[color=#FFFFFF]The Prime Minister's Statement[/color]

My sincerest condolences go out to the family of the late Noah Martin, a young life with so many years ahead of him. Many of you are angry, demanding that the soldiers involved in the killing be tried in Canada instead of US military courts, but the simple fact of the matter is that United States Forces Canada (USFC)  is the entity best equipped to properly address the incidence, and I have full confidence that our American allies will see justice done, whatever that may be. As such, I have ordered the prompt and immediate transfer of the soldiers connected to the incident from a jail in Moose Jaw to USFC. Rest assured, justice will be done.

[color=#FF0000]Ottawa, Canada. One week later.[/color]

Emma almost felt sorry for Mr. Pelletier. He'd been Prime Minister ever since the United States rolled into the country, a time marked by relatively few elections called for by the opposition, an unusual circumstance in Canadian politics.

Nonetheless, clutching a microphone emblazoned with the logo of the Globe and Mail, she couldn't help herself. It must've been a nightmare to be blamed for everything by your consituents, even if you probably [i]were[/i] a lifeless puppet hand-picked by the CIA. Briefly glancing back at the crowd behind her, then the wall of RCMP Special Protection officers in front of her, and finally the Prime Minister standing at his podium above them, she quietly wondered if anyone gave a shit about what he was saying, or were simply there to shout expletives at him. He was an old man, too, in his late sixties, with few hairs that hadn't turned grey and wispy on his head, and a slight slouch to his stance as if his spine was getting ready to give up the ghost entirely.

"I understand your anger, your frustration, but I promise all of you - I was with USFC for every step of the proceedings, and I saw no evidence of corruption."

"Didn't see any?" Someone shouted from a few steps behind her. "What, were you too busy with the President's dick in your mouth to notice anything else?!"

"Yeah! How'd his balls taste?" Someone else added.

She was forced to clap her hand over her mouth to suppress the urge to laugh, narrowly holding back the noise.

The Prime Minister continued, undeterred; he was probably used to being belittled by now, she reasoned.

"...Furthermore, in fact, I saw the opposite. The proceedings were completely free of miscarriage of justice, and I have full confidence that the verdict that was delivered is the correct one. The judge presiding over the case was quite strict, to the point that I'm certain absolutely nothing could have slipped past his watchful eyes."

"Bullshit! That's fucking bullshit, asshole, and you know it! They flattened a fucking kid and drove off like it was nothing!"

"Now,' he continued, clutching his podium a little tighter as the crowd surged forward, pushing Emma to the RCMP officers that seemed entirely unwilling to lift a finger. Was Pelletier [i]sweating[/i]?

"The facts of the case indicate that simply wasn't likely the truth. The truck was moving too quickly for the soldiers to have noticed young Noah until it was too late, and the vehicle was too tall for them to see him. Furthermore, they reported the incident to their superiors as soon as they arrived back at their base, and they were-"

"Then it's [i]their[/i] fault for going too fast!" Someone else shouted. Emma tensed, feeling the crowd surge behind her.

"-they both showed great remorse for their actions, and young Noah shouldn't have been in the road at the time."

Even Emma knew that one was bullshit. The rest of the crowd did too, it seemed, devolving into loud, angry shouts, expletives thrown about in French and English. The bombardment was relentless, so much so that his bodyguards were finally forced into action, moving toward P.M. Pelletier to escort him away. 

"On s’en coliss! Mon tabarnak!" A man shouted. Emma turned toward the source of the voice, and although she couldn't see the face it originated from, she saw a hand - a hand, holding a large rock.

The next few moments passed at a molasses-slow place. First, she saw the arm cock back. Then, it twisted forward.

The man's grip on the rock loosened as he reached the apex of his throw.

The rock leapt from his hands.

It struck the Prime Minister in the forehead. The man wobbled, and for a moment, it looked like he might stay conscious. Then his eyelids flopped close as he careened towards the podium, his neck snapping backwards on impact with a sickening crack. The bodyguards were on him not long afterwards, hauling him back up to his feet, while the crowd continued to surge dangerously forward, forcing the wall of RCMP to retreat.

"Worthless fucking puppet!"

"Doughead!"

"Keener!"

"T'es une osti de vidange!"

"Decriss!"

Within days, cities across Canada were bursting into flames, and Prime Minister Pelletier was dead.