
for bringing Mr. Greer here. We will speak later.” He pauses and looks back to
Logan, “Come, we will walk and talk.” With that, the hollowed student pushes
himself off the edge of the flower box and follows the billowing coat of
Lacertus.
As he ascends the stairs toward
the Crescent Road roundabout. As he does, Logan hears someone shout: “Oh my god
is that Lacertus?!” The eccentric leader of Greenpeace stops and clasps a young
woman on the shoulder who trembles with excitement. “I heard you were coming to
the UBC but I didn’t believe it! Thank you so much for speaking out against
transphobia in America. I know it was dangerous but you were so brave! My
sister’s trans and she was so happy she cried watching you convince that
Senator he was wrong.”
Lacertus smiles, though half his
mouth is obscured. “I’m honoured your sister appreciated my efforts. Greenpeace
is about more than just the environment: our logo is the sun for a reason. We
stand for everything just and good under the sun. Your sister and all her
friends and family in the LGBTQ+ community deserve to be treated with respect
and dignity.”
The student gushes and pulls out
her phone, “Can I take a selfie?” Lacertus looks back at Logan for a moment, a
look of wry amusement in his single eye before stooping over from his
impressive height for the picture. “Thank you so much!”
“Make sure to spread the word
about Greenpeace, young miss. You’ve got a good heart and we could use someone
like you helping us at rallies,” the masked man calls out to her.
“I will!” The girl waves as she
walks away, “Thank you!”
Lacertus gestures for Logan to
follow him. The two move west down Crescent road, toward the dorms and away
from the bustle of Main Mall, even on this quiet day. Silence reigns for a long
time as they walk, and the masked man is often stopped by passersby who either
praise him for some cause he supported or ask for a picture. Never does he deny
them, Logan notes with silent approval.
“Thanks for speaking up about
pipelines!” One young man calls out as he walks by.
“You’re the shit, Lacertus!”
Another shouts from a dormitory window.
Yet, Logan still cannot find what
to say. It’s clear to him Lacertus is less here for him and more to promote his
image on campus where he’s insanely popular. They even walk by a few Greenpeace
flyers. “You lost your parents in the Chan Centre bombing, yes?” The man
finally says to specifically Logan after they reach a lull in the well-wishers.
“I did, yes,” he responds, the
words sticking in his throat. “They were in the first balcony, near Fournier.
When the second balcony collapsed onto the first one, they were…”
“Crushed.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
Lacertus simply walks on for a
long moment. “You must be strong,” he instructs Logan, his tone having gone
from boisterous and grand to paternal and calm, “For them as much as yourself.
If you lose yourself to grief, your parents’ tragic death will claim a soul
they never would have wished to join them.”
“Very easy to say when your
friends and family aren’t dead,” Logan says bitterly, his heart aching at the
guilt that his death would cause his parents, were they alive.
The elder figure folds his hands
behind his back. “I lost everyone I held dear in the Zambia bombing. My friends
and I were helping Doctors Without Borders when the nuke was shot down. I only
survived because I had gone to the basement to get some supplies.” He shakes
his head, “Everyone else was killed. I lost everyone I held dear in a manner of
seconds.” He taps his mask and it gives a metal ring, “Unfortunately I did not
escape unscathed. I had been riddled with cancer and my face had been
disfigured beyond recognition.”
Lacertus looks over the long,
quiet street that is Lower Mall. “I know your pain, Logan. I know it better
than most ever could.” He places his hand on the youth’s shoulder and grips it
firmly. “You cannot become another victim of this tragedy. It would be too
sad.”
“I know you’re right,” Logan
admits after a pause, “But that’s all easy enough to say… It’s hard to feel
like you want to live.”
Taking in a deep breath, the man
with only a single word for a name changes topics. “Do you know why I take such
issue with the World Confederation government? True, the UN government is little
better, but why do I fault the WC so?” Logan shrugs in response. “Because
without democracy, they are unburdened by due process to do good. If it so
suited him, Chancellor Delun Zheng could enact legislation to eliminate
poverty, reduce environmental destruction, and save millions from misery. Yet
he does not. He does not because he is weak and controlled by multinational
corporations that bankroll the WC’s grand esteem projects.”
Lacertus shakes his head
irritably, “It is a disgusting display of bravado and weakness all at once.
Here in the UN, poverty is rampant in eastern Europe and America because the UN
is too busy posturing the WC about how democratic and fair we are, while the
people who vote our elected officials into office starve and die.” He motions
to the land around them, “Consider the City of Vancouver. A poor family cannot
afford to live because the provincial government is too busy being strong-armed
by the UN to enact legislation about housing prices. The municipal government
keeps raising property taxes because they’re being bled dry by the UN for
projects that they have no interest in funding, like the wind farm off the
coast of Vancouver Island.”
He scoffs, “None of this would be
a problem if the UN and WC weren’t so hell bent on outspending and defeating
one another. Now we enter war with nuclear potential. It’s madness! These two
great powers only care about hating one another, not their people, and if they
don’t kill everyone, the world will, for it is so weak and ill with the
diseases that humans bring upon it.”
“I will end this, Logan. I will
end the world where your parents die because madmen hate the UN for no other
reason than that is what they’re told. I will end the world where
deforestation, pollution, climate change and the depletion of resources leaves
us vulnerable to the worst wrath our mother Earth has to offer.” Lacertus stops
Logan and turns him to face him.
Logan looks into the eye of this
man and finds nothing but determination, strength and courage. All things he
feels he lacks. “Can I believe in this
man?” he questions himself, “Do I
dare to put my faith in him? So that no one else has to feel like I do?”
Lacertus places his hands on Logan’s shoulders. “I know you wish to die, Logan,
but you don’t have to do so without a cause. I can give you purpose. I can give
your life meaning. And if you so wish, in my Greenpeace you can find your death
to be one that moves the world toward the goal you and I both want.”
“I want this,” Logan thinks to himself, visions of his dead parents
and the ghostly faces of his dead friends plaguing his broken heart. “I need this!” His heart races, his palms
become sweaty with adrenaline, and his head pounds as blood surges through him.
His words come out strong and determined, a feeling he has not felt in many
days: “I’ll do it. I’ll join your mission, Lacertus.”
“Good. Then let’s destroy this
evil world and in its place build a new one.”
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